The price of privilege

Alexander Watson sipped his coffee, looking around the magnificent oak-panelled room. Yes, he thought, to himself: I could get used to this. Indeed, given time, I will get used to it.

Of course he’d known that the family had history. Admiral John Watson, triumphant over the Spanish fleet in the famous battle of…. what was it, again? Created Viscount Spensdale by a jubilant King, with a fine Scottish estate on which to while away his days basking in the country’s gratitude.

It had been quite nice, really, to open the school history books and read about one’s own flesh-and-blood. Not that the old Viscount had seemed that relevant to a family growing up in comfortable, suburban Surrey. Or, more recently, during the stresses and strains of the nine-to-five (or should that be seven-thirty-to-six-thirty) treadmill, as Alex had risen through the ranks of the company at which he worked: graduate trainee, turned 32-year-old high-flyer. No, the family’s eminent history and wealth seemed a long way away as he struggled into the city each morning on the ever-less-reliable, ever-more-crowded trains.

And then that phone call. That life-changing phonecall. He remembered it clearly: how could he not? How he’d been frustrated at the interruption: that contract had to be finalised by lunchtime, and he’d specifically told Emma not to put any calls through. Her meek apologies: “They told me it was important, and that you would definitely want to take the call.” Who were ‘Wallace, Hamilton & Linley’, anyway? They sounded like some trendy advertising agency.

They’d wanted to see him. In Edinburgh. Most insistent. About a legal matter. Something that would be of ‘significant benefit and interest’.

He hadn’t been able to help the flutter in his heart: what was going on? He’d never heard of these people. Untold wealth awaiting him, perhaps, he laughed to himself? A pretext, to get him to discuss some unknown offence that he’d inadvertently committed, to recover some debt that he didn’t even know he’d incurred. A mistake? A joke? A con?

And in Scotland, too. They’d been so adamant; his expenses would be covered, and they really did advise him to attend at 10.30 am sharp next Monday.

It was only when their letter arrived the following morning, couriered to his office and requiring his personal signature, that he decided to go. Maybe it was the weight of the paper that convinced him, the quality oozing its importance. Perhaps the Royal crest at the bottom of the letter helped. The brochure they enclosed glowed with past and present prosperity – no flimsy, glossy marketing leaflet, this, but a leather-bound history of “Scotland’s most distinguished legal advisors, founded in 1720.”

Perhaps it was a sense of adventure that compelled him towards Heathrow at such an ungodly hour at the start of the following week.

Or of duty.

Suddenly, Alex snapped back into real-time.

Mortimer, the butler, was looking at him intently – as he seemed to do – disapproving, perhaps, of his master’s daydreaming. Mortimer seemed to bear a permanent weight of disapproval on his shoulders, as if the new order of things did not quite fit with his ideas for Glenrossiter house. As if the young master was usurping his predecessors’ place.

But, of course, he wasn’t.

“Is there anything that sir would like me to do for him this morning?”

Alex glanced out of the window, looking across the perfectly-maintained lawns in the crisp spring sunshine. “I was going to walk along the river this morning, Mortimer. I haven’t had a chance to explore that part of the estate yet. Could you get out my boots, please? And is there a map, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir. If I might suggest, sir, if you take the Range Rover past the farmhouse, you might park it down by the old bridge. It would save you a little walk. And then you can skirt westward along the edge of the forest for three miles, until you reach the village, then cross and walk back along the opposite riverbank.”

“Thanks, Mortimer. That sounds ideal.”

Deferentially, the butler added: “Sir does recall that he has an appointment at 2.30 this afternoon?”

No, Alex thought. ‘Sir’ did not recall. Sir didn’t think he’d known anything about appointments. Today, or on any other day. Another failure in Mortimer’s book, no doubt. In fact, Sir was quite looking forward to another day of leisure. Sir could get quite frustrated with his butler, if his butler wasn’t careful. “Do remind me, Mortimer.”

“It’s explained in the papers that I left out for you on your desk yesterday, sir. If sir would like, I could go and find the documents and you could take them with you; stop and read them somewhere on your stroll?”

