On the Bare (6 page)

‘Very funny,’ I called through the open bedroom doorway.

Returning to my quest, I searched for a door to a connecting room. My torch quickly discovered it, on the wall adjacent to the door I’d just come through. A cheval mirror stood incongruously before it, reflecting the dusty
room
back at me. I laid my torch down on the bed and dragged the mirror away. The effort reawakened the pain in my injured hand and I frowned as I saw it was bleeding again.

I glanced around hurriedly for something to bandage it with. In the wardrobe I found a pile of crisply folded, moth-eaten linen that probably hadn’t been used in a century. Not exactly hygienic, but better than nothing. I flapped open one of the sheets and tore a strip off it to wrap around my hand, grimacing. I wadded the sheet into a ball and stuffed it back into the wardrobe.

Something caught my eye as I did. A maid’s cap. I couldn’t resist setting the little scrap of yellowing lace on my head and grinning at my reflection. Further exploration revealed a long black Victorian maid’s dress and white lace pinafore, both showing signs of wear from their days in service to Mr Fox. I wanted to investigate further, but that could wait until I’d found my treasure. I was in no hurry now that I knew Simon was in the house playing games.

I returned to the door, but to my dismay, I found that it was locked. There was no keyhole and I suddenly understood that it wasn’t a door at all; it was a fake. Odd. I stepped back to look at the wall with its pair of doors and noticed something equally odd about the panelling beside the false one. A pair of thin parallel lines ran down the flocked wallpaper from behind a nondescript framed landscape, disappearing into the skirting board. At first I thought they were simply clumsy joins in the paper, but they were too wide for that. I realised that together they were the width of a small door.

I knelt down and pulled at the skirting board. It came away neatly to reveal a handle set into the wall, like that of a dumbwaiter. Now I was really beginning to feel like Lara Croft!

‘Eureka,’ I whispered, pulling the handle upward. The door groaned on its rusty hinges as it rose. Beyond it was a study. William Henry Fox’s private study.

There was an extravagantly carved mahogany writing desk against the far wall. At its feet sat teetering stacks of
mouldy
books, like stalagmites growing from the floor. I smirked as I recognised some of the titles, including some that scholars had believed lost when the vandals at the British Library burned Ashbee’s collection.

It was a formidable piece of furniture, imperiously tall and ornate. The tilt-top folded down to display a set of pigeonholes and small drawers. Too small to conceal what I was after. I closed the top again and searched lower.

There was a built-in bookshelf just beneath where the writing surface folded down and I felt around behind the carved scroll that formed the lip of the opening. It shifted easily and I held my breath as I pulled open the secret drawer. I stared at the white fabric on top before daring to take it out. It was a pair of Victorian pantalets. Nell’s drawers. Flushed with excitement, I gently removed the ream of papers they concealed. Across the top page, in Ashbee’s meticulous copperplate, was written
Codex Librorum Suppressorum
. I released the breath I’d been holding and restrained the urge to kiss the manuscript.

I was about to replace the pantalets when I suddenly thought of Simon. First too scared to come in, then happy to thump on the walls and slam doors to scare
me
.
I’ll show you a ghost
, I thought wickedly.

I hurried back to the bedroom and, after concealing the study once more, I stripped off my clothes. I stepped into the pantalets and drew them on. They came down to the knees and fastened with a drawstring around the waist. A front seam was the only semblance of modesty; the crotch and rear were completely open. No wonder they called them ‘unmentionables’!

Next I slipped into the dress and tied the pinafore on over it. Dust motes spun in the beam of the torch and my movements threw creepy shadows on the walls as I costumed myself. Finally, I pinned the cap into my hair and admired myself in the cheval glass. I couldn’t wait to see Simon’s terrified face when I confronted him like the vengeful spirit in a Japanese horror film.

But I was going to treat myself to something else first. I sat down on Fox’s bed and opened the manuscript. As I
leafed
through it I was thrilled to see handwritten notes in fountain pen, curious little notations made by Ashbee – or Fox. My discovery.
Mine
. I felt positively buoyant.

