Rectory of Correction Read online

  Faith took the proffered letter and pulled open the mahogany filing cabinet. The waiting list already consisted of several well-stuffed files. She took out the chronological list and added the girl’s name at the bottom, before filing the letter, which was from a Lady Congreave, under ‘C’.

  ‘Ah, Gretchen Mortimer arrives on the five o’clock train,’ the Reverend read with approval. ‘With Kirsty MacSlat and Linnet Tremaine due on the eight thirty-five, and the other pair coming by Lady Peaslake’s coach, that means all six of the trainees should be here tonight, after all.’

  Faith relaxed a fraction. The irritation the earlier letters had engendered seemed to have been banished by this news. The prospect of fresh bottoms to attend to seemed greatly to have improved the Reverend’s mood. He stood up with a satisfied air and took out his pocket watch. The maid licked her lips and waited hopefully. Perhaps she would escape a skipping, after all.

  ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘Amelia should be here shortly.’

  There was something in his voice that Faith did not much like. It was always the same when he mentioned Miss Colinbrooke. Faith had seen Amelia in church and had been struck by the auburn-haired girl’s particular beauty. She was quite tall and looked to be particularly shapely, even allowing for the emphasis her curves undoubtedly received from fierce Hope Hall tight lacing. However, it was the loveliness of Amelia’s face that had caused so much gossip in the district, and Faith was not the only one to sense her employer had taken a most particular interest.

  ‘I tell you what,’ the Reverend said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘Before this place becomes a bedlam, why don’t you go and pick yourself out a nice whippy cane? I think there will be just time for me to give you a thrashing for idling.’

  Familiar as the church had become, Amelia had never been inside its neighbouring rectory. Indeed, she would have paid good money not to visit the place now. As the carriage turned up a gravel drive she could not forbear to crane her head out of the window. The rectory was a roomy, well-appointed building, which had been much improved and enlarged upon over the years. It had been built for rural parsons with enormous families and a good parcel of servants, and seemed far bigger than a bachelor like the Reverend Dawes could really need.

  The bachelor in question stood waiting outside the front door, stock still, his back ramrod straight. Amelia pulled her head back into the carriage quickly, the sight of the man giving her an almost electric jolt. Stupid girl! she berated herself as she tried to stop her hands from trembling. He was but a man; albeit a brutal and rather intimidating one. She must not forget that she was the Honourable Amelia Colinbrooke. Nor was she some swooning schoolgirl; indeed, she would be twenty in November, and she was a match for any jumped-up country parson, however strong his whipping arm might be!

  Still, her heart was hammering in her breast as she got down from the carriage. Six months incarcerated in the nursery at Hope Hall might have failed to vanquish Amelia’s proud spirit, but that purgatory had undoubtedly gone some way towards curbing her hauteur.

  ‘Amelia, my dear.’ The Reverend Dawes’ voice was rich and sounded odiously self-satisfied. ‘Welcome. I’m so glad you could join my little course.’ There was no warmth in his smile and his grey eyes were as cold, and every bit as penetrating, as Amelia remembered them. ‘Faith will take you to your quarters and help you change into your new uniform.’

  Amelia followed the maid up the narrow servants’ stairs, thankful to get away from the Reverend’s baleful presence. Her silk skirts rustled busily as she climbed the steps, making her aware of her dress and causing her to wonder, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, what her ‘uniform’ might prove to be.

  The maid moved gingerly, making Amelia wonder if her bottom had been recently striped. The thought provoked a shiver of cold fear to run down her back. She was trapped in the Reverend’s own domain now: the realisation hit her like a whip stroke, and the prospect made her almost dizzy with anxiety.

  ‘This way, miss.’ Faith gave a curtsy as she stood aside for Amelia to enter the room first. She was a lovely girl with an almost melancholy beauty, Amelia thought, regarding the maid for the first time. Faith had fine blonde hair, pulled back behind her neat cap, and pale, flawless skin. For all her fear, Faith’s submissive air stirred something in Amelia’s loins. If only things were different, she thought regretfully. How she would like to thrash this sweet-faced girl until she heard those cherry lips plead for mercy.

