Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  ‘Well, Alex,’ the grand lady continued, lowering her lorgnette again, ‘what do you think?’

  Her husband lit his cigar, leant back in his chair and swept his gaze along the file of candidates. The Marquis was a big man, handsome and possessed of a splendid set of whiskers. Emma had never seen a man so immaculately dressed before. His Lordship wore a dove-grey morning suit with a silk top hat and matching gloves. His waistcoat was gold and richly embroidered, his cravat a similar hue. Even the yellow horn handle of the riding-whip he toyed with seemed to match. If she had not been too timid and fearful of the consequences, she would have probably just stood and stared.

  Seats had been brought and set out for the grand couple in the exercise yard, a cheerless square surrounded on four sides by the grey stone buildings of the reformatory. Furtively, Emma glanced up at the little windows in the wall she was facing, above the visitors’ heads. She could just make out the faces pressed against the bars of every dormitory and cell. For the girls incarcerated in the Hatherby and District Reformatory for Females, this was a rare diversion from the usual grim regime.

  ‘They’re all good workers, ma’am.’ The directress of the reformatory glared fiercely at the dozen young women, and Emma dropped her gaze back to the ground. ‘Stand up straight, girls!’ She pinched the plump upper arm of a buxom girl with sandy hair. ‘Maisie is as strong as an ox, ideal for kitchen work. I understand that that is what you’re wanting.’

  Lady Alicia gave the woman a slightly disdainful glance. ‘Indeed, we do need a kitchen-maid, but I like to give my staff the opportunity for elevation. I want a girl who might be trained as a lady’s-maid, eventually.’ She raised her lorgnette again to peer at Emma, who stood blushing furiously and kneading her shift in nervous hands. She dropped her eyes, but could feel Lady Alicia’s gaze on her breasts, the shape of which the thin shift could not quite conceal, and sense the woman’s predatory interest. ‘What is that one called?’

  ‘Emma Swift. A pretty little chit, but not the sturdiest we have.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  Emma tried to swallow but found her mouth had gone quite dry.

  ‘Just eighteen, ma’am. We’ve had her about two months.’

  ‘Have you thrashed her much?’ The relish in the Lady Alicia’s voice made a cold shiver run down Emma’s spine.

  ‘Not particularly, ma’am. She gets the birch now and then, as they all do. But she is not particularly wilful or wicked.’

  ‘I see.’

  Emma sensed disappointment in her tone, and for a moment thought that she was not going to be chosen. She could not have said if this were more a cause for relief or for disappointment. The chance to leave the grim reformatory was appealing, and the opportunity to get a good position did not come often to girls in her situation. Yet something about Lord and Lady Feversham made her feel a deep sense of foreboding, and she had heard the rumours, dark rumours whispered by the girls in the dormitories at night, about the things that happened at Hope Hall.

  ‘Alex, do you see anything that might suit you or shall we look elsewhere?’

  Lord Alex stood and strode over to his wife’s side. He studied the girl standing next to Emma, a tall and leggy beauty with a mane of long dark hair.

  ‘This is the girl I wrote of, sir.’ The directress hovered eagerly. ‘Polly Thomas.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ the Marquis said, ‘fortunately that is no matter to change. Certainly this is the only filly that might be any use.’ His voice was a bored, disdainful drawl. ‘She is certainly quite a height.’

  ‘Six foot, near as dammit. She is twenty years of age,’ the directress put in.

  ‘Twenty, eh? Hold this!’ He handed his crop to Mrs Fraser and removed his grey silk gloves. Seizing the tall girl’s upper and lower lips, he forced her mouth wide open and peered inside, to the accompaniment of a startled gurgle. ‘Good strong teeth, anyway,’ he conceded after a thorough examination. He pulled his gloves back on and took back his crop.

  Emma heard a stifled gasp and, glancing sideways, saw that his Lordship was now raising the girl’s shift with the handle of his whip, perusing her revealed thighs with an air of weary scepticism.

  ‘Mrs Fraser, I hope you feed your livestock properly. These fetlocks are really rather lean!’

