Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  Title Page

  HALL OF INFAMY

  by

  AMANITA VIROSA

  Publisher Information

  Hall of Infamy published by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  Copyright © Amanita Virosa

  First printed in 1998. Reprinted in 2002

  The right of Amanita Virosa to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  ‘That’s it. Good girl. Now I want you just to lie back for me – yes, yes, that’s lovely.’ She felt the silk of her smock turn wet and clammy from the water on the table, and almost wished she had taken the damned thing off. It had ridden up to her waist in any case, and she could see her own pubic curls as she anxiously raised her head. Mr Catchpole bent and took her wrists, then guided her hands until her arms were extended down two of the legs of the table.

  ‘That’s it. Now grip the legs really, really hard.’

  ‘Oh, what…?’ By the time Amelia felt the straps deftly pulled tight around her wrists it was too late. She gave a gasp of surprised protest. She had not seen any restraints around the table legs. With a surge of outrage, she realised that Mr Catchpole must have had them secreted in his pocket.

  A Welcome and a Farewell

  ‘Oh, look, Amelia, the hawthorn is in bloom!’

  The hedgerows that sped by the carriage window were dusted with white blossom, but Amelia gave them only a cursory glance. She regarded Clara through heavy-lidded eyes and gave a bored yawn. ‘Really, Clara, I do wish you would stop bouncing up and down. One would think you had never been to Hatherby before!’

  The fact was that the countryside, the rolling hills, the thickly wooded hollows and neat hedgerows exhilarated her, too, with its magical aura and half-forgotten familiarity. But the Honourable Amelia Colinbrooke was a dignified young lady of nineteen, educated and extremely conscious of her position. She most emphatically was not a giddy girl to be over-excited by the prospect of release from finishing school. Therefore she shook her head pityingly at Clara, reminded herself that her cousin was only just eighteen, and turned her attention back to her novel, leaving the younger girl to press her face to the glass of the window and exclaim excitedly over the commonplace country sights.

  Cousin Clara was a pretty, slender girl with innocent blue eyes and rosebud lips so sweet that Amelia sometimes felt the urge… but they were not at finishing school now. The time for those girlish passions was past, along with the disciplinary regime of Madame Chavaroff’s Academy.

  Amelia had found it very hard at first, but in the final year she had progressed to prefect status, and the opportunity to wield the rod herself had reconciled her to the strictness of the institution. She had ended up a staunch supporter of corporal correction, and watching Clara fidget made her regret that the opportunity for its infliction was now past. Amelia had only infrequently had the opportunity to make her cousin strip and bend before her prefectorial cane, but she could still see Clara’s plump bottom and slender thighs…

  Amelia shifted on her seat, regretting that she had laced her stays so tightly. The May sun was brilliant and it was getting uncomfortably hot in the carriage. She took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her purse and wiped her brow, turning her gaze from Clara’s tiny satin-encased waist to the window, and hastily resolving to think about something else.

  The view was changing now, the pastures and hedgerows giving way to thicker woodland, until the train was passing through a deep forest. Suddenly, Amelia felt apprehensive, and even Clara became quiet. It was as if the woods evoked some long-buried memory, as if something sinister and ancient lurked in this remote part of the country. Clara’s big blue eyes blinked at her anxiously, the pretty lips forming a questioning ‘O’. Then the forest opened up again, giving way to sun-flooded fields, and the feeling passed, leaving Amelia smiling wanly at her own foolishness.

  ‘Do you think Jamie will be at Hope Hall too, this summer?’

  Clara’s transparent attempt to ask this with an air of indifference provoked a derisive snort from Amelia. ‘I have no idea. I hope not!’

  The last time that the cousins had visited Hope Hall, Clara had developed a serious crush on Jamie Fanshawe, a distant relative. Amelia, on the other hand, had detested the slightly older boy’s lack of respect for her, and she had bridled at the liberties he had attempted. Even though they were related, she had decided, Master Fanshawe was very ill bred. The dreamy expression that settled on Clara’s countenance at the mention of his name irritated Amelia. The image of Clara’s bottom came to her mind again unbidden. By Isis, Amelia thought grimly, I’d put Jamie Fanshawe out of your mind, if I had the opportunity!

