“Did your father whip you at home?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you will know what is going to happen next”. He pointed to the corner. “Go and stand there, and think *very* carefully about what you have done.”
The young woman walked slowly to the corner, facing the bookshelves, burying her face in her hands. “Put your hands by your side, and stand up straight.”
Lord Harrogate watched, still scarcely able to believe what his young sister’s governess had done. As if this past year hadn’t been bad enough – his parents’ tragic accident, bringing hiim to the peerage at a such a young age. Twenty-five. The youngest peer in England.
And bringing ownership of the Castle: four hundred years of history, his to protect. And most importantly of all, bringing the responsibility of bringing up his darling 10-year-old sister. A responsibility that he had partly entrusted to young Miss Howarth. Miss Howarth, who had so let him down.
rom a good background, although her family had seen more prosperous days. Well-educated. Excellent with children. Intelligent. Honest. Trustworthy.
Still single. Surprising, that. He was sure that the young woman must have been propositioned by any number of eligible men – a young woman as… as… could he admit it to himself about a servant…. yes, damn it, as attractive as Miss Virginia Howarth.
He watched her in the corner, standing bolt upright now, surely dreading what was to come. He’d been sitting in this same room when the police sergeant arrived this afternoon: flustered, embarrassed, hardly sure whether to tell his story or not. How His Lordship would understand, they’d thought there must have been a mistake, but young Lady Jessica had definitely been sitting in the street outside the public house in the village for at least an hour at lunchtime, and it had certainly been Miss Howarth inside, drinking beer with the men, and wasn’t it most unladylike conduct, and not safe for the little girl being left like that, and, well, they’d all thought His Lordship might like to be told.
He wondered what exactly was going through her mind now? How she’d felt when Archer, the butler, had ordered her to report to the Drawing Room in her best clothes. Whether she knew that it was only Jessie’s pleading and tears that had persuaded the young master of the house not to make the Governess pack her bags and set off on foot down the long, winding drive. Only Jessie’s pleading, he told himself. Nothing more.
A lapse, she’d said. The first time. Jessie had said that, too. It would never happen again. She would never want to set a bad example to Lady Jessica. She would do anything to stay.
Well, he thought, she would soon feel his disapproval. His disappointment, too. Frustration. That feeling of being let down by someone he had trusted. Trusted with the well-being of his sister, damn the woman.
That feeling of being let down by someone for whom, if he were honest with himself, he had developed something of a soft-spot over these past months. At twenty-one, not that much younger than himself: perhaps the only person of his own generation he spent time with on anything like a regular basis, other than at those occasional weekend shooting parties that he found so dreary. The only person who could make him laugh, make him walk out of his way in the hope their paths might cross, make him wonder about his life, and his future and what it might mean to be happy. And yet; his duty, as master of the house; his duty, as the fourteenth Lord in a line tracing back to Elizabethan times; his duty would have been to send her packing. Whatever his feelings might have been. Or perhaps because of those feelings.
She’d wept as he lectured her. He hadn’t spared her his fury: the lash of his tongue had been intended to hurt just as much as the physical lash would in a few moments time. She understood fully the gravity of her offence. Knew that she was being given a second chance that she scarcely deserved. For Jessie’s sake?
He watched her again, her shoulders shaking gently. And he decided that she had waited for long enough. That they had better begin.
He called her over to the sofa where he sat. “Come and stand here, facing me.” He looked up at her, her dark eyes full of tears. “You will remove your skirt and underwear for your whipping, Miss Howarth. So please remove your garments and place them in a neat pile on the floor. Then remain standing in position, your hands by your side.”
Quickly, nervously, hands struggling with the buttons, the young woman undressed, the shame of baring herself in front of her employer itself part of her punishment. How naked she must have felt, standing there, inches in front of him. How naked she looked.
She followed his instructions, as might a ballet dancer being taught her steps. “Turn round.” “Take four paces forward”. “Stand with your feet apart.” “Bend over, legs straight, and touch the carpet just in front of your toes.”
And for a moment, as he studied the doubled-over young woman, so frail and so vulnerable, he could have forgotten the next stage of the ballet. Could have gone over to her, lifted her up with his hands and held her in his arms. Held her. Forgiven her.
Yet this was not about forgiving. Not yet.
This was about a young woman who had disgraced herself. Embarrassed his noble family.
A young woman who deserved her punishment.
And so he stood, and walked to the table at the side of the room, on which Archer had laid the two canes. Picked up the longer, slightly thicker one, and whipped it through the air.
Walked back to the centre of the room.
Measured the rod across her backside.
And then flogged Miss Howarth until she cried, then flogged her ’til she sobbed.
Whipped her until the fierce red lines traced their parallel lines across her pale buttocks, then whipped her ’til the lines blurred and merged.
Thrashed her until she understood his anger, then thrashed her ’til she understood his disappointment.
Each stroke delivered with force.
Each stroke delivered with feeling.
Each stroke punishing her.
And each stroke forgiving her, and wiping the slate clean.
And when it was done, he left her in position for a few moments as he returned the cane to the table. Then looked out of the window, as she dressed.
Walked back over towards her, and listened as she apologised. And held her tear-stained face, just for a moment, close against his chest.
Before he sent her on her way: downstairs, back to the servant’s quarters. Alone, back to her place in the order of things.
While he stayed here: upstairs.
Alone, in his place.
—
And that night, after dinner, after Miss Howarth had tucked young Jessie up in bed, back in her uniform, not a word said about events before dinner… That night. As he just happened, so purely coincidentally, to be walking across the grand hallway as Miss Howarth made her way back through the house. That night, as he called her into the Old Library. Placed his hands on her shoulders. That night, as she looked into his eyes, sensing that it would be right, would be acceptable, just this once, to lean herself forward against his chest, to be hugged.
That night, as he ran his fingers softly through her hair, explaining himself, how he had had no choice but to punish her, yet how… how he had felt, when she had bent over, and he had wanted to place his hands on her hips to lift her up and hold her.
That night, when he ran his hands so softly over her skirt, over her bruised behind.
That night, when they had suddenly, instinctively, started to kiss. Who kissed first? Who knew? Who cared?
Kissed like two people who needed each other more than they had need anything before in their short lives. Kissed in a way which led them through the small ante-chamber next to the library, into the high-ceilinged bedroom with its grand, creaking four-poster bed.
That night, when they held, and touched, and felt, and tasted, and soothed, and stroked, and did what lovers do.
That night, when young Lord Harrogate realised that his dreams about young Miss Howarth had been playing nightly in her mind too.
That night that seemed too short, like all nights do with the person that matters.
