Cordelia Lavington Chapter 18
By Governess
Copyright 2010 by Governess, all rights reserved
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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit
depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are
not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or
if such material does not appeal to you, do not read
further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 18
As Cordelia lay in bed, she suddenly realised that when chastising Samuel, she had heard a creaking sound. At the time she'd hardly been aware of it. But now in recollection she was certain. She knew that the fifth tread from the bottom of the stairs had a creak, and however carefully you stepped, it was impossible to avoid that tell-tale noise. She frowned. Had Elizabeth crept down to watch her brother's punishment? But when she had seen her after settling Samuel down, the girl had gone out of her way to say that she'd put her book down at the time she had been told. But now it seemed she may not have been reading at all. That she had told a bare-faced lie. Well, she would question her about it tomorrow - before school. Any punishment that was necessary could be given at the end of the day. And that would provide time for her to anticipate the retribution due for such a serious offence. Elizabeth had been whipped for lying before, several times. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. Soon she was asleep.
Mrs Lavington woke at six o'clock. She went to the kitchen and made her early morning cup of tea; and then prayed and read her Bible. In her prayers she asked for wisdom to discern God's will for the day and the determination to carry it out. She then went to her daughter's room. Elizabeth was already awake, sitting on her bed in her nightdress, reading a book.
"Elizabeth will you come into my room, please."
There was something in her mother's tone that made her nervous. She bit her lip and followed.
"Tell me about your reading last night, Elizabeth."
" . . what do you want to know . . . mother?"
"Well, let us start with how long you were reading."
"Until I put my book down and went to sleep, mother."
"And after praying with you in the drawing room, you went straight to your bedroom?"
"Yes, mother."
"And after undressing for bed, you read until you put your light out?"
"Yes, mother."
"And what were you reading?"
There was a hesitation.
"My Blue Fairy Book."
"The one by Andrew Lang?"
"Yes, mother."
"And what story were you reading?"
Again there was a hesitation.
"The . . . the Goose Girl."
"I see."
Mrs Lavington waited, allowing the girl's anxiety to grow."
"And you read the story right through to the end?"
"Yes, mother."
"So what is the story about, Elizabeth?"
There was another hesitation as the girl tried desperately to remember. It was a long time since she had read it.
"It's . . it's about a princess who . . . who's sent away to a foreign land to meet the man she's going to marry."
"Yes, and what happens on the journey?"
"She . . . she . . ."
Her voice trailed away. She looked down.
"I . . I can't remember, Mother."
"Look at me Elizabeth."
The girl raised her head. There was an anxious look on her face.
"But you only read the story last night. Less than ten hours ago. How is that?"
"I was tired and didn't finish it."
"But Elizabeth, you told me a moment ago you read it right to the end.
She hung her head.
"I'm sorry, mother."
Her mother put her arm round her.
"And I'm sorry, too, Elizabeth. Very sorry."
She paused.
"It's a very appropriate story in the circumstances. On the journey the princess loses the magic protection her mother has given her. And when she arrives her maid lies and tells everyone that she is the princess and that the true princes is the maid. And then the maid marries the prince and the true princess is made to look after the geese. But eventually the king of the land discovers the truth. And he tells the maid a story in which a girl betrays her mistress and then he asks her how she would punish a girl who had lied and acted in such a shameful way. And the maid pretends to be horrified and says she would strip such a girl naked and put her into a barrel lined with nails and have it dragged through the streets until she died from her dreadful injuries. And the king then reveals to her that he knows the truth. And he sentences her to that very punishment."
Mrs Lavington paused.
"Do you remember the story now?"
The girl looked very uncomfortable.
"Yes, mother. Yes, I do."
"So you lied like the girl in the story, Elizabeth? You didn't read the story to the end?"
Ms Lavington waited.
"No, mother."
"And why was that?"
Elizabeth stared at the carpet.
"It would be better Elizabeth if you were to tell me the truth."
There was still no response.
"Then, let me tell you a story, Elizabeth and at the end I will ask you a question as the king did."
Elizabeth shuffled uneasily.
"Once there was a nine year old girl who had an older brother who was often disobedient. One day during a caning he resisted his punishment and the girl's mother asked her to hold his hands to prevent him from putting them back. Afterwards, her mother sends him to his room telling him that she wants a little talk with him before bed. Then the girl's mother says prayers with her and she, too, is sent to her room. However, because she has been so helpful she is allowed to read for an extra quarter of an hour."
Her mother squeezed her hand.
"Do you recognise the girl in this story, Elizabeth."
The girl nodded mutely.
"Well, when the girl gets to her room she leaves the door ajar. She knew what her mother meant by 'a little talk.' Soon she hears her mother coming up the stairs. She holds her breath and listens at her door. She hears her mother questioning her brother. And then he is sent downstairs to the drawing room. After a few moments, her mother follows him down and through the crack of her door she sees that she has a tawse in her hand. Holding her breath, she creeps down the stairs, and crouches behind the banisters. The drawing room door is open and she can see into the room. Her brother is on his back with his legs up, his ankles secured by straps to the top of the large armchair. Breathlessly, she watches as her mother whips her brother's bare bottom and thighs. Just before the end she creeps back to her room and slips into bed. When her mother looks in a little later she pretends to be half asleep. Without being asked she tells her mother that she put her book down within the time she had been allowed."