  To Amelia’s relief, she did not know the boy who waited for them with the carriage at the tiny station. If Jamie had been at the Hall, Lady Alicia would most likely have sent him to greet the girls. Instead a burly, tongue-tied boy – a stable-lad, Amelia supposed – collected their trunks from the guard’s van and hefted them onto the carriage, before giving his hand to Clara, who blushed foolishly as she allowed him to help her climb into the carriage.

  ‘I can manage, thank you, boy!’ Amelia said sharply, noting with a certain satisfaction that the lad flushed a deeper shade of red. Content that she had put him in his place, she settled herself comfortably next to Clara for the short drive from the railway station to the great estate of Hope Hall.

  She had forgotten. It had been two years. She had forgotten the awesome aspect of the great walls that encircled the grounds, ancient and encrusted with ivy. She remembered once asking Alex – also her cousin, but much older than her, so she always called him ‘uncle’ – what the imposing walls had been built for.

  Alex had laughed disconcertingly. ‘Cattle. They are for keeping in white cattle, I believe.’ Why this should cause him such amusement had remained a mystery, like his use of the present tense. There were certainly no wild cattle in the estate any more, if indeed there ever had been.

  The hoarse croaks of rooks circling the stately elms beyond the gates brought back memories of the mysteries that seemed to cloak the hall: strange cries in the night, strange looks between the servants, odd clothes and odder objects. Questions answered by infuriating chuckles and, ‘All in good time, when you are older,’ and sly smiles from her aunt. As the great iron gates were unlocked and opened and the carriage swept on in, Amelia felt goose-pimples rise on her nape and Clara grabbed her hand.

  ‘Amelia… what do you think… will happen?’

  Amelia forced a sneer. ‘What do you mean, you silly girl?’ The gate clanged shut behind them as they sped up the gravel drive, the sound coldly ominous in Amelia’s ears. ‘We are to stay with Alicia and Alex for the summer. I expect there will be garden parties, hunt balls and fetes.�
� She took a deep breath, banishing the ridiculous feeling of apprehension with a laugh. ‘Yes, I expect there will be lots of village fetes!’

  ‘Really, Mrs Pritchard, I am sure there is some mistake. If I could just speak to my aunt?’ Amelia was furious.

  The housekeeper, a black-garbed woman in her forties, of ramrod carriage and flinty eye, was unmoved.

  ‘Lord and Lady Feversham are visiting the Hatherby Reformatory. Their instructions were quite explicit. I’m to put you girls in the nursery.’

  Miss Pritchard was unsmiling, but something about her demeanour made Amelia suspect that she was enjoying this bitter humiliation of her betters.

  ‘Please follow me. Betsy is drawing baths for you. I expect you will want to change.’

  The housekeeper turned, and Clara looked at Amelia. ‘Come on Amelia, there’s no point in making a fuss. It’s probably just a mistake. We can sort it out when Aunt Alicia gets back.’

  Miss Pritchard stopped and looked back with what Amelia could have sworn was a smirk. Clara pleaded with her eyes. The stable-lad who held her trunk was looking away, but Amelia was sure the brute was grinning.

  Amelia picked up her purse from the carriage seat. ‘Oh, very well. I shall come with you now as I do need to change, but let this be clear: I shall not stay in the nursery and I will not be treated as a child!’

  The bath had gone some way to soothing Amelia’s ruffled composure. She might be too mature to be relegated to the nursery but she had to concede that the half-dozen airy rooms in Hope Hall’s fine east wing were comfortably appointed. She even had the bigger bathroom to herself.