  Suppressing a sigh, Amelia entered the room. Her heart, which had scarcely been buoyant, sank altogether as she looked around. It was an attic room with several small windows set into the slope of the roof. The floorboards were bare, the walls whitewashed and stark. Six iron bedsteads had been placed in the dormitory, three spaced out along each of the longer walls. On the end of each bed was, rolled up, the thinnest mattress Amelia had ever seen. On the wall, by each bed, a crook-handled cane dangled dolefully. Amelia looked around and licked her lips, wondering how she could ever face six months in a place like this.

  ‘If you undress, miss, I’ll fetch your uniform. Um...’ the girl blushed and looked embarrassed, ‘you are to strip altogether naked. The Reverend is very particular about underthings.’

  Fuming, Amelia watched the maid bustle out. She stood in the centre of the room with clenched fists. It was almost too much to endure. After a summer forced to wear shaming costumes at Hope Hall, she had at last been given respectable garb only that very morning. Now, a few hours later, she was expected to relinquish it again.

  Amelia very nearly balked altogether at that moment. The sight of the canes dangling by every bed, however, left her in no doubt of the consequences of any mutiny. The beast would simply relish an altercation, she told herself glumly. With a sigh, she began unbuttoning her dress.

  ‘I told you not to put that pee in the whisky,’ Bella muttered, staring moodily out of the carriage window. ‘Now look what you have done.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Bella,’ Charlotte said with more gaiety than she felt. ‘Don’t you see? Grandmama must have had this planned for months. It was so boring at Cresham, perhaps it will be more amusing on this “course”!’

  Arabella turned and looked at her with an exasperated expression. ‘Amusing? For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, the man’s a clergyman. This is a disciplinary course, run by a man of the cloth at a rectory. “Amusing” is about the last thing it is going to be!’

  Charlotte shrugged, unwilling to acknowledge there was much in what her friend said.

  ‘Oh, pish, Porky,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘If we do not like it we can just sneak away. Jeremy is up at town, we can steal away to him.’

  Jeremy Sewell was another of Charlotte’s suitors; another chinless young man in whom she had not the least romantic interest. The plan was reckless, even scandalous, and they both knew it. Arabella did not even bother to argue, but simply turned and looked out of the window once again.

  The corset was pretty much what Amelia had expected. A short affair in white coutil, it left the breasts and buttocks altogether, and most vulnerably, free. In fact, she recognised the beastly device as a punishment corset – or, rather, a refinement of a design she had already learned to dread.

  ‘What are these for?’ She could not quite contain her curiosity. All around the bottom of the corset, beneath the fine lace trim, were little holes, reinforced with eyelets, whose purpose she could not guess.

  ‘Oh, they are for the whipping drawers, miss. But it takes too long, so you are not to go into them tonight.’

  Mention of ‘whipping drawers’ sent a frisson of fear through Amelia. She remembered seeing the things in Mademoiselle Isobel’s emporium in Hatherby, garments that could be tightened to an almost absurd degree by means of lacing on either side. There had been nothing to correspond to the eyelets in the corset, however. A tight feeling in her stomach told Amelia th
e Reverend must have refined what had seemed an already diabolical design.

  Part of her was relieved that she was not to be laced into the things just yet. That relief was muted by the question stealing into her mind. Why she should be so spared? She realised it might not be altogether good news if the Reverend Dawes required her to keep her bottom bare.

  The uniform did nothing to reassure her: black silk stockings and high-heeled shoes; a navy pleated skirt which altogether failed to reach her garters; a white blouse with a stiff Eton collar and a tie, and a straw boater for outdoors wear.

  There was no doubt that the skirt was scandalously short, and the blouse a good deal tighter than she would have liked. Her breasts were left bare by the corset and she had been given no chemise; thus Amelia could not but be aware of the way her nipples jutted out against the thin material. Although only Faith was there to see her, she could not prevent a blush suffusing her face as she looked down glumly.

  ‘If you are ready, miss, I am to take you down to supper.’

