Mrs Grainger's Gift 4

By Ritchie Moore

(I'll forward it to the author)

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain 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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Mrs G’s Gift part 4

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Thursday 14^th May

French class

On Thursday afternoon, he went to French class. Nothing much could happen there, he thought, but he was soon disabused, for he found that the attractive 24-year-old wanted to illustrate vocabulary and a few verbs. “Please, Mathieu, help us here. I want to show the girls items of dress and pieces – parts – of the body, d’accord?” He could not but agree of course. She posed him at the front of the room and told the girls to write down the words as she dictated them, illustrating on Matthew’s person. He had enough of the language to follow what she was saying and so follow her directions, but she sometimes translated into English, which she spoke with a pleasing accent. “We start at the head – la tête. It is from the Latin testa, which is a pot. C’est drôle, n’est ce pas? The hair, that is les cheveux.” She stroked it affectionately and went on to list the facial features, and on reaching the neck, proceeded to name his clothes. “Les vêtements. The shirt is la chemise. Les pantalons, the trousers. Mathieu has the bare feet, so let us describe them. Les pieds, les orteils, or les doigts de pied, the toes, and the nails, that is les ongles. If he had stockings, it would be les bas or les chaussettes; and the shoes are les souliers, or les chaussures.”

She wrote the words on the board, and the girls copied them down. Then she asked him to take off his shirt to name parts of the upper body. He trembled as he obeyed, thinking that this must surely end in some embarrassment, but Mlle Justine pointed to his shoulders, back, spine, smoothed her warm hand over his chest and his belly, naming them in French and English, and he began to relax when she asked him to put his shirt back on. Next, though, a pert girl in the front of the class raised her hand and asked “What about les genoux, mademoiselle?” “Mais oui, Céleste, c’est vrai. Nous devons ôter les pantalons pour voir les jambes.” Matthew understood this only too well, and began to squirm as she got to his trousers and fumbled with his buttons. He was more horror-struck when a girl volunteered to help and unbuttoned his fly with practised ease (it seemed). The two of them took his trousers down, lifting his legs out, and the class gave a sigh of pleasure as he gave a moan of embarrassment.

“Right, now les jambes, the legs.” Mlle began at the toes again, to work up. He was in his translucent shirt, and the girls, he thought, had to have a pretty clear idea of his balls before she got there, as he knew she would. “Here are the knees, les genoux; the thighs, les cuisses.” She laid her warm palm on him, and he flinched. “Tourne, garçon. C’est ça.” He turned round, hoping that was it – “The back side, le derrière, voyez, c’est le cul, on dit! That is a vulgar word, like your arse in English.” She patted him. “Les fesses, the buttocks. Bend down.” He obeyed, and with something of a shock felt her hands spreading his buttocks to display his anus. “Ceci, c’est l’anus, c’est le trou du cul, the hole of the arse. Tourne encore, and lift up the chemise.” It was now that his penis reached erection, and the class gave pleased murmurs and a few giggles. Mlle wrote the names on the board again while the girls stared with amusement at his condition, and he stared back desperately; then she started more naming, and (what was worse) touching the particular part. “These are what you call testicles, les testicules. The vulgar word is les couillons, in English ballocks, no? This, le pénis (also la bitte, or le vit, which is the old word, what you call the prick in English, n’est ce pas?). We also can say la verge, which means the rod, it is a metaphor, oui? Now the foreskin, that is le prépuce, which also is for the little hood on your clitoris. The pubic hair, le poil pubique – notice please it is not the same as les cheveux of the head. Notice the idiom à poil, which means ‘bare’. Mathieu est à poil ici.” She stroked her hand over his pubic hair, and he quivered. Then she took gentle (or even reverent) hold of his stark penis. “And here is his érection – we say in French he is tense, or taut, drawn out -- jeune Mathieu bande comme un cerf, he is tight as a deer. Is it not a beautiful simile? Copy these words now.” Matthew stood there, tight as a deer, while the girls copied the words down and added the English equivalents, looking at him from time to time and smiling to themselves. Then thankfully the bell rang to end the class. The girls chorused Merci mademoiselle, et merci Mathieu! as he dressed again in silent shame, and Mlle Justine thanked him for his willing co-operation, then kissed him and left. He wearily found his way home and sat on his bed, wondering if he dare defy Mrs Grainger and refuse to attend the dance class scheduled for the next day – for he just knew it would be another humiliation.

