by Ashe Barker
“I see.” She seems to accept my account, but I do not for a moment consider the matter closed. Beatrice is far too astute for that. She lays a cool hand on my forehead. “You are not feverish, which is a relief. I believe you may be strong enough to join us for lunch, but only if you remain the rest of the morning in bed. Shall I aid you in removing your gown, my dear?”
I accept the assistance. Once in my shift, I scramble back into bed and allow Beatrice to tug the blankets up to my chin. She plumps the bolster and pillows behinds me, then stands back to allow the maid to place a tray upon the nightstand beside me. “Ah, yes, a portion of Mrs. MacBride’s porridge should help to fortify you nicely, Imogen. Might I nip down to the kitchens myself and prepare you a cup of tea perhaps?”
I nod. I do enjoy a rare cup of sweet tea, but even more I would welcome the respite whilst Beatrice is engaged in brewing the beverage to her exact liking. It is not a task she will entrust to a servant. “Thank you. That would be very welcome.”
I sigh in relief as Beatrice and the maid leave and I am at last alone to consider my predicament.
* * *
A morning spent turning the events of the last day or so over in my head achieves little in the way of resolution. By lunchtime though, I am heartily sick of my own company and glad enough to join the Kirkleven household for the noontime meal. I dress without the aid of a servant, as usual and make my way downstairs.
Beatrice is in the dining room with the two girls. They all appear delighted to see me and we enjoy a pleasant enough meal together. The boys ate earlier and have gone with their tutor to make sketches of the weird and wonderful species of pond life to be discovered in the tarn that lies a half mile or so from Kirkleven. The elder Beatrice plans to pass the afternoon sketching and Lucy is hoping to persuade her mother that an outing to Stirling might be required in order to purchase embroidery silks. None of us is convinced. Lucy loathes sewing and anything connected to it, but she adores the noise and bustle of the market town. Beatrice is an indulgent parent and I suspect not averse to a little outing herself, so she agrees to summon the small gig and they plan to depart immediately after lunch.
“Would you like to accompany us, Imogen?” enquires Beatrice. “You might find the fresh air invigorating.”
“Yes, you should come,” adds Lucy. “My sister is so boring when she is engrossed in her painting and no one else is here. You will be lonely on your own.”
“Thank you, but I believe I might prefer to remain here. Are Sir Phillip or his brother not at home then?” I am relieved to be able to delay our next inevitable confrontation, at least for the rest of the day it would seem.
“No. Phillip has business in Edinburgh and I believe Francis may have gone to the city with him. They will not be back until much later, or even tomorrow.”
Excellent news. “I see. Please do not fret about me, I am happy to keep my own company for one afternoon. I shall spend it in the library, I think. I have started to catalogue Sir Phillip’s collection of Greek and Roman philosophy and need to apply myself to the task.”
Lucy’s grimace denotes her absolute bafflement at my choice of pastime, but she is eager to be off. Soon I am alone and I make my way to the haven of the library, there to immerse myself in ancient tomes.
That afternoon passes in tranquil, satisfying monotony. I examine each volume in the collection, noting the title, authors and any provenance that might be discerned from the cover or inner pages. I have already identified the shelving that will house this section of the library and cleared the space for it so I start to carry the books across the room ready to arrange on display. They are large volumes and I can manage just two or three at a time. I could summon a manservant to do the heavy work in a fraction of the time it will take me, but fear the books might be damaged. Many of them are old and extremely delicate. I prefer to move them myself and I quite enjoy ambling back and forth across the library, my arms full of such treasures.
“What the hell are you doing?” The censorious tone rings out around the silence of my sanctum.
I whirl, a transcript of Socrates’ Republic flying from my fingers to clatter onto the tiled floor. Gray slams the door behind him as he marches into the room, his enraged countenance promising all manner of dire retribution though I cannot start to discern what quarrel he might have with me now. I press my hand to my chest in an attempt to calm the pounding of my heart and reach for the back of a large wing chair to steady myself.
“For God’s sake, sit before you fall down.” Gray takes me by the shoulders and propels me none too gently into the chair. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? You fainted this morning and now I find you carting heavy weights around like some lusty farmhand. Have you no sense?”
“I beg your pardon?” It is the best I can muster, bewildered as I am at the reason for his ire.
“My pardon? You will beg for rather more than that before we are done here, madam. You are fortunate indeed that I do not already have you draped over the arm of that chair, your skirts raised and your bottom bared.”
“I… what?” I am astonished, completely perplexed, though his intent is perfectly plain. “Why would you wish to spank me?”
