Hall of Infamy (21 page)

He turned from the book to the kitchen-maid. Although she was at the other end of the bench, Amelia heard a frightened little gasp. The tension in the air was terrible now. It almost felt as if the air was too thick with fear to breathe. Lord Alex turned back solemnly to the big book. Then his eyes widened with astonishment. He rubbed his chin in puzzlement and then turned to the other members of the audience with a rueful grin.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. ‘Something remarkable seems to have occurred. This new kitchen-maid, Emma Swift, arrived earlier this week, yet it seems that no black marks have been entered against her name.'

There was a rumble of astonishment amongst the audience. Mrs Pritchard glared at the girl and gave a disappointed hiss. Lady Alicia clapped her hands together delightedly and laughed aloud at this absurdity.

‘But, Alex,' she said brightly, ‘if the girl has no marks in the big book, she surely must have been either good, or already punished for her sins. Surely she must be released from the bench?'

‘No new girl is that good!' Mrs Pritchard said furiously. ‘It must be an – an oversight. Simply a mistake! Look at the little trollop. If ever there was a girl who needed to be thrashed—'

‘Yes, quite, but,' Lord Alex said with an amused smile as he regarded the seething housekeeper with evident amusement, ‘you must own, Mrs Pritchard, the oversight is ours and not the maid's. Now, everyone knows you as a stickler for tradition. If there are no black marks in the big book, what does custom dictate?'

Mrs Pritchard's mouth set in a thin line. She looked at Emma and then back at Lord Alex and gave a defeated sigh.

‘The girl must be released,' she said.

‘My dear!' Lady Alicia beckoned Emma and patted the upholstered bench beside her. ‘Come over here to watch the show, and sit with me.'

Uncertainly, Emma left her place on the Miscreants' Bench and trotted over to sit beside her mistress. Lady Alicia immediately put one arm around her shoulders and with her other hand patted the girl's knee.

‘You will get a good view from her, my pretty little darling,' Lady Alicia said. ‘You will be able to watch that which will certainly be coming your way next week!'

This observation seemed to calm Mrs Pritchard, for she finally stopped glowering at the girl, like a grizzled cat regarding escaped prey.

Lord Alex, who had seemed hugely amused by the whole unprecedented procedure, turned back to the book with a wry smile. ‘Well, after that, one wonders if this outbreak of obedience has proved catching. Perhaps our treasured nursery-maid has been behaving herself, too?'

The laughter that Emma's escape had provoked had lightened the oppressive atmosphere in the chamber for a moment. Amelia felt the ambience curdle again as miscreants and audience awaited in tense, anticipatory silence.

‘Alas, no.' Lord Alex sighed a sigh of palpably hypocritical regret. ‘Betsy Billings has three black marks against her name. Mrs Pritchard, we have newcomers to Sunday Service today. What does tradition demand in way of reparation?'

The housekeeper drew herself up to her full height, her chest swelling proudly. She seemed to Amelia like some great black looming crow. ‘Hope Hall tradition demands a minimum of one dozen strokes of the birch for every cross. The imposition of further penalties is customary, though not mandatory, after two.'

‘Well, well.' Lord Alex turned his gaze on Betsy. ‘Betsy Billings, stand out, girl.'

The nursery-maid stood, and walked to stand facing Lord Alex and the company. Between her judge and the little stage a sort of portable dock had been placed, consisting of a small platform and a rail. Betsy stepped onto this and gripped the rail until her knuckles whitened. Her usually ruddy complexion had turned pale.

‘Customary but not mandatory. Well, Betsy, what do you say to that? Will three dozen do you, do you think, or should we make it four?'

There was an awful, heart-stopping silence. For a few moments, Amelia wondered if Betsy had completely lost the power of speech.

‘Please, sir.' The maid's voice was a desperate supplicatory whisper. ‘Have mercy. Please have mercy on me, sir…'

‘Give her four, Alex. That fat arse of hers will take it easily!' Lady Alicia put in helpfully.

