by Fiona Monroe
He made his decision. "Lie on the bed, lengthways, face down."
She did not move. It was an unpromising beginning. With more roughness than he intended, his anger still close below the surface, he caught hold of her arms and scooped under her legs and rolled her up across the bedstead
"Put your hands above your head."
She stretched her arms upwards, balling fists into the pillow.
He had never punished her before while she was dressed, he realised. Up until now, she had presented a sorry and subdued bare-foot figure in a simple nightgown, her mind humbled by a day of anticipating the bedtime chastisement and her bottom bared in a single sweep of white cotton.
He lifted her skirt, and found below it a petticoat, and below that a plain shift. All of these had to be bunched up to beyond her waist to reveal the two white fleshy orbs he now knew so well. Her lower legs were covered by stockings to the knee, and on her feet were the velvet slippers she wore in the house. No garments needed to be removed, he noted with satisfaction. The appropriate area for correction, her charming plump buttocks and smooth upper thighs, were bare below her skirts. Serious as the matter was, he could not help to take a moment to admire the sight.
He always thought it best to wait until she was in a prone position, entirely ready to receive the first stroke, before delivering his final lecture and instructing her to make it clear that she understood why she was about to be punished.
"This has been a very grave error, Mrs Farquhar," he said. "As I have already stated, I am disappointed in you. You have shown yourself capable of indelicacy of understanding, and that is a grave thing indeed in the mistress of the manse. In my wife. I hope, I pray that this has been a single lapse, and that in future, you will know how to behave in a more fitting manner.."
Now, Flora. Tell me why you are about to be chastised."
"For... for condoning sin," she said, in a muffled voice against the coverlet.
"For condoning what sin?"
"I... I do not like to say it, sir."
"But you must say it. You condoned it. You cannot now scruple to name that sin. Say it!"
"F-fornication," she mumbled into the blankets.
He pulled his arm back as far as he could, and brought the tawse down with all the strength of his upper body onto the shivering, clenching cheeks. He had a feeling that he might not get another chance to deliver an unchecked lash, so he wanted to make this one count at least. With a solid thwack near as loud as gunfire the two thongs sprang against the white flesh and wrapped around the mound of her right buttock, for he was standing on her left side.
Flora screamed piteously and shot upright on the bed, clutching her backside as her skirts tumbled back down around her legs.
"Get back into position!" he snapped. "Right away, or that stroke will not count towards the total!"
She moaned and collapsed back onto her front.
He rucked the skirts up again roughly and then with more haste and less precision wielded the tawse once more. It landed diagonally across both cheeks, its tips catching the top of her right thigh. She kicked her legs up and put her hands on the injured area.
"Hands out of the way, Flora. Above your head."
He waited a few moments, but she continued to rub with one hand and hold the other as if she was trying to protect her bottom.
He reckoned she would only do this once. He brought the tawse down with as much force as he could, as if her hands were not in the way.
The very effective quality of the tawse as an instrument of correction, other than its heaviness and flexibility, was its length. On a neat compact bottom like Flora's, its two prongs could cover most of both cheeks in a single lash. In the same way, it caught both of her errant hands, one across the palm that she was holding outwards as a pitiful shield, the other across the back of the fingers that were rubbing at the welt on her thigh. He would not have done this deliberately, he would certainly not have done it so hard had he been using a rigid instrument such as the hairbrush. That would risk serious injury to her fingers. The tawse could do no lasting harm, but it could certainly cause intense pain applied in this way. Flora shrieked and rolled onto her side, cradling her hands to her chest.
"I told you to move your hands," he said inexorably. "That one did not count. Get back into position."
Slowly, she turned over, clutching her injured hands together under her chin. Farquhar pulled her skirts free of her backside and upper thighs yet again, and tucked them firmly under her waist and legs.
He looked critically at her backside. Two parallel weals were rising on the white flesh, one across the middle of the cheeks and one slanting down towards her thighs. The third lash had spent its force on her hands, and not left a mark on its proper target. At the moment, the welts were bright red, but he knew that dark bruises would blossom where the edges and tips of the tawse's prongs caught the skin.
He aimed directly between the two welts, and struck again. Then, giving her no time for any nonsense, he added the next lash immediately on top of it, almost before she had drawn breath to shriek. He was raising his arm for the next when she rolled away, half-fell off the bed, and skittered into the corner of the room.
"No," she gasped. "No, no more, you can't, it hurts too much! Please, Mr Farquhar, please, it hurts too much. I'm sorry, I'll never do anything like that again, I swear it, just please - no more!"
"You will never do anything like that again, Flora, and this chastisement is to ensure that you do not - and to punish you for what is done already. If you do not submit to correction, I will take it that you do not truly repent."
"I do repent - I do! I just cannot bear it! Oh please! I have learned my lesson already."
"You most certainly have not. I will be the judge of that. Now get back onto the bed!"
He would not drag her. He waited grimly until, with trembling reluctance, she clambered back up onto the bedstead and stretched onto her stomach, one hand still rubbing frantically at her backside through the fabric of her dress.