  ‘Polly is fresh off the train, your lordship. We have only had her for three days. I sent word as soon as she arrived, being as you had asked for a long-shanked girl. I do assure you, Lord Alexander—’ the directress spluttered on.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lord Alex interrupted. ‘I’m sure, I’m sure… Anyway, I’ll take her. She has the length of leg I’m looking for and she looks strong. There should be time to feed and train her up before the Cup. Do you want this little chit as well, Alicia?’

  Emma swallowed as the man’s riding-crop lifted her chin.

  ‘I rather think so. Lift your shift, girl, let us see what we are getting for our money!’

  With cheeks aflame, Emma tentatively lifted the hem of her chemise, mortified that she was revealing naked legs, not only to the grand couple but to the massed ranks of inmates peering down from their cells, yet not daring to disobey the order of so formidable a lady. Even so, part of Emma felt outraged at the order. This usage seemed to her more suited to that of a concubine, displayed on some eastern slave block, than the proper scrutiny of a maid by her prospective employers. Still, she did as she was told, and she did not protest. For one thing, Emma had no wish to renew her acquaintance with the reformatory birch. For another, something told her that Lady Alicia was the sort of lady who would enjoy dealing with rebellion.

  ‘Higher, girl! Right up. I want to take a look at your titties.’

  Almost swooning with the shame, Emma hoisted up her garment. She buried her beetroot cheeks in the folds of the shift, and tried vainly to close her ears to the conversation.

  ‘Also a bit skinny, perhaps, but I think she will fill out nicely. What do you say, Alex?’

  ‘Nice high titties, round and firm as peaches. Neat little nipples, shapely legs, trim waist. Should clean up quite a pretty little chit.’

  ‘I believe so. She can start out in the kitchens, helping cook. Since Lucy’s elevation, she is always complaining about being short-staffed.’

  ‘We’re sadly short of staff all round since we lost Daisy and Grace, of course,’ Lord Alex said a little mournfully.

  ‘Yes, well, darling,’ his wife said, perhaps a little tartly, ‘if you will play cards with blackguards like Jack Campion…’ She paused and a fonder note entered her voice. ‘I wonder when he’s coming back?’

  ‘When he wants, if he hasn’t got his head chopped off by some foreign potentate!’ Lord Alex said, laughing as he turned to the directress again. ‘Very well, Mrs Fraser, how much for the pair?’

  ‘The usual fee for Polly, plus ten guineas for the paperwork. Emma comes a little steeper, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But you said a minute ago that she was not so sturdy,’ Lord Alex’s deep voice broke in.

  ‘Your lordship, I was not so keen to get rid of her. She is particularly pretty and Justice Ormorund expressed an interest when he sent her down.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Lady Alicia’s rich voice was full of merriment. ‘That old lecher goes through maidservants like a fox through a hen-house! Well, I want the girl. The old sot shan’t have her – at least, not until he comes to tea. What do you want, then, Mrs Fraser? Name your price.’

  ‘Twenty would compensate for the Justice’s displeasure. I think I could interest him in some of the others. She is the prettiest, but he does tend to like them more robust.’

  Laughter echoed around the yard: Mrs Fraser’s ugly cackle, Lady Alicia’s high peal of merriment and her husband’s throaty chuckle. Emma kept her face buried in the folds of cotton in her hands and smothered a sob.

  ‘Very well.’

  L
ord Alexander did not seem too put out at the price, but the cold clink of golden guineas sent a shiver through Emma’s soul.

  ‘When can you let us have them?’

  ‘Not till after Sunday. I can’t give them their farewells before then. I’d suggest Thursday. Then they won’t have to kneel in the carriage the whole way!’ The directress guffawed heartily.

  Emma felt as if she had been struck. She had thought – at least she had hoped most fervently – that this unlooked-for parole would have spared her the dreaded ‘farewell’. A sigh from her side told her that Polly had just seen similar hopes cruelly dashed.

  As a minor first-time offender, Emma had been spared the full rigour of the reformatory ‘welcome’ and ‘farewell’; whippings which were administered pitilessly with a stretched bull’s pizzle. Even so, her ‘gentle welcome’, bestowed with a moistened cord cat, had been quite enough to ensure that she slept on her stomach for two nights in a row.