  This was actually a little disappointing. Amelia would not have objected to an opportunity to reacquaint herself with Clara’s slender charms. But at least she was able to luxuriate in the scented water, and she let the fatigue of the long journey dissolve away. As she did so, Amelia soaped her legs, and let her fingers caress the insides of her thighs. She thought of Clara, naked, in the adjoining bathroom, as her fingers reached the lips between her legs. So lost was she that even when she heard the maid enter with her clean clothes, she continued to caress herself lazily, eyes closed, dreamily remembering how her pretty cousin had flinched and whimpered beneath her disciplinary cane.

  ‘Frigging yourself again, Amelia? I see you haven’t changed!’ The voice was amused and, to Amelia’s utter horror, male. Startled from her reverie, she let out a startled shriek and sat up in the bath, clasping her arms in front of herself to cover her full breasts.

  ‘Jamie, get out, get out this instant! This is indecent! Get out, before I tell Aunt Alicia.’

  The young man leant against the doorway and smiled insolently. ‘Tell Aunt Alicia? Tell your cousin? Tell her what exactly?’ he sneered. ‘That I caught you busily engaged in self-abuse?’

  Amelia felt her cheeks flame even more brightly as Jamie sauntered over to the bath.

  ‘Anyway, it does not matter. Lady Alicia and Lord Alex have put me in charge of the nursery. It is felt that you and Clara need some discipline – you especially. I’m to take you down a peg or two, Amelia!’ He bent and caressed her slender neck. ‘This summer, I have complete authority here. It is my most welcome task to teach you a little humility.’ He kissed her nape.

  Amelia quivered in outrage but could not prevent this liberty without exposing her breasts, so she simply hissed, ‘Don’t touch me.’

  Jamie just laughed, and Amelia felt his fingers grasp a fistful of her luxuriant auburn curls. ‘Ow!’ she shrieked as he hauled her by the hair. The young man heaved her out of the bath and propelled her across the room and through the door, straight into the adjoining parlour, before releasing his grip. Amelia stood naked and dripping, trying to cover both her breasts and sex, blinking back tears of pain and furious outrage.

  Clara was standing staring at her, with her eyes wide and cheeks bright red, dressed in a quite extraordinary costume: a little smock of cream silk so thin that Amelia could clearly see her cousin’s nipples pressed against the fabric. The frock had only puffy little quarter-sleeves and was so short that its hem barely reached to Clara’s crotch, and failed to cover her frilly girlish knickers. In their turn, these were all but legless, and exposed a great deal of slender thigh above the tops of white silk stockings which were gartered just above the knee.

  Despite the shamefully revealing nature of the costume, Clara did not emulate Amelia’s attempts to cover herself. Instead, the younger girl kept her hands clasped behind her neck as she stood there.

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ Amelia demanded, looking from her cousin to the sneering young man. ‘I demand to be given my clothes!’

  He spread his hands. Amelia had to concede that he was handsome, with his aquiline nose and long, fair, swept-back hair. Jamie was lithely built and turned out in what she supposed was the latest fashion among public school bloods, with an immaculate cravat of blue and silver and a fine black velvet waistcoat. The worst thing was his air of self-assurance. He seemed perfectly relaxed.

  Finally, he deigned to answer her. ‘Amelia, Amelia,’ Jamie sighed. ‘Your wish is my command!’ He bowed ironically and tugged the bell-pull. Seconds later, a buxom maid bustled in carrying a few flimsy scraps of fabric. Amelia recognised a set of garments identical to Clara’s humiliating outfit.

  ‘Never!’ she hissed, although her mouth had gone dry, and she could not resist another appalled glance at Clara. ‘I am not a child!’ She blinked back tears of sheer indignation. ‘I will not wear little girl’s clothes. I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!’

  She had given in, of course; she had had no choice. She had rushed around in a fit of fury but there were no clothes in the nursery. She could hardly have searched the rest of the house, naked as she was – she might have run into servants, even guests, and the thought had been too appalling. It had been bad enough, being naked in the nursery.

  Betsy, the nursery-maid, a big buxom girl in a neat grey uniform, had stood waiting impassively. Her pretty, plump face had been close to expressionless but Amelia had understood the twinkle in those brown eyes only too well.