But as I skimmed an excerpt from
The Merry Order of St Bridget
, I became aware of the unpleasant chill. A minute ago I had been comfortable; now my teeth were chattering. How had the room suddenly become so bitterly cold? A convulsive shudder racked my body and I looked at my bandaged hand with concern. Had Simon been right about tetanus? I didn’t even know what the symptoms were.

My breath plumed in front of me and all at once I felt a crawling sensation in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing wrong with me; it was the room. The temperature had plummeted in seconds. And there was something else. The bedroom door, which I’d left open, was closed. My torch flickered like a guttering candle flame and went out. I stifled a scream and flicked the switch back and forth, on and off. It was dead. I shrank back onto the bed as slow, measured footsteps grew steadily louder in the corridor. Someone knew I was here.

The footsteps stopped outside the door and my chest began to ache with the hammering of my heart. I could hardly breathe. The shadows felt alive as I cowered in the dark, waiting. I was too scared to move, but I couldn’t just sit here all night in terror. ‘Simon? Is that you?’ I called hoarsely. My throat felt full of dust and I barely recognised my voice.

The door flew open with a bang and I cried out. A man was standing there. William Henry Fox.

‘Nell!’ he said sharply. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

I stared in disbelief at him, my eyes taking in the immaculate black suit and starched white collar. This was no insubstantial ghost; this was a man, solid and real. He held a brass candelabrum which illuminated the room and made the shadows dance around us, as though the furniture had come to life. His eyes gleamed with a dark vibrancy.

He strode to the bed and snatched the manuscript away. ‘This is not for the eyes of servants,’ he said severely. ‘But more to the point – what do you think you’re doing in my room, lounging on my bed?’

I glanced down at myself, still in Nell’s parlour maid uniform, stunned beyond words.

Mr Fox glared at me. ‘Well, girl? Cat got your tongue?’

‘I …’

‘And who’s this “Simon” you called out to? Hmm? Another of your admirers, I expect.’ He set the candelabrum down on the dressing-table with a thump and laid the manuscript beside it before turning to glare at me. ‘On your feet, girl!’

I rose slowly, completely at a loss for anything to say.

‘It seems you didn’t learn your lesson last time,’ he said, heading for the wardrobe and flinging it open. ‘But we’ll cure you of your nosy ways.’

He paused when he saw the balled-up sheet I’d stuffed inside and he turned slowly to me, holding up the ragged end where I’d torn it. ‘What is the meaning of
this
?’

At last he’d asked something I could answer. I felt connected to a filament of reality as I showed him my left hand. Blood had seeped through the makeshift dressing and I hoped he would take pity on me.

‘I see,’ he said, nodding. ‘You destroy my fine linens to dress scratches you sustained breaking into my private rooms. Well, I know how to deal with you, Nell. You know I do.’

He took something from the wardrobe and swished it through the air. I knew immediately what it was. I’d read his book.

‘Please, I don’t –’

‘You know the position, Nell,’ he said, calmer now that he was about to indulge in his favourite pastime.

Nell may have known the position, but I didn’t. I stared blankly at him, still too astonished to believe what was happening.

He took my hesitation for dumb insolence and seized me by the arm, hauling me away from the bed. He fetched a
low
padded foot-stool from beside the wardrobe and placed it in the centre of the room. He tapped it with the bundle of thin whippy switches and I suddenly wondered who had cut them and bound them with twine. And when.

As though under a spell, I moved towards the stool. I looked up at him fearfully and he tapped the rod impatiently against his leg. ‘Kneel. Hands on the floor,’ he instructed. ‘Bottom well up.’

Someone else’s voice meekly said, ‘Yes, sir’ and I felt my body obeying his command. But there was no one else in the room. Unable to resist, I rested my knees on the stool and bent down to place my palms flat on the dusty wooden floorboards. The position raised my bottom high in the air and I felt the chill air of the room against the stretched skin of my bottom and thighs.

‘A birching must always be given on the bare,’ he said loftily, ‘so we’ll have this up.’

And just like that, he raised my skirt.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, sounding amused. ‘I thought I had these safely tucked away, along with that manuscript. My, but you are a disobedient little thing, aren’t you? Well, we’ll soon put you right.’

He peeled the drawers apart, baring my cheeks, as I whimpered softly.