  No one had told Emma that she might drop her chemise but the attention of the gentry seemed to have shifted, and so she took the chance to let go of the hem and cover her nakedness again. Fortunately no one took any notice. It was as if she and Polly were insects, peered at briefly by these grand visitors before being relegated once again to utter invisibility.

  Mrs Sykes, the wardress, barked an order and Emma turned on her heel in obedience, finding herself looking at the base of Polly’s neck. It was, she realised for the first time, a particularly shapely nape, long and elegant with flawless golden skin that contrasted both with the plain white collar of the big girl’s chemise and with her tightly bound black hair. A wisp of this had escaped from the bun, and the strands of fine dark hair curling around a single mole on that shapely back seemed strangely sad to Emma.

  Yet more poignant, however, was the paler ring of skin encircling the base of her nape. There was no mistaking the mark of a neck-iron, worn by a poor captive trudging, or perhaps labouring, under the hot sun. Well, Polly, Emma thought as the order barked out and they moved off in single file, perhaps life will be kinder to us both from now on!

  The file of girls was made to pause at the door of the north wing and stand aside. Solemn young women, clad in the grey uniform of the reformatory, were bringing out equipment. Four girls grunted with effort as they hauled out a heavy birching bench. Other young women trotted glumly past with burdens, birch rods, in their arms. Emma waited with mounting impatience as a second bench was taken out and set down in front of the visitors’ chairs. The directress is putting on a show for them, she realised. A pretty girl from Humility Block hurried past, carrying a pail of brine and another full of sponges. The expression on her face, and those of the other grey-clad girls, left no room for doubt who the stars of the imminent performance were about to be.

  It was a long way to her dormitory, a journey involving many stairs, and the unlocking and locking of numerous iron gates and doors. Emma fairly itched to get going, but there was nothing she could do but stand and wait. Finally they were told to file back into the building. Emma hurried up the stairway after Polly and the others, hoping she would get back to the dormitory in time, anxious to find a place at one of the barred windows, so that she could see. She could not have explained it if asked. The prospect of a whipping always seemed to have this effect on her. Emma was both appalled and furiously excited. Most of all she was consumed by an almost compulsive sense of curiosity.

  ‘Do you know, I believe we shall get along very well here for the summer, Betsy.’ Jamie leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head with a satisfied smile.

  Betsy knew better than to answer him and carried on with her work, tidying away the things that Master Jamie had taken out to use on the young ladies. She hoped his taste for flogging had been sated by the evening’s activities. First he had caned Miss Amelia which, Betsy had to admit, she had much enjoyed watching. Then he had spanked Miss Clara, afterward giving her a mere four light strokes with the cane, a count which seemed scarcely adequate to the nursery-maid. He had stayed a long time in Clara’s little room, though, and Betsy had heard girlish moans through the door. Surely he must be satisfied for the night?

  She picked up the cane and took it to the cupboard.

  ‘No – leave that! We shall want it in a minute. Run down to the drawing room and fetch me a brandy. I shall see to you when you get back.’

  Oh, Lord, Betsy thought, her heart pounding as she hurried down the stairs and along the corridor. She was plainly going to be served a portion of rod soup tonight, after all. There was no denying that Jamie was a demon for dishing out the cane, and he seemed to like Betsy’s big and all-too-tender bottom particularly as a target. She just hoped she could get the brandy without incident. Swallowing anxiously, she knocked on the drawing room door.

  ‘Enter.’ The languid tones of Lord Alexander summonsed her into the room.

  Betsy sighed. She had hoped that the Marquis and Marchioness would not yet be back from their visit to the reformatory. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  ‘Well, girl, what is it?’ Lord Alex was sprawled in a leather-upholstered chesterfield, a balloon of brandy in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. Kneeling before him, and difficult to ignore, was a girl. It was not hard to recognise Lucy, his chambermaid. The girl’s brown ringlets and plump bottom were distinctive even from the rear. The latter was quite bare, Lucy having stripped to her white corset and black silk stockings, and her head was bobbing busily about his crotch.