Farquhar seized that hand and pinned it with the other wrist above her head. Then, with a grunt, he did what he supposed he ought to have done in the first place, and got up onto the bed and put his knee into her back. The mattress below was soft enough, and he could not hurt her even by leaning most of his weight there. But it did pin her down very effectively, precluding any significant movement of her body. Her legs could still kick, but helplessly.
This arrangement gave him less freedom to swing the tawse high, and less opportunity to aim it accurately on her backside, but he could make up for that with fuller force. He was already panting with the effort.
This was more like it. Her legs thrashed, her body bucked under his knee, but she could not really move. She had grabbed a pillow and was grasping it tight, muffling her wails of pain at each stroke.
He made it last. He counted five seconds in his head steadily after each stroke.. He wanted her to feel the anticipation and let each lash build up, as he knew it did, to a first peak of pain just as the next one fell. And he wanted it to feel to her as if it would go on forever. He paid no heed at all to her screaming and thrashing, as she uttered no further words of pleading or protest. Towards the end all fight went out of her, and her howling dissolved into heart-wracking sobs, and her body went limp.
Then he released her, and stood up, and put the tawse aside on top of the mantelpiece.
Flora remained meekly in position, her legs now slightly splayed and quite bare, her fire-red bottom still exposed. She was hugging the pillow and moaning quietly. He caressed her hair. "It is over, Flora. Get up now."
Clumsily, she pushed herself onto all fours and eased herself off the bed, evidently trying to avoid putting any pressure on her injured behind. She winced as her skirts fell back over it, and immediately put her hands underneath to clasp and rub.
"Oh sir, it hurts still. Oh!"
"Aye, it will do that. You'll be sore some time. I warned you well, this is what wo
uld happen if you lied to me, or shamed me."
"I'm sorry, sorry." She was moving from foot to foot, restlessly trying to jig away from the fiery pain. "Please! Oh!"
"I will leave you now, Flora, and you will stay here in your room for the rest of the day, to contemplate your offences, and feel the effects of your chastisement, and pray for better conduct in future. I will leave the tawse here on the mantelpiece for the next few days, so that every night the sight of it may remind you - if your sore backside does not."
Without lingering further, he left her and slammed the door behind him.
* * * * *
He went to find Mrs MacDonald in the kitchen. She gave him an anxious glance as he entered, with his hat and riding crop, and rather ostentatiously began kneading dough. Old Peggy was on the floor, scrubbing the flagstones. There was a definite aspect of the two women having suddenly resumed work as he entered.
"I am going out for a time," he said crisply. "Mrs Farquhar will remain in her room for today. Please take her lunch in a while, and at the appropriate time, if I am not back before then, dinner."
"Yes, sir."
"When you take up her dinner, and not before then, you may apply salve, if she wishes it."
The corner of Mrs MacDonald's mouth twitched. "Aye, sir."
"I am aware I have caused you temporary difficulties by dismissing the maidservant. Please take whatever steps are necessary to employ a new one as quickly as you like."
He donned his hat and set out on horseback to complete the task at hand.
When he returned home, satisfied that he had done all he could and put a bad state of affairs into a proper train, it was past dark. He saw the light of a candle glimmering between the shutters of his own bedroom window, so Flora was still up there, he assumed. He had not expected her to disobey him, but it was gratifying to see that light.
Mrs MacDonald bustled out to greet him and take his coat and hat.
"Mrs Farquhar is still in her room, I take it?" he asked.
"Oh, yes sir. I took her dinner an hour ago, and also - what you were so good enough to suggest, this morning."
"Did that answer?"
"I think it gave her some relief, sir, yes."
"Good. I will take some dinner myself in the dining room, and retire early."
He ate a couple of pork chops, then mounted the stairs. He was eager to see his wife, and to find how the day of contemplation, and of nursing a well-chastised backside, had affected her.
When he entered, the room was lit only by the glow of the fire and a single candle. She was curled on the bed in her nightgown, a book open beside her. As he came in, she burst into tears and ran to him, and threw her arms around his neck.
He held her tightly, pressing his face into her silky black hair.
"Oh, Mr Farquhar!" she cried. "I thought you would not come."
"Not come, Flora?"
"I thought you were too angry with me."
"I am no longer angry with you, Flora. I punished you for your misdeeds, and punished you well. It is over."
"But I was so wrong to deceive you!"
"Hush. You have paid the price. Still sore, I think?"
"Oh! Very. I cannot get comfortable at all. Mrs MacDonald rubbed in something cold, which helped a bit, but I felt very - very humble that she should see - but I know I deserved it, sir."
"I am glad to find you repentant. Very glad." He kissed the top of her head. "And I want you to know something too. I understand that you were motivated, though quite wrongfully, by compassion for the wretched lost girl. Your compassion drew you into sinful conduct. You must learn to distinguish between compassion and folly, however, and understand how to exercise mercy with righteous judgement. Had you come to me with this, I would have done what I have now done belatedly."
"What - what is that sir?" She looked up at him with her beautiful eyes, reddened with tears.
