with his hand on Lady Latham’s naked bottom. Stunned, I tripped and fell on my backside, scattering scones. However, instead of fleeing, I had hidden, ducking behind the shrubbery to watch.
‘If it would save him from further punishment,’ I offered, wondering if he was teasing or being ironic. Then he sat up straighter, one palm splayed on the seat cushion of the armless settee, the other still holding his drink as he perused the length of me again before beckoning me towards him with a crooked finger. Taking one of my hands in his, he held it lightly as he placed his glass on the floor beneath the seat. Well, I had agreed to the punishment; what could I do? Before I could think twice, he had pulled me belly first across his lap and tossed up my skirts. After a cursory brush of warm fingers against warmer skin, he was spanking my bare bottom.
I was all at once appalled, frightened and, yes, titillated. Images flashed before me of Lady Latham’s rosy bottom, of her squirming on his lap, of the intense look on his face, of the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his hand fell. I wanted to see and feel what he would do next. Would he touch me as he touched her? How far would he take it? How far would I let him? I liked the feel of his huge hand as it splayed across my bottom. I liked the sting and release, the way it made the lips down there twitch. I wondered if he really punished his servants in this way – maybe the females. I wondered if they did things, spilled the gravy on his shirt or failed to keep the fireplace in his rooms lit, so he would call them to task. I couldn’t imagine him doing this to the footman. But I could imagine my hand on his bottom, firm and round. I might slap it lightly unless he begged me to make it harder. My hand would sting and grow warm, and the sounds of his groans would make me wet. When he’d finally mounted Lady Latham, I had watched the way his backside rose and fell, the way his sac swayed as it hung heavy between his thighs. I wanted to touch him then, to slide my hand over his smooth arse, to cup his sac, but I just held my breath and watched.
Maybe he’d chosen this method of punishment to humiliate me. Although my heart raced and, admittedly, I was a little frightened, I didn’t feel humiliated. I opened my legs slightly, just so, and hoped that he would touch me there, where I felt all wet and wanting. Even though I was certain that this was not the proper way to behave with one’s almost married host, I wanted to feel the slide of his fingers just so, just there, and he seemed willing to oblige. However, now he seemed truly angry, having left me crumpled on the floor without even offering me a hand up.
My bottom was still tingling and the flesh between my legs was aquiver as I clutched at an armchair for support, then stood and went about righting my clothing. He was an odd one, and I couldn’t help but smile, as I had enjoyed our little sport. I had no doubt that our brief tryst would remain a secret between the two of us, as the soon-to-be-wed groom would be as reticent as I. I, of course, wished him and my cousin Ethel the best. She’d been on the shelf for several years and had finally given in and decided to buy herself a husband, a very delectable one at that, tall, dark and with very large and powerful … hands, and a strong will. I had to commend his restraint, as I was quite tempted to throw caution to the wind and my legs in the air. Although I knew Ethel was never one to share, I hoped that there would be another opportunity to bare my bottom before her alluring fiancé. Meanwhile, I checked my face in the glass of a nearby watercolour, a still life of fresh fruit with bowl, fluffed my skirts and headed back into the fray of the engagement party.
Lily positions her fingers on the keys, gently, as though she is afraid of damaging them. She hesitates another second, then takes a deep breath and presses down. The piano responds, not with music but with a frightful racket. I wince, biting my lip.
She quickly corrects her error but Mr Blackshaw is frowning.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says softly, lowering her head. Her hands flutter to her lap like frightened animals and she presses them into her pinafore, every inch the demure little chambermaid.
Mr Blackshaw is quiet for a moment. Then he simply says, ‘Again.’
Lily straightens her back and lifts her hands, arranging them on the keys once more, stretching her fingers to reach what must be a difficult chord. This time it sounds more like music when she attacks the keys and I can tell she feels a little more confident. She finds her way into the piece and I listen as she plays. It’s soft and sweet, just like her. I’m no expert but to me it sounds heavenly.
Mr Blackshaw, however, is unimpressed. He raps Lily smartly across the knuckles with his ruler. I gasp in concert with her and cover my mouth lest my own noise attract his displeasure. Fortunately, it all seems reserved for his pupil, who cowers beside him like a flower withering in a storm. Wisps of hair have come loose from her lacy mob cap and she smoothes them away from her face before making another attempt at the piece. But it’s no use. She’s lost the trick of it.
‘Appalling,’ Mr Blackshaw says. The room seems full of the stony silence that follows. Lily looks almost relieved when he tells her sharply to begin again.
By this time her hands are trembling so much she can barely place her fingers on the right keys. She takes a deep shuddering breath but before she can start to play Mr Blackshaw finds fault with her posture.
‘And don’t slouch. Do you think Chopin imagined this piece played in such a fashion? By young ladies who can’t even be bothered to sit up straight and who clearly have no respect for his music?’
Lily has no answer for that. She lowers her head submissively as he chastises her.
‘I’m trying to make something of you, young lady. Or don’t you want to be more than just a chambermaid?’
‘I do, sir, it’s just –’
‘I like to instil a sense of culture in my servants, to smooth out the rough edges. But it seems like I’m wasting my time with you.’
Lily whimpers as though struck. ‘But sir,’ she protests, ‘I have practised, honest! It’s just … it’s a difficult piece.’
‘Of course it’s difficult. I’m hardly going to set you something easy to learn, am I? Or perhaps you’d prefer that? Some simple little nursery rhyme? Something you can peck out with two fingers like an infant?’
‘But I can’t –’
‘Stand up.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard me, Lily. Stand up.’
I hear her swallow as she slowly rises to her feet, head well down, her face flushed with shame. My own face burns in sympathy but I wouldn’t take her place. I stand still, as I have been instructed, a silent witness to her disgrace. But her nervousness is infectious and my fingers pluck at the velvet ribbons of my gown. The brocade skirt rustles softly, earning me a warning glance from Mr Blackshaw. I stop at once and fold my hands in front of me, the perfect lady.
Mr Blackshaw turns back to Lily. He taps the cushioned piano bench with his ruler and she gives him one final beseeching look before obeying the unspoken command. I press my legs together as she assumes the familiar position, gently placing first one knee and then the other on the piano bench. She kneels there like a penitent, her hands resting lightly on the keys as Mr Blackshaw raises her black uniform skirt and tucks it into the strings of her pinafore.
Her