Again her mother paused.
"And that was a story about a little girl who disobeyed her mother, who eavesdropped on someone else's conversation, who left her room after she had been sent to bed, who spied on her mother, and who then wilfully lied about what she had done."
The girl bit her lip, but said nothing.
"So Elizabeth, the question is how would you deal with a girl who had acted so disgracefully. What does she deserve by way of punishment?"
She waited.
"You do recognise the girl in the story, don't you, Elizabeth?"
She hung her head.
"Yes, mother."
"So what would be an appropriate punishment?"
Elizabeth felt her whole body tingling. There was a pounding in her ears. She was being forced into a barrel, screaming and struggling. Already the nails were tearing at her flesh as the lid was forced down and hammered into place. She was fighting for breath. Cramped and twisted, desperately trying to remain still for fear of the nails.
"Well, Elizabeth, I am waiting. What would be an appropriate punishment for a girl who eavesdrops on her mother, who spies on her, disobeys her and lies to her?"
She began to cry.
There was a long pause.
"Elizabeth when I ask a question I expect an answer. What punishment would be appropriate for a girl who had done such things?"
The girl was sobbing now. Desperately wanting to escape, but knowing that she had to answer.
"P . . pl . . please, mother."
"Yes, Elizabeth?"
"I . . I . . . think . . . "
"Yes. I am waiting."
"I . . . I think she should be punished like her brother."
"You mean punished as the girl saw him punished?"
There was a faint hesitation.
"Y . . yes."
"Tawsed on her bottom and the backs of her thighs?"
She nodded. Her mother looked at her small tear-stained face.
"I am very proud of you Elizabeth. That shows you understand how seriously the girl had misbehaved."
She put her arm around the still sobbing child.
"Then, that is how you will be punished on your return from school this afternoon. And until then, we'll say no more about it"
When a punishment was hanging over a child, Mrs Lavington saw no need to refer to it again. She remained calm and loving, as if nothing was amiss. And indeed she believed nothing was amiss. For punishment was a natural and caring aspect of raising a child. And if her calm acceptance made the child aware of the utter inevitability of the punishment, as inevitable as the next meal or being tucked up in bed, then so much the better. And as the hours passed and the grim impending reality moved ever closer, so did the child's nervous anticipation and anxiety grow. And in Mrs Lavington's eyes that only added a valuable dimension to the discipline.
She recalled how, shortly after her eighth birthday, she had been playing with a friend and had ventured into woods that sloped steeply to a stream, and where many of the trees were rotten and unsafe. For that reason it had been placed out of bounds. And yet together she and her friend had scrambled and slid into the forbidden place. They had appeared later in the morning, muddy, with clothes torn and, shoes scratched and sodden. Her friend, Jane, had been sent home with a note explaining what had happened, and she had been despatched to her room to change. She was made to sponge her shoes and scrape off the mud and then stuff them with old newspaper to dry.
Her mother kept a school slate that sat on a book rest on the top of a chest of drawers in the kitchen. Beside it in a narrow dish was a stylus. The slate was used exclusively to record punishments due to the children, and she watched anxiously as her mother scribed her name on it and beside her name the number of strokes earned by her escapade. She was already regretting bitterly the venture into the forbidden woods. Her mother turned the slate towards her. Thirty six strokes. She felt suddenly breathless and as though her whole body had stopped working.
"Please, mother. Please, I'm sorry."
She had blurted out her muted protestation. But she knew that once etched onto the slate there would be no reprieve. Distressingly, her mother was often in no hurry to carry out the sentence and there it would remain a searing indictment of her guilt and a threat of pain to come. Until it was rubbed clean with a soft cloth once the penalty had been exacted.
"I'm sorry you disobeyed me, Cordelia. But worse you led another child into trouble. And tore your clothes and ruined you shoes. But sit at the table and let us shell some peas for lunch."
And there they had sat, mother and daughter, shelling peas as though nothing untoward had happened. And her mother let her eat the small immature peas at the end of the pods. And all the time she was wondering whether she would be whipped after lunch. She remembered how the day had slipped anxiously away. And then she was sent upstairs to bed. She undressed and slipped on her nightdress and then sat on the bed, waiting, anticipating that moment when her mother would enter with the martinet. She shivered and clasped her arms about her. And then her mother had entered and hung the martinet on a hook where she could see it from her bed.
"Kneel for prayers, Cordelia."
And she had knelt on the hard wooden floor. There was nothing harsh about her mother's voice. It had a rich sweetness about it.
Nous vous
rendons grâce, Seigneur, pour tous vos bienfaits
. . . et surtout pour le martinet pour le châtiment des enfants désobéissants.
And as she lay in bed she could see the yellow handle and the lanières de cuir that in the morning would lash and cut her small round buttocks and thighs.
(To be continued)