“But I don’t want to…” Alex thought to himself. Yet something in the older man’s voice made him think that this meeting, whatever it might be, wasn’t optional. Damn it, he thought: meetings, paperwork were for my former life. He folded his crisp white napkin, yawned, and set off to his bedroom suite, still grumbling silently to himself. Well, he thought, whatever this appointment is, it had better be important.

—

“I’m so ashamed.”

“Mother, please…”

“My own daughter. Suspended from school. And the first girl sent up to his new lordship.”

“Please…”

“You’ve brought shame on our household, Jennifer Elizabeth. Shame…”

As if this helped. When she needed support. Hugs. Reassurance. Love, to quell her fear.

She was trying to look brave, of course. Nonchalant. But since her sentence had been pronounced, she’d thought of nothing else. Well you wouldn’t, would you?

Why her? Why not Libby, or Beth, or Elise? They’d helped. They’d urged her on. Why had it had to be her?

Her mother’s complaints continued, rising in a crescendo of allegations and grievances.

And she turned, and ran upstairs, slamming her bedroom door shut and flinging herself face down on her bed, not ashamed to sob.

—

A glorious morning, Alex thought, as he breathed in the crisp, clean air – so far from London with all its pollution. He still had to pinch himself to believe this was true.

Who would have thought: his rich great-uncle – well, to be precise, not even a great-uncle: the relationship was far more indirect than that, but a bloodline, nonetheless. And not even just rich. A peer of the realm; the most recent Viscount Spensdale, no less, the descendant of the old Admiral whose whiskery face had peered out from the history books.

The ‘late’ Viscount Spensdale, to be precise. The late, childless Viscount Spensdale, the presumed last of the line. Whose distinguished Edinburgh lawyers had engaged an expert genealogist in one last attempt to trace any distant descendants who could inherit the title and estate, and who had hence ended up some months later on the other end of Alex’s phone line.

Well, he thought, he was here now. No jokers had emerged to reveal their pranks. No hidden reality-TV cameras had exposed their trickery. Thirty-two years old, that long commute to the office to earn the money to pay the monthly rent a thing of the past. He felt like he’d retired early. Very early.

That, in itself, would be a challenge – would he get bored? Alex had no interest in the minutiae of running a large estate like Glenrossiter – and anyway, the Estate Manager seemed more than competent. And meanwhile, the canny investment decisions of decades of past Viscounts meant that the most complex monetary decision he would ever need to make was whether to scan the share prices in the Financial Times before or after breakfast.

He paused, noticing a crop of rocks at the side of the river, and perched himself comfortably on them. He would have taken off his boots and socks and dangled his feet in the water, had he not dipped his hands in earlier and felt the chill edge from the still-melting snows of the mountains that fringed the eastern edge of the estate.

This is the life, he thought happily. I could get used to this, he thought again. I am getting used to this, even two weeks in. He smiled, thinking about the coming weekend; his friends arriving to stay, the chauffeur meeting them at the airport. No doubt curious, envious – but friends, still, their friendships – he so hoped – unaffected by his good fortune. Mark and Susie, Matthew and Kirsty, Peter, Amber, Caitlin, Millie.

Especially Millie. Things had just started to… to be clearer, when all of this had happened. Deep, confused thoughts had started to crystallise for both of them; their goodnight hugs had started to grow more tender; their confidences in each other more frank. And then all of this… He looked around, pride and astonishment still mixing in equal proportions as he took in the views, smelt the fresh grass, watched as a bird of prey – eagle, hawk? – flew overhead.

From his small rucksack, he extracted the purple folder that Mortimer had retrieved from the office. He smiled, at the thought of his study; its jumble of papers and books, a whole family history of a family he hadn’t known, just waiting to be discovered. And he started to read…

—

From the Headmistress

Glenrossiter Grammar School for Girls

 

My Lord,

Might I start by welcoming you to Glenrossiter. We hope that you will find yourself at home here.