Alicia noticed that the Marchioness's hand had travelled up Emma's leg, and was now gripping the girl's bare thigh above the stocking-top.

‘It is true, my Lord. The girl can take a good count. She is sturdy and can take a real thrashing without harm.' Mrs Pritchard interjected.

‘No, I think that three will do it,' Lord Alex said at last. Amelia observed Betsy's shoulders sag in relief. ‘But three marks is a poor show.' The shoulders tensed again as he went on. ‘There are some fine nettles in the deer park,' Lord Alex remarked, as if remembering something else. ‘You can trot along and fetch some after your thrashing, girl, and I'll urtify those lovely titties for you, my dear!'

The thought of nettles applied to Betsy's breasts sent a cold shiver through Amelia, but she did not have long to dwell upon the image.

‘Pick out three rods, Betsy, and go up to the block.'

The nursery-maid obeyed. She picked three birch rods from her enamel tray and mounted the stage, taking up position before the ominous apparatus at the centre of the platform.

‘Do we have a volunteer to administer the sentence?'

There was a silence so profound that, for a long moment, one might have heard a feather fall. Amelia watched Betsy as she bit her bottom lip and stared hopelessly at the floor.

‘Aye, I'll whip the chit!' A male voice broke the spell at last, and Mr Blackstock lumbered up onto the stage.

There was a sort of ledge on one side of the block and, in obedience to a gesture from the groom, Betsy placed the three rods there. Clearly, she was used to this procedure, for she clambered onto the block without further instruction.

Fashioned of some ancient black wood, the birching block consisted of a sort of triangle in section, with a ridge positioned at the top. Her thighs were braced against one side of the triangle, which was close to vertical. Her upper body followed the gentler slope which descended on the far side of the ridge. There was a shelf for Betsy's knees, and a handle the far side for her hands. There were also straps, heavy leather straps that Amelia thought looked worn with use and age.

Mr Blackstock first undid the lower two bows of Betsy's flogging-frock. The garment instantly fell back on either side, exposing her buttocks and thighs. A broad leather strap was buckled about her corseted waist, securing it to the more gradual backslope of the block. Wrist-straps followed, then thigh-bands, just above the knee. It was clear to Amelia that Betsy could not now move the target area more than an inch or two. The convulsive clenching and quivering of the nursery-maid's bottom, suggested that Betsy knew how helpless she was, too.

Although the day had clouded over, the windows and glass cupola of the Whippery lit the scene on the stage extremely well. The audience watched in reverential silence as Mr Blackstock picked up the first birch rod.

‘Lay on, Mr Blackstock,' Lord Alex exhorted. ‘She can take it, I assure you!' He took a seat next to Lady Alicia and gestured for the groom to begin.

The birch rod that Betsy had prepared was still wet from its steeping, and the big groom tapped it against the side of the block a few times, scattering droplets of the pickling fluid on the floor. The whispery sound of twigs impacting on the wood sent a
frisson
of fear coursing through Amelia's belly. The rubber bloomers seemed even tighter, as she sat there, and it took a real effort of will not to fiddle with them, to try to make herself more comfortable. Somehow she resisted the temptation. It would be futile. She had learned that much. No quick and furtive fingering could assuage that itch, any more than it would relieve her need. Instead she bit her lip hard, to provide a distraction, and concentrated on the compelling little drama being played out on the stage.

Mr Blackstock rolled up his shirt-sleeve, revealing a forearm almost as big as Clara's thigh, but a great deal hairier and tanned a deep brown. His biceps were still covered by his sleeve, but the bulge in this material looked ominous for Betsy. For all her own fear, Amelia could not help a smile of sheer vindictive pleasure coming to her lips. The groom looked the man to put the nursery-maid in her place all right, she thought, excitedly.

‘Are you ready to receive correction, madam?'

The groom's tone was not sarcastic, and Amelia concluded that it must be a part of the ceremony, another archaic ritual of the hall. There was a pause.

‘Y-yes, sir,' Betsy sobbed at last and, almost before she finished speaking, the birch rod came down and lashed across her bottom-cheeks.