  Faith’s soft voice made Amelia jump. She took a deep breath and followed the girl down the stairway, terribly aware of her lack of drawers beneath the neat little skirt. Worse, her nipples seemed to be swelling as they rubbed against the tight cotton of her blouse, protruding ever more infuriatingly with every step she took towards the Reverend.

  ‘Amelia. There you are. Yes, very neat, the uniform suits you.’

  The Reverend Dawes let his cold gaze drop to her breasts and Amelia felt her cheeks burn red. She clasped her hands impotently at her sides, finding that her palms had become moist with perspiration. There was a long, awful moment of stillness as the Reverend perused her unhurriedly and Amelia fought the absurd desire to cry.

  Eventually, it seemed, the Reverend tired of staring at her breasts. He turned to a woman who had been waiting on one side, blinking anxiously at the little tableau, looking distinctly ill at ease.

  ‘This is Gretchen,’ he said crisply. ‘She will be one of your fellows on the course.’

  Amelia stared at the newcomer. The woman must be in her thirties, she thought with some astonishment. Gretchen was blonde, with a matronly figure. She had already changed into clothing like Amelia’s and there was something particularly absurd about the big, rather ungainly woman in the abbreviated school uniform. Certainly Gretchen seemed no happier than Amelia felt, forced to wear this humiliating costume. Her pale cheeks were blushing scarlet and she was wringing her plump hands together miserably.

  The shortness of the skirt revealed tremendous thighs. Nipples as thick and rigid as thimbles pressed against the straining cotton of the woman’s blouse. The full, suffocating shame of her own appearance struck Amelia like a blow to the stomach as she stood and stared at her companion in humiliation.

  ‘Gretchen seemed to feel it improper to disrobe in front of me, although I did explain that, as I am a man of the cloth, there can be no question of impropriety.’

  ‘It’s just...’ Gretchen began miserably.

  ‘It is just the little matter of your drawers, girl,’ the Reverend Dawes snapped. ‘Faith, fetch me a number seven cane. We shall see if we cannot persuade Gretchen of the errors of false modesty.’

  Amelia watched the maid scurry out, then turned her attention back to the other woman.

  ‘Take out one of the dining chairs and place it for me, Amelia. Yes, that’s the ticket. Now, madam, if you would be so good as to assume the position. No, do not make cow eyes at me! Bend over the chair.’

  With palpable reluctance, Gretchen bent over the back of the chair, corsets creaking in protest as she did so.

  ‘Amelia, would you be so good as to raise the miscreant’s skirts?’

  Amelia obeyed with alacrity, pulling up the woman’s navy blue skirtlet. Gretchen gave a frightened moan, but held her position uneasily. Amelia’s action revealed the biggest, fattest bottom she had ever seen. Gretchen’s drawers were cream cotton, and very voluminous, but even so the big buttocks filled them and, as Gretchen had bent, she had pulled the material quite taut.

  ‘Drop her drawers, girl, she will not be needing them for a while.’

  Not daring to protest, Amelia reached under Gretchen’s belly. Ignoring the outraged gasp that came from Gretchen’s lips, she found the knot securing the drawstrings and undid it. The garment would not fall unaided, and Amelia had to tug the cotton down, past the massive upper thighs, and past the tops of the woman’s silken stockings. Then she stepped aside.

  ‘Thank you, Faith.’

  Dawes took the proffered cane from his maid. It was a long one, thin and of a dark brown colour unfamiliar to Amelia, though the sight of it gave her a prickling feeling of panic down her spine. Something told her it was going to be an utter beast.

  The Reverend Dawes lined the cane up, touching Gretchen’s bottom, which was already trembling in anticipation, and provoking a startled little gasp.

  ‘You must learn, Gretchen, that my orders are not matters for discussion. I will ordain, and you girls will obey.’

  Amelia watched the cane go back and pause, ready to do its work.

  ‘Or else,’ Dawes continued in a conversational tone, ‘I do assure you there will be hell to pay!’

  He unleashed the stroke. The cane moved too fast for Amelia to follow it. There was a barely visible blur, like a brief shimmering in the air, a whooshing sound, as cold to her soul as the whistling of an arctic wind, and a muted ‘thwuck’. Amelia watched Gretchen’s cheeks wobble after the impact. For all its size that bottom must be remarkably firm, she thought. Gretchen must be a stoical creature, though, for she hardly gave an indication that she might be in agony.