Please also accept my sincere condolences on the passing of the late Viscount Spensdale. His lordship was a dear friend to the Grammar School over the years and we share your sadness.

You may not yet be aware that under our school’s charter, you now hold the legal position of Visiting Governor. This gives you the right to appoint or dismiss members of the school’s governing body, and ultimate authority over decisions relating to the school. Your post is enshrined in legal statutes, and we do hope that we will be able to count on your active support.

As he became less able to participate in public life, the late Viscount Spensdale delegated these authorities to Sir Thomas Brownrigg. However, the legal paperwork that was signed at the time made it clear that his responsibilities would revert automatically to any future holder of the Viscount’s title.

Whilst I look forward to welcoming you more formally in due course, and to discussing your role in more detail, there is one area in which I need to ask for your immediate support. One of the roles of Visiting Governor is to administer discipline in cases of serious breaches of the school’s rules. You might recall that corporal punishment is outlawed in United Kingdom schools as a result of legislation in the 1980s. However, a legal anomaly dating from the time of the original creation of the viscountcy meant that our statutes made us exempt from this legislation under Scottish law. We do, therefore, somewhat unusually, retain the cane as a measure of last resort for the most grave misdemeanours.

It is most unfortunate that one of our senior girls committed an offence last week which I deem worthy of such a punishment, when Jennifer Murray was found to have stolen the question paper for a forthcoming examination from the staff common room. Having checked with your staff, I understand that 2.30 pm on Wednesday would be a convenient time for you to deal with Miss Murray, and I have therefore instructed her to report to you to be disciplined at that time. She has also been suspended for one week.

Might I conclude by saying once again how pleased we are to have you with us in Glenrossiter, and offering you any assistance that may help as you settle in.

 Yours truly,

 

Georgina Sinclair (Miss).

 

—

Alex let out a whistle of astonishment, and laid the letter down on the rock beside him. His mind buzzed with information. Wow… I mean, good grief. But… I’d expected some official duties. But this? Well, Miss (note the emphasis on the Miss) Sinclair seemed a fair character. What a letter. And as for Jennifer… what was her name again? (he picked up the paper and checked)… Jennifer Murray. Well, poor girl. Actually, not poor girl, if she’d been stealing.

The young peer stood up, pushing the papers into his bag and turned back towards the house. Did he really have to do this? Cane this girl? Where would he get a cane, anyway? And how did one cane a girl, for that matter? He cast his mind back to the school stories he’d read in his childhood: Tom Brown, of course. The Jennings books. Roald Dahl. Bend her over and give her six of the best, he assumed. But that was easier to say in theory than to do in practice, and he certainly didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

He wandered back, trying to think about other things: the plans for his friends’ visit; how much he’d like to explore and catalogue the huge, disorganised library at Glenrossiter. But again and again he found himself drawn back, half horrified and half fascinated, to his impending meeting with young Miss Murray.

—

She showered, trying to escape her fears under the hot running water.

He sat down for lunch, under Mortimer’s watchful gaze.

She dressed, carefully, her freshly-laundered uniform so neatly ironed by her mother.

He beckoned the butler to him, and asked about the school.

She muttered under her breath: “I hate that place. I can’t wait to escape, to get to university.”

He enquired about the school’s traditions, and was assured that the late Viscount Spensdale had taken his traditional responsibilities most seriously.

She peered into the mirror, brushing her hair for slightly longer than was really necessary, trying to imagine what it might be like. Then trying to forget her imaginings.

He wondered about Jennifer Murray. How must she be feeling at this moment, knowing she was due to be whacked?

She wondered about the new viscount. Young, she heard. From England. What would he be feeling at this moment? Would he be thinking about her?

He was informed by Mortimer that his cane had been placed next to the fireplace in the drawing room.

She wondered, nervously, how many strokes she would get.

He learnt that his old lordship used to claim that eight of the best, on the bare backside, was necessary to deal with the mischief-makers. Listened to the protocol, understood what was expected of him.

She wished she had someone to talk to, someone who could give her a hug.