  Amelia had sworn revenge but in the end she had allowed Betsy to help her into the flimsy garments. However, she had refused to stand with her hands clasped behind her neck in line with Clara, as Jamie ordered. Instead she had stood, scowling sullenly in the corner, covering her breasts as best she could.

  ‘Amelia, Amelia,’ Jamie sighed, but seemed amused rather than exasperated. ‘Why can’t you be more like your little cousin?’

  He opened a tall fitted cupboard to reveal a heart-stoppingly comprehensive selection of whips, straps and sticks. Amelia felt her knees go weak as he thoughtfully selected a four-foot length of yellow cane.

  ‘Kooboo.’ Jamie smiled and flexed it experimentally, then slashed the implement through the air. The familiar whooshing sound brought goose-pimples to Amelia’s arms. ‘I expect you used to employ it at Madame Chavaroff’s academy. I believe she has the reputation of using the best materials. No doubt it’s been some time since one was used on you.’ He turned to the maid. ‘The trestle, Betsy.’

  The girl hastened to obey, hefting a heavy wooden trestle out of an anteroom and hauling it into the centre of the parlour. The device was topped with a well-worn leather pommel. Amelia regarded the apparatus with horror, knowing all too well the purpose of the thing.

  ‘Now, Amelia, I’d like you to drop your knickers and bend over the trestle for me, if you please.’

  Amelia glared at him, her eyes locked onto his in a furious defiant stare. ‘Never!’ she spat.

  Jamie chuckled. ‘Never is a long time, my pet. Betsy, go to the stables and ask Mr Blackstock to come and bring a couple of stable-lads. We may need a bit of muscle, and they will enjoy the show.’

  The blood drained from Amelia’s cheeks. She maintained her glare a little longer. Surely he was bluffing? He would not, could not dare
… But she saw no hesitation in his hazel eyes and suddenly she realised that he was perfectly capable of carrying out the threat. Her shoulders drooped and she hung her head, defeated. ‘No. Please don’t,’ she mumbled as a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I’ll do what you say.’

  ‘What a pretty arse your cousin has, Clara. Kneel down there – closer, I want you to watch this. You will take her place if you look away. Betsy, hold Amelia’s hands; she seems a little skittish. Now, Amelia, I’m going to give you six for cheek and six for disobedience.’

  Amelia gave a little gasp as the cane was laid across her bottom-cheeks.

  ‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment, Amelia, or frigged myself off imagining this scene.’ Jamie chuckled, and the cane was lifted. Amelia gave a little whimper of pure terror as the tension mounted. Everybody in the room held their breath but the mantel clock ticked inexorably on.

  Whoosh… Thwack!

  Amelia tried to fight the shriek but the pain was just too great. It seared across her bottom, forcing a cry from between her gritted teeth. Oh, God, it was worse – much worse – than she had imagined. She could not stand another eleven strokes like that!

  Whoosh… Thwack!

  Again the blaze of pain.

  ‘Stop wriggling, girl, and keep your legs straight.’

  ‘Ooh! Ooh! Aah!’ Amelia sobbed as the pain coursed through her in waves. Blinking away tears, she looked back through her own legs to see Clara kneeling to face her bottom, so close that the cane must have only just missed her face. Clara had a glazed expression, part terror and perhaps part something else, and her eyes were brimming with tears.

  Jamie grabbed Amelia’s hair, and wrenched her head back until she had to look into his eyes. ‘Welcome back, my dear Amelia. Welcome to Hope Hall.’

  ‘Rather thin pickings today, Mrs Fraser.’ Lady Alicia peered through her lorgnette at the line of girls who stood trembling and barefoot on the stone flags, wearing nothing but thin cotton shifts. The glasses made her look formidable, but they could not disguise her striking beauty. Lady Alicia Feversham, the Marchioness of Hatherby, wore a long bustled skirt of purple velvet and a matching tightly tailored tunic, adorned with military-style piping. A miniature top hat in purple satin with a ribbon and bow completed the outfit. Emma Swift would have felt abashed in so splendid a presence, even had she been allowed her clothes.