  ‘Oooh...!’ The belated cry was let out at last.

  Not so stoical after all, Amelia thought. The woman had just been too stunned by the pain to speak for a few moments.

  ‘Oh, mercy, please, sir. I’m sorry, sir, no more, it’s too...’

  ‘Be silent,’ the Reverend said quietly but firmly. Then he struck again.

  Amelia watched Gretchen’s bottom wobble after the impact. The woman seemed to be jiggling it in a vain attempt to disperse the pain. Two livid tramlines marred the pale perfection of her smooth rounds. Amelia licked her lips and tried not to think about what that cane would feel like on her own tender behind.

  The thrashing continued at a deliberate, even leisurely pace. The Reverend Dawes was evidently in no hurry for his supper and he took his time. He would unleash a stroke, then wait, allowing Gretchen ample time to feel the full pitch of the resultant pain. Perfectly at his ease, the clergyman stood flexing his rod thoughtfully as a fresh welt bloomed on her bottom. He allowed the woman to gasp and jiggle and even writhe around. Only when she stood up, yelping, after the fifth stroke, a blistering crack across her upper thighs, did he intervene.

  ‘You will bend over, girl!’ he fairly roared. ‘You will get into position now and hold it, or by God I will make you sorry. I shall double your tariff if you do not assume the position right this instant!’

  All too obviously reluctantly, Gretchen forced herself back over the chair. She was sobbing now, looking round with a red face that displayed all the signs of panic and was splashed with tears. Her buttocks trembled violently as she awaited the next stroke.

  Watching in thunderstruck horror, Amelia found her mouth had gone quite dry. She could not take her eyes off the thin brown cane as he flexed it, then raised it. How long could it be before she felt the beastly thing on her own bottom? Her stomach turned a somersault as she watched the cane whistle though the air and hiss into Gretchen’s bottom.

  Kirsty pressed her snub nose to the carriage window and watched the passing countryside with fascination. The landscape was like nothing she had ever seen. The rugged mountains and tumbling waterfalls of her native glens had long since turned to moor and rounded grassy fells. Now the fells were turning to rolling wooded count
ryside as the train steamed on and on. She had to change trains in a grimy town full of sooty chimneys and peculiar smells. Kirsty, who had never so much as heard of industrial pollution, much less seen it, wrinkled her nose and hoped the south would not prove to be all so noxious.

  She need not have worried. Industrial blight gave way to farmland; farmland to wooded hills. As the train progressed the countryside grew ever more beautiful. Not as wild and rugged as the glens, but with its own real charm.

  Still she felt a deep sense of unease; not so much for what she was going toward but from what she was leaving. Kirsty knew this course must be another stage in Dr Peebles’ plan. Her tutor had long wanted her to relinquish the lairdship in favour of her youthful cousin and his own ward, Malcolm. It was not hard to understand his aims. Clan Slat still scarcely bothered with the modern world, and the clan chiefs wielded enormous power in their remote glens. As Malcolm’s guardian, Peebles would have years of wealth and power, ruling in the weak-minded youth’s stead. Kirsty alone stood in his way. For two long years she had resisted his efforts to make her relinquish the lairdship. This ‘course’ was his last throw of the dice.

  ‘Of course, Kirsty, my dear,’ he had said at the little station at Kinloch Sgiursair, ‘should you become homesick and wish to leave the course early, all you need do is let me know that you are ready to sign a deed relinquishing the lairdship.’

  As the train pulled into Hatherby station Kirsty could still see his pasty face, eaten up with greed and malice. Marie Nip, as ever, had waited behind him, smiling. However bad things were on the course, she swore to herself, she would endure it. Kirsty MacSlat would never sign her birthright away to Peebles and his slut. That much was certain!

  ‘You cannot be serious.’ Charlotte stared at the Reverend Dawes disdainfully. ‘My dear vicar, or whatever it is you are, I am twenty-one years old!’