He ate his lunch slowly, unable to enjoy the food.

She went downstairs, past her mother, leaving her unwanted lunch untouched.

He wished he didn’t have to do this.

She wished he didn’t have to do this.

He pushed his plate away, and headed for the drawing room.

She closed the front door behind her, and headed for the path that lead through the forest to the great estate.

And he looked at his watch…

…as she realised it was five past two, and started to hurry.

—

He studied the girl, taking in her crisp, smart uniform, her red badge standing out against the black blazer. Tie neatly fastened. Tartan skirt – a kilt, almost. And he watched her tremble, and wondered.

Wondered what she must be feeling, and wondered about her offence.

“It must be Jennifer.” A face to the name; the words on the letter replaced by living, breathing (and, he dared to think, attractive) flesh. Two dimensions turned into three as his paper responsibilities suddenly took on a very real form.

“Yes, sir.” She took in her surroundings: the high ceiling, the paintings. The smell of fresh lilies. Oh, the very comfort of the room. A room she’d love to live in, curl up in, be warm in. Not…

He beckoned to the chair. “Take a seat, Jennifer. Do they call you Jennifer, by the way? Or Jenny?”

“Jenny, Lord Spensdale.” She looked at him nervously, folding her hands on her lap as she sank into the armchair. He wasn’t what she’d imagined a Lord would look like; in fact, he looked quite nice. Sounded friendly, even, not like that horrible butler who’d shown her in, grinning maliciously.

Alex sat down opposite her, leaning forward. “So what year are you in at the School, Jenny?”

“I’m in my final year, sir. Going to university in the autumn. “

“Very good. What do you want to study?”

“Law, sir. At St. Andrew’s. If I get straight ‘A’ grades in my exams, that is.”

“You must be bright, then?” He’d known a girl from St. Andrew’s, years back. Old and distinguished – the university, that is. Unlike Sophie, who’d been young and most adventurous.

Jenny blushed. “Yes, sir, I suppose so. I get good grades, and the interview went well.” This was sounding like a careers discussion; she could almost let herself forget why she was here. Almost.

“So you’re bright, you’re smart. What on earth brings you here?”

She gulped. What brought her here? Recklessness. A dare. A desire to prove herself to the other girls. “Well, sir, we were… I… was… trying to impress some of the others.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Impress them?”

“Yes, sir. Well, we were talking. Me and some… friends. About our mock exams – we’ve got Highers next term, so we’re sitting practice papers in two weeks’ time. And about how much easier it would be to revise if they gave us the papers in advance…” Her voice trailed off, as she looked down at the carpet.

“Go on.”

“Well, sir, it’s a long story. But I nipped into the common room one evening, after the teachers had all gone home, and managed to find the History paper.”

“I see. Not a good idea.”

“No, sir.” No, sir, not a good idea at all. Not a good idea if you were the sort of girl who didn’t do that kind of thing. Not a good idea in any circumstances, in fact. Even if you did so want to be popular with the other girls; to be liked; to be in with the in-crowd.

He stood up, and her eyes followed him as he walked over to the fireplace. “I’m somewhat surprised at you, given that you want to be a lawyer. One might expect rather more responsible behaviour.” He picked up the stick, watching her eyes widen, and continued. “So now you’re here, and since I am apparently your ‘Visiting Governor’, I have to give you the cane.”

She bit her lip, then pleaded. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? You would try and make this man – with his obvious kindly side underneath the steely determination – you would try and make him relent. But she knew her petitions were futile, even as they slipped out of her mouth: “You don’t have to, sir. Please. I know I shouldn’t have done it.”

And she did know. He could tell. But he couldn’t not proceed. Couldn’t break the trust that the school, the community, obviously placed in him. Let them down. He beckoned her to her feet: “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice, Jenny. Have you been caned before?”

“Never, sir.” Never. Never would a girl like her expect to find herself here. Never.

Never, ever would a girl like her expect to feel the wooden back of a tall wooden chair against her skin, as she bent over on tiptoes, exposed, her shoes and socks on the floor, her blazer, skirt and knickers folded neatly on the table.