‘Two dozen,’ he pronounced.

I felt the rasp of the twigs against my bare flesh. Fox pressed the rod against my bottom, forcing the individual switches to spread out and cover it fully. Frightened by the realisation of how much area the birch would cover, I slowly filled my lungs with air in an effort to prepare myself.

The rod tapped once, held its position, and then struck.

I heard the swish of the birch cutting the air and then there was a burst of fiery pain, as though I’d been stung by fifty bees at once. I’d never even been spanked as a child and I had no idea how much it could hurt. I cried out and struggled awkwardly up onto my knees, clutching my bottom.

‘Hands down, girl,’ he growled. ‘A birching is meant to hurt.’

His words brooked no disobedience and I forced myself to resume the position. My hands had left two perfect prints in the dust and I fitted my palms into them again. The second stroke fell as soon as I did. Again I leapt up and grabbed my bottom, wailing in pain.

‘Nell,’ he warned.

It was absolutely the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. How was I ever supposed to endure two dozen strokes? Again I felt myself eased into place, presenting myself to him.

Stroke three caught my legs and I yelped, writhing over the stool and trying to stay still.

When he told me to get back into position again, I saw that my handprints had vanished. I looked to my right to see that the iron bedstead was no longer covered in cobwebs. The flocked red wallpaper looked like velvet, showing not a trace of decay. Even my uniform – what I could see of it – was immaculate.

‘Back in position,’ he repeated firmly.

I surrendered myself to another series of strokes, one right after another. With each stroke, pieces of the rod broke off and flew into the corners of the room. Close to tears, I watched as tiny buds and twigs landed beneath me on the polished floorboards.

‘How many was that, Nell?’

The response came easily. ‘Ten, sir.’

He delivered the next two in rapid succession and I began to cry. I still had a dozen to go.

The next three strokes came fast and hard, as though the first dozen had only been a warm-up. My voice was growing more ragged and tortured with every cry. Fox’s voice finally reached me through a haze of pain and I realised he was repeating something he’d already said.

‘How many, Nell?’

Startled, I realised I had lost count. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ I choked out.

‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘Should I start again?’ He paused long enough to savour my horrified silence before softly telling me it was twenty.

I gritted my teeth and locked every joint in my body to stay in position as he laid on the last four strokes. I cried out with each one and I actually heard the birch twigs snapping as they struck.

I could hardly believe it was finally over. I was shaking with sobs and gasping for breath. I couldn’t remember ever crying so hard in my life. Fox stood aloof, watching, as I got shakily to my feet. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw what remained of the birch – lying scattered over the floor.

Eventually my tears subsided and I began to come back to myself. I felt oddly weightless. Light-headed but not unpleasantly so. I remembered a description Fox had written of Nell clinging to him after she had been birched. He spoke glowingly of how she always seemed more settled after a punishment. And more affectionate.

The pain had been terrible and I had truly hated every second of the birching. But now that it was over I drew strange comfort from the warm glow in my bottom. I reached behind and could feel the thin raised wheals, the tiny bee-sting knots where the buds had landed. I had even forgotten the pain in my hand.

‘Kate!’

My eyes snapped open and I looked up to see Simon standing in the doorway, shining his torch onto me. He was panting and out of breath.

‘What happened? Are you all right?’

I looked around in confusion, as though waking from a dream. Fox was gone. I was curled on the dust-choked bed, my arms wrapped round the torn and yellowing sheet, clinging to it.

‘I’m fine,’ I said slowly.

‘It sounded like you were in pain. I heard you crying out.’ He frowned. ‘What are you wearing?’

I still had Nell’s uniform on, once more aged and covered in dust. Under the skirt I could feel the cool air through the parting in Nell’s drawers. How could I possibly explain what had just happened?

‘Oh, I thought it would be fun to surprise you,’ I said awkwardly, forcing a smile.

Simon looked utterly baffled. ‘Right. Well, you’ve done that. Can we go now?’ he pleaded.

I sat up and immediately yelped with pain. ‘My hand,’ I lied quickly, answering Simon’s concerned look. Whatever had just happened, my bottom was proof of it. But proof no one was ever going to see – not even Simon.