Amelia's stomach clenched in sympathy again. The twigs made a nasty, diffuse sound, halfway between a hiss and a crackle, as they kissed the nursery-maid's bare bottom. Betsy remained silent; the only sign that the birch had achieved its purpose was an increase in the convulsive clenching of those great white rounds.

Mr Blackstock took a half-step back, adjusting his stance now that he had found the range of the rod. He raised his powerful arm again.

The birch twigs whistled as they cut through the air and hissed into the girl's bare behind again. This time the sound of impact was a little louder, harsher, fiercer. Betsy gave a low, strangulated moan in response.

‘She felt that one, I suspect.'

Amelia glanced over at the speaker. Lady Alicia was leaning forward intently, her dark eyes so bright that they seemed to be glistening. Emma was no longer on the seat beside her but was now kneeling on the floor with a frightened expression on her face, Lady Alicia's hand gripping the nape of the delicate girl's neck.

Another sickening whistle brought Amelia's attention back to the birching-block. By the time she had turned, the stroke had been delivered, but Betsy's magnificent bottom-cheeks were still quivering from the impact. The creamy flesh of her buttocks was laced with an angry tracery of welts now, and the nursery-maid was groaning with pain and tossing her head from side to side. She had taken off her shoes before mounting the block, and Amelia watched with horrified fascination as her stockinged toes curled and uncurled convulsively. Amelia could only see one of the maid's hands, where she gripped the bar on the far side of the block, but she could see that Betsy grasped this so hard that her knuckles were white.

The fourth stroke was delivered with gusto, hissing into the helpless maid's thighs. She howled now. The fortitude that Betsy had displayed for the first strokes had seemingly fled. She could move but little in her bonds, but that little she did. The leather straps creaked in protest as she struggled vainly against their grip.

Mr Blackstock unleashed another blistering stroke. He whipped her thighs again, provoking another howl. There was a disapproving murmur from the audience.

‘For heaven's sake, be quiet, Betsy,' Jamie said sharply. ‘One would think you had never embraced the block before.'

‘It's just a lot of silly girlish nonsense,' opined Lord Alex. ‘The chit has hardly even been tickled, as of yet – eh, Blackstock?'

The groom turned to face the audience, a wide grin on his face. He gripped the handle of the birch rod in one hand and felt the middle of the twigs.

‘Quite right, my lord. This rod has hardly splintered yet.' He turned back to his victim and patted her bottom roughly, provoking a new gasp of pain. ‘Mind, I mean to tickle this fat trollop all right, before I'm through.'

This comment provoked some merriment amongst the audience, and Amelia found herself suppressing a smile. There was no doubt that the thoroughness and severity of the whipping boded ill for her, and this filled her with dread. On the other hand, it did delight her ill-used pride to see the insolent nursery-maid so thoroughly reminded of her place.

The birch rod sang through the air again, this time in a slightly higher note, as if the twigs hissed a little faster to meet their trembling target. Betsy's whole body froze for an instant, as if she were completely paralysed with pain. Then she shrieked in agony.

Another stroke was delivered, and then another was unleashed. Little broken bits of twig were flying now, as the birch rod was gradually shattered against soft flesh, stroke by stroke. Betsy shrieked and struggled futilely against the straps.

‘The first dozen is complete!' Lord Alex called the tally as the twelfth stroke cracked across Betsy's bottom, sending most of the remaining twigs flying off in all directions.

‘Ooh, it h-h-hurts!' the nursery-maid howled.

Amelia blinked at the girl's bottom. Her buttocks and thighs glowed an angry red. The tracery of individual weals from the birch twigs was still visible around the edges of the punished area. More centrally, the hundreds of tiny stripes had merged into one great furious red glow. Amelia could not help biting her knuckle anxiously. The maid had only gone a dozen and it looked as if her bottom were ablaze!

Mr Blackstock tossed the shattered remains of the rod to the floor and took up the second birch. He waited for a few moments, allowing Betsy to regain some semblance of self-control. The girl stopped howling at last, although a ragged sobbing was still audible.