To hear him award her eight strokes. Eight! To feel him press the stick against her, cold and straight, and draw it back. To experience that pause before it landed, that final moment: part wait, part anticipation, part relief, but mainly sheer terror – knowing that any moment now she would turn into a whipped girl.

Never, either, would he have imagined himself disciplining a semi-naked schoolgirl. But Alex was beginning to understand that with the privilege, the estate, the title and the undreamt-of wealth, came responsibility. Expectation.

Authority.

The sound of the descending rod against her buttocks was softer than he’d imagined when he’d thwacked the cushions earlier. Softer, sharper. Yet the cushions hadn’t cried out, anguished and pitiful; the cushions hadn’t striped, angry and red. The cushions hadn’t squirmed.

He watched her closely, as he proceeded with the punishment, concentrating on making the strokes land precisely against their target. She was braver than he would have thought possible, yet at the same time more vulnerable, more fragile as she writhed under the blows.

Alex looked up at the portraits on the wall, and imagined his distinguished predecessors meting out similar thrashings. Imagined the other girls who must have bent over chairs and tables in this very room, receiving their correction. Well, he thought: those who’d been before – those Spensdales of old: he wouldn’t let them down. And he tightened his grip on the cane, and lifted it higher, and cut it down still harder. Four… five…

By the sixth stroke, the girl’s reaction was becoming more even – no longer cries of anguish at each terrible blow, but a steady catching of breath a whimpering, shoulders heaving. Was this the price she’d had to pay – to be Jenny the popular, Jenny the brave, Jenny the liked?

And then, almost before the punishment had begun, yet a changed lifetime afterwards, the final two sharp blows had been dispensed. He was telling her to stand up, to dress, turning away so that she could hang onto those strands of modesty that remained. She pulled on the clothes quickly, anxiously. It wasn’t smart, impeccably-turned out Jennifer now; gone was the tidiness, along with the bravado. It was just small, sobbing, sorry Jenny. In need of a hug.

A hug which wouldn’t, couldn’t come from the new Viscount, no matter how sad and pitiful the poor girl looked. Alex waited for her, watched her, let her compose herself as best she could, then pressed the bell on the side-table. Before the echoes of its chimes had even subsided, the door swung open, and Mortimer appeared. (Had he been listening to the punishment, Alex later wondered? Listening, assessing, judging. Enjoying?)

“Is his Lordship finished with the girl?”

He looked at her. “I do hope so. Let us agree that our next meeting will be in more fortuitous circumstances, Miss Murray.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Please don’t think badly of me, sir…”

Her apologies were interrupted. “Out of here, at the double,” Mortimer commanded. “Shall I bring you a cup of tea, sir, once I’ve shown the girl out?”

“Yes, Mortimer, that would be kind.” And Alex turned, and walked back across the room, throwing himself back into the comfort of an armchair and picking up the copy of The Field, as the girl disappeared.

—

That evening, the Reverend Michael Donaldson proved to be great company for dinner at the great house. Witty, entertaining and learned.

Jenny’s dining table experience was of a rather different nature. Her mother, still belligerent, ordered her to her room as soon as she reached home. Sent her to bed, like a naughty little girl. Which in some ways, she supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth.

And there she stayed, body and pride equally wounded, until her father slammed shut the front door on his return from work, and yelled for her to join them in the dining room.

She knew she’d let herself down.

She knew she’d embarrassed her parents.

She knew she’d put her chances of a university place at risk, and that she was fortunate that the school hadn’t told St. Andrew’s.

She knew she’d brought shame on the family.

She knew she’d deserved to be caned, to be punished, to be taught an unforgettable lesson, to be made an example of by the school.

She knew her parents were angry.

She knew that they wanted her to succeed.

She knew, even, despite the shouting, that they loved her dearly.

And she knew then, before her father even said the words, before he pointed to the table, even before he reached for the buckle of his sturdy leather belt, that whilst the school’s discipline had already been administered, her debt to her family had not yet been repaid.