He bends to retrieve the book at my feet and having restored Socrates to the safety of Sir Phillip’s desk, turns to survey me, his hands on his hips. “Why indeed? Let me specify the reasons, since you appear less than your usual perspicacious self this afternoon. One…” He raises his index finger to aid his counting. “I like spanking you, so am minded to do so at any and every opportunity. Two…” Another finger is upraised. “You like it too, though I do not expect you to acknowledge that right at this precise moment since you believe I am about to hurt you. And three, I have checked with Masterson and learned that you have been labouring in here for the last three hours and when I enter to suggest that you might take some well-earned rest, it is to find you hoisting that lot across the room.” He sweeps out his arm to indicate the collection of books I have already shifted, then turns his attention fully on me once more. “You are with child, woman. You need to take care of yourself and of our bairn. That means you do not spend hours on end poring over these dusty volumes and most definitely you do not lift anything heavier than a teacup. I would have thought that would be obvious, but if I need to impress this lesson upon you, I am happy to do so. I vow it will not slip your mind again.”
“Our bairn?”
“Yes. Ours. I have acknowledged as much.”
“But—”
“Do you dispute the necessity for punishment, Imogen?”
“I did not intend to endanger my baby. Our baby. I would never—”
“Quite. Neither would I. Therefore, despite your obvious belief to the contrary, I do not intend to thrash you though you richly deserve it. I have concluded I must be more subtle in my approach to discipline, at least for the duration of your pregnancy.”
I gape at him, thoroughly confused and more than a little terrified. What does he have in mind?
He smiles at me, though the expression bears no warmth. “Do you recall our first night together, Imogen, at The Blue Man?”
I nod, wary of exactly what he might wish to derive from that evening. I vividly recall the spanking he administered, but he has already told me he does not intend to beat me, has he not? I am not entirely certain.
“You offered to read to me. Do you remember that?”
I nod again. “Of course. But you said we had no books to hand.”
“Quite so. We did not … then. But look around you now, Imogen. We are blessed with an abundance of suitable literature within this very room. We have uplifting works from the classics—Greek and Roman—and I suspect we might find some ancient Chinese texts should we poke around a bit. We have history, science, the arts, even the Kirkleven family bible lurks upon yonder shelf, I believe. Does anything take your fancy?”
I am incredulous. “You wish me to read to you? Now?”
He turns to me, a wicked grin upon his handsome visage. “This is one of my favourites, the bard at his finest, and the subject matter seems quite appropriate for us. Star-crossed lovers would appear to sum up our situation well enough, would you agree?”
“We are not lovers,” I assert, “star-crossed or otherwise. I said as much to you this morning. You have deceived me, sir, made a mockery of me, and I wish to have nothing more to do with you.”
He has the gall to grin at me again, hitching his hip on the edge of the desk as he leafs through the pages of the play. “Ah, yes, you did say something of the sort. And I believe I made it clear to you that I would not be in a position to accommodate your wishes since we are both here, at Kirkleven, and neither one of us intends to depart any time soon.”
I rein in my rising irritation. I have not the slightest notion what this conversation is about and find I have nothing more I wish to say to him in any case.
“Sir, unless you intend to beat me with a Shakespearean tragedy, may I suggest we both retire to our rooms to dress for the evening meal.”
I make to rise from my chair, pointedly ignoring Gray’s outstretched hand as he offers to assist me to my feet. “I am not yet at the stage where I require your aid, Francis.”
“You shall have it anyway. In future, should you require books to be moved, or anything else for that matter, you will call upon me and I shall assist you. Is that clear?”
“I do not—”
“Is. That. Clear?” His tone has lowered, hardened. My heart lurches. I have heard that determined timbre before and it does not bode well. Perhaps a spanking is not entirely out of the question after all, and I was a fool to provoke him. I opt for a more conciliatory approach.
“Yes. Very well. If you are close at hand, I shall seek your assistance.”
“Thank you, madam. And if I am not in the vicinity when my help is required, you will wait until I am or you will call upon Masterson or perhaps my brother. You will not attempt to lift heavy weights yourself.”
He waits, one eyebrow raised, in obvious expectancy of my affirmation that his instructions will be obeyed. He is arrogance personified. I bristle with resentment, but decide that discretion remains the wiser course on this occasion.
“I understand. Now, I really must prepare for dinner.”
“Indeed. But first, there remains the matter of your suitable punishment for your earlier carelessness. I wish you to read to me, from this.” He hands me the copy of Romeo and Juliet. “Act three is my personal preference, but if you have an alternative suggestion to make, I would be happy to consider that.”
“You want me to read to you? Now?”
“I do. I recall your earlier offer at The Blue Man was most tempting but alas not practicable then. So you shall oblige me now, if you please.” He seats himself in the wing chair I just vacated, leans back and crosses his ankles.
I am not fooled for a moment by his casual pose, but opt to take his command at face value. I open the book at the start of act three.
“Undress, please, Imogen. You shall read it to me naked.”
“I shall not!” I slam the volume shut and clutch it to my chest, backing away from him. “You are quite mad, sir.”
“I am not mad, Imogen, or deranged, or am I deluded. You may save your breath if those were the suggestions you were about to offer.”
I clamp my jaws shut. Those were indeed pretty much exactly the observations I was intending to make.