  Lady Alicia, resplendent in a gown of crimson silk, was lounging on a couch, a little to one side, idly fingering a long and very slender dressage whip. Several welts, narrow but deep red, already graced the creamy flesh of Lucy’s bottom. Betsy knew quite well whence the livid stripes had originated. She studiously avoided Lady Alicia’s eyes. Something like this was what she had been afraid of.

  ‘Master Jamie, sir, asked me to fetch him a brandy.’

  Lord Alex gave a distracted grunt before waving his cigar towards the decanters. ‘Well, get on with it, girl, and be sure to pour the lad a decent measure.’

  Betsy hurried over to the cabinet that held the glasses and took a balloon over to the side table that supported the flasks of drink.

  ‘By God, that’s it. Good! Yes! Oh, yes!’ Lord Alex groaned again.

  Betsy tried to ignore the slurping noises.

  Pffft!

  Her hand trembled at the sound of the whip cutting through the air and into Lucy’s bottom but she managed not to spill any brandy.

  ‘Damn! The little bitch nearly nipped me,’ Lord Alex barked.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, she must be flogged.’

  ‘Yes, dear, of course – but let’s just allow the baggage to finish… Yes, that’s it!’

  Betsy escaped while their attention was still on Lucy. Once out of the drawing room, she leant back against the wall and gave a big sigh of relief. The nursery-maid knew, from bitter experience, that had Lord Alex and Lady Alicia delayed her, then Master Jamie would have blamed her rather than the culprits, and would have punished her accordingly. Fairness never seemed to interfere with flogging matters at Hope Hall.

  ‘What are you doing, girl, lounging around chewing cud like a heifer?’

  Betsy could not quite prevent a startled squeak escaping. Mrs Pritchard had emerged, quite silently, from a doorway opposite.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Pritchard, I was sent, I was just—’

  ‘Just idling is what you were doing, girl! You are a lazy good-for-nothing. Get on with your duties instantly.’

  Betsy turned and trotted down the corridor as quickly as she could, but it was not fast enough. Mrs Pritchard’s harsh voice called after her. ‘Oh, and put two black marks against your name in the big book. You should know by now what happens to idle trollops at Hope Hall.’

  Betsy climbed the east wing stairway disconsolately. Twenty minutes earlier she had been hop
ing that she might get to bed unscathed. Now she had Master Jamie’s cane to look forward to, and the black marks would mean at least two dozen with the birch, come Sunday. She had not liked the way Lady Alicia had looked at her, either. Like most maids at the hall, Betsy felt the best way to be looked at by the imperious Lady Alicia was, generally, not at all.

  ‘You took your time!’

  Betsy knew better than to protest. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said anxiously, but he smiled indulgently as she handed him the glass.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Betsy,’ he said, taking a sip, ‘I am in a good mood tonight. Take off your dress. I’m going to thrash you – but don’t worry, I’m not cross with you.’ He grinned and put the brandy glass down on the low table beside him, picking up and flexing the kooboo cane in its stead. ‘No, I’m going to flog you now strictly for my pleasure.’

  Thank you, Master Jamie, that makes all the difference. Betsy could not quite suppress the flash of sarcasm as she pulled off her grey nursery uniform. She did not dare articulate the thought, but her cheeks went a little pink and she felt suddenly afraid that he might read her mind.

  ‘That’s better. Now I can see you. Should we get you a “tutu” like the chambermaids, instead of that grey sack?’

  Betsy said nothing. Lucy and Kitty spent a good deal of their lives in abbreviated mockeries of proper maids’ uniforms. The very idea of spending her days dressed like that filled Betsy with horror. Her own outfit was perfectly respectable, if a little dull. Still, she knew her opinion was not really being sought.

  ‘Hm.’ Jamie sipped his brandy thoughtfully, keeping the cane in his other hand. He used it to tap a suspender clip where it clasped the top of her black woollen stocking. ‘I think we will have the skirts taken up to here, anyway. It is just too much of a business getting them out of the way every time I want to give you a quick freshener.’