"I have married Calum the gardener boy to our former maidservant, at the chapel at Lochlannan Castle. I would not hold such a shameful ceremony in my own kirk, but fortunately there is a little-used chapel at the Castle that served the purpose. And I administered a sound horse-whipping to the lad beforehand, with his master's approval."
"Oh! But what about his place?"
"I persuaded Mr MacDonald to make an exception to his usual rule. Calum stays in employment there. I believe that our former maid will be found work within the household too. They are not as particular there as we."
"Oh sir. Thank you!" She embraced him again.
"There is nothing to thank me for, Flora. I did it because it was the only way to save a poor lost girl from a life of sin. Now she may make amends, and with God's grace live as a dutiful and virtuous wife from now on. Do you not see how much better it would have been for you to have done the right thing, and told me to begin with?"
"Yes! Oh, I am sorry." Her hand went to her backside, perhaps unconsciously.
Wordlessly, he lifted the nightdress right off her and looked at her entirely naked form. Small, yet curving plumply where she should, his wife's body was the most beautiful he could imagine. Her long hair fell over her face and hid her blushes as she stood there naked, the first time he had ever required her to do so.
He wrenched off his jacket and shirt and lifted her under the arms clean off her up to the bed. He could scarcely wait to pull his trousers to his knees before he fell on her, and she cried out as he pushed his whole self inside of her and banged her sorely beaten backside into the bed. He did not go gently with her. It was the final part of her punishment, to lie beneath her husband's thrusting body with her bottom and thighs aching and chafing from her rightful chastisement.
It was his favourite part of all.
Chapter Ten
Flora took the dress to her bedroom when it was delivered one morning only three days before the much-anticipated ball at Lochlannan, so that she could try it on. She had half an hour before she needed to be at the school, but she had at least to make sure that the gown was a good fit. If it were not, there was only a short time to send it back to Mrs Beattie for alterations.
Accordingly, when John brought in the dress she hurried to her room and took Jane, the new maidservant, to assist her.
Jane was not her proper name. That was something Gaelic, and hard to pronounce. Mrs MacDonald had firmly decreed that the girl should be called Jane as far as the master and mistress were concerned, perhaps feeling that Phemie's extravagant name had contributed to her downfall.
Jane was also not a bit like Phemie. She was a pale, undergrown girl, younger than her predecessor, who had come down from some distant croft and had never been in service before. She seemed slow and timid, and spoke little because, as Flora suspected, her English was halting.
She was very willing, however, and eager to please. She helped Flora dress with more skill than she would have expected, arranging her curls and smiling with shy encouragement.
It was impossible to disrobe without the girl seeing the fading evidence of her tawsing on the upper part of her legs. The raised welts had long subsided, but the bruises had lingered for days. She now understood the truth of what Phemie had said about her own beatings from her father's belt, that one did not sit comfortable for days. But now, there were only fading yellow marks, though arranged in a most distinctive pattern across her thighs still. It was evident that she had taken a good hiding.
She knew that Jane noticed, but was discreet and said nothing as she arranged her shift.
The dress, plain yet elegant, looked most becoming on her, particularly with her dark hair organised around her forehead in curls. She thought she would wear a simple gold cross with it.
"Good, ma'am," said Jane. "‘S math sin."
She admired herself in the glass, turning from side to side, wondering if this was the sin of pride. No. She wanted to look good so that Mr Farquhar would be proud of her, as he displayed his new wife to the first people of his own country.
But there was a shadow of a
nxiety in her heart, which she could see haunting her eyes even as she smiled at her own reflection. She was afraid she had done wrong again.
She hurried out of the gown, with Jane's help, and set off on the short walk to the school.
* * * * *
The more she thought about it, and she could not help thinking about it as she walked through Scourie's single street, the more Flora worried that what she had done was a serious misdeed. Guilt gnawed at her soul like an evil worm.
After he had left her alone, Flora lay on her stomach and nursed pain in her backside and resentment in her heart for a long time.
It was so very unfair. She had meant to do good; or at least, she had not meant to do ill. She had certainly been trying her very best, until that fatal incident, to be a good wife and mistress of the Manse. All it seemed to get her was a sore backside at regular intervals.
She wanted to go home.
Mrs MacDonald came up to her after about an hour, bearing some lunch on a tray. Flora pulled her skirts down quickly as she realised the footsteps were stopping outside her own door, and turned on her side away from the door. She could not even meet the housekeeper's eye. To her relief, Mrs MacDonald said nothing, merely laying the tray by the bedside table and departing silently.
Sitting up on the bed was impossible to contemplate, so she ate very little of the lunch. When she grew hungry, she stood to eat a few mouthfuls of cold ham pie.
As the afternoon advanced and the room began to grow gloomy, Flora was seized by a dark desire. She had a small portable writing bureau which she kept in her nightstand, for she sometimes wrote letters in bed. She groped for it and opened it out on the bed, and still lying on her side - with fingers stiff and clumsy from the lash of the tawse - she scribbled a blotted, tear-stained letter.