Gray continues. “I am, however, bloody angry with you and I do intend to look my fill. You will undress, please, and be quick about it. As you say, we both need to get on.”
“But… what if someone comes in? The servants…?”
“Ah, ever the practical little miss. If you are concerned that we may have company sometime soon, I suggest you do not delay any further. The sooner you are naked and reading to me, the better, surely?”
“We should lock the door.” I note I am no longer protesting about complying with his bizarre demands; rather I am more concerned at ensuring our privacy for this… encounter.
“No, Imogen, we should not. You will take your chance. And you will do it now. I am not overly fond of having to repeat myself.”
“But—”
“Now, Imogen.”
I growl as I shuffle across to the other side of his chair, a spot not so readily visible from the door should anyone disturb us. Perhaps I could duck behind a bookcase, should the need arise. Mortified at what he is making me do, I place the book I am still clutching on one of the shelves nearby and reach around my back to loosen the lacing there.
It is awkward and I am unable to manage it. Gray gets to his feet and quickly deals with the fastenings, then returns to his seat. I slide the bodice from my shoulders. The fabric drops to my waist and I glare at him. Already my state of dishabille is sufficient to cause outrage were we to be discovered.
Gray merely watches me, an amused leer plastered across his face. After a few seconds have elapsed he twirls his hand at me, a gesture indicating that I should hurry up.
Without uttering another word, I step out of my slippers and shove my skirts down to pool on the floor. I follow that by removing my underskirts and boned corset, then my stockings. At last I stand before him in just my chemise. The fabric is sheer, I might as well be naked. I glare at him belligerently, though in my heart I know he will insist.
“That too, Imogen.” His tone is cold, clipped. He means me to obey him.
My chemise soon joins the rest of my clothing in a pile on the tiles underfoot. I glance from Gray to the door and back again, convinced that at any moment Masterson is certain to enter to enquire if I require a tray of tea or perhaps one of Mrs. MacBride’s fine scones.
Gray stands and gestures toward the chair. “Come here, please, Imogen. And bring your book with you.”
I pick up the slender volume and move toward him. I dread him touching me, especially after what he just said about being so angry, but at the same time my quim is moistening disgracefully. I have no notion what to expect from him now.
“Place the book, open, on the seat of the chair. You may bend over to read it. You will spread your legs please, wide. I wish to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt whilst I savour the immortal words of the bard.”
“But…” I stare at the velvet-covered cushion on the chair, and its angle to the door is not lost on me. I will be not just naked but spread open, on shameless display should anyone enter. I meet his amused but unrelenting gaze. “You bastard,” I murmur.
His grin widens. “My dear departed mother might take issue with that claim, but I would not quibble with the general sentiment. Even so, get on with it.”
My knees are shaking as I stand before the chair. Even as the words of protest clamour to escape my throat, I know I will do this. I must, because he has commanded it. A beating might have been easier to bear than the abject humiliation he intends to subject me to, not to mention my morbid horror at the prospect of being discovered thus.
Beatrice and Sir Phillip already have a somewhat ambiguous view of my moral fibre; this would place me beyond redemption. My only hope is to complete the task he has set quickly enough that I might be allowed to get dressed and escape back to my chamber unseen.
With a groan I assume the position he has described, and I start to read. The scene opens with Benvolio, a servant, bemoaning the likely prospect of a fight if the households of the Capulets and Montagues should inadvertently meet. I can see some similarities to my own situation, should Lady Beatrice return early from Stirling and find
it necessary to retrieve one of her recipe books from the household cabinet.
“I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And if we meet we shall not ‘scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.” I pause to glance over my shoulder at Gray.
He is leaning against the desk, arms folded, his eyes raking my body. I cannot resist a peep at the front of his breeches and am gratified to see the tell-tale bulge there. That is something, at least… I think. I return to my page and continue to read.
I reach the point in the text where Romeo is waxing lyrical about being in love. The fool.
“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vexed a sea nourish’d with loving tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.”
As I utter the final words of the line, Gray moves to stand behind me. “This is stirring stuff, is it not, Imogen. I trust you will agree I made a fine choice.”
I agree to no such thing and might have shared my views with him, but the caress of Gray’s palm on my bare bottom forestalls any further comment. I clench, bracing for a slap despite his promise not to spank me.
“Ah, so tense, my sweet. This cannot be good for the baby. Perhaps I can help you.” He slides his hand between my legs to stroke the spread lips of my quim, then without preamble spears two fingers deep inside me.
“Oh! Oh, Gray…” I cannot contain my moan of pleasure as I squeeze my inner muscles around his fingers.
“Please, continue. You were just at the point where Romeo is discovering the woes of being in love, I believe…” He punctuates his words with several deep thrusts, angled to connect perfectly with that most sensitive spot inside me that always feels so good.
“I cannot, not if…”
“Ah, my apologies. I shall stop then.” He withdraws his fingers, wipes the copious excess moisture across my buttocks, then steps away to resume his position beside the desk.