He didn’t feel like lunch, so just sat around forlornly and tried to lose himself in his books. After a while he roused himself and went outside, where he found Catherine sitting in the garden dressed in a terry-cloth dressing-gown staring into space. When she saw him she started and gained a flush, as she remembered how they met. The boy sat down beside her and said “Catherine, I know, it’s embarrassing, but we should speak about what’s happening to us.”

She looked at the ground and sighed. “You’re right, Matthew,” she said. “We shouldn’t bottle things up if we’re uncomfortable. Listen, it is awfully embarrassing, yes, but I’ve got to tell someone. Mrs Grainger has made me naked in front of the tailor and his young son—”

Matthew swore. “The bastards! His son?”

“Who’s about sixteen,” she said haltingly, “and he measured me, all over, for new clothes. I couldn’t object, I had to stand there and let him look at me and touch me—”

“God! Catherine, you—”

“And then they came with some clothes, to fit them on me. A slip and … and knickers….”

Matthew ground his teeth. “Why is Mrs Grainger doing this? It’s probably as Abigail said to me that night, after you’d gone to bed, she’s enjoying a feeling of absolute power over someone. They’ve been getting at me too.”

She looked a question. “Well,” he said, reddening in his turn, “I was made the model for a drawing class next door, and the girls drew me naked.” Her eyes widened. “Then I was in a P T class and they could see my … body. Then in the French class today they made me naked and pointed out parts of the body to the girls. Tomorrow it’ll be something else. The girls are amused to see me naked, and it’s quite deliberate. Mrs G is exposing us both, to show her power over us, and the only difference is she has more opportunity for me with all the staff and the students, I suppose. But it’s just as bad for you. You’re a virgin, I know, and you’re not used to being seen like that. Listen: believe me, I’ll try to respect your privacy and so on – I’ve seen you naked and I admit I admire your body. There, I’ve said it. But I promise not to take advantage of you, and if you want to tell me anything it’ll be our secret….”

She looked at him and smiled shyly. “Matthew,” she said, “we’re in the same boat. I don’t know what Mrs Grainger has in mind for us, but it’s probably on the same lines, exposing us to the opposite sex and getting some thrill or other – Abigail is the same. There’s no way out that I can see. We’ll have to put up with it then. But,” she added, “let me tell you this.” She turned and seized his hands, looking him in the eyes and gaining another blush, “I’ve seen you naked too, the first boy I’ve ever seen completely naked, with an … erection to show your own embarrassment. I’ve seen you naked and I like it.” He had a blush of his own by this time, and looked back at her licking his lips. “I admire your … body, Matthew, I admire your legs, your … your cock, all of you. There, I’ve said it,” she added with a little smile of her own. “Listen: no matter what Mrs G wants or is getting out of the situation, we have seen each other naked, and we’re pleased. Isn’t that so?”

He smiled at her and pressed her hands. “Yes, Catherine,” he said, “that’s it exactly. Well said. Perhaps we can thank Mrs G in a way, but anyway let’s say we can enjoy what we can out of this. Not,” he added hastily, “that I’m asking to see you naked again. I don’t want you to be embarrassed, or hurt at all. I … like you and … just want you to be happy….”

She leaned over and pecked him a kiss on his cheek. “Bless you, Matthew!” she said. “Let’s agree to tell each other about our trials. It’s going to be embarrassing to talk about things, but we should, I think. When we’re by ourselves we should … unburden ourselves. It shares the burden, I mean, it’s not just a secret ache we carry.”

“All right,” he said, “let’s agree. However many blushes it takes.” He passed a hand over her cheek and thought about kissing her, but decided it was too soon. With a smile he rose and left her to smile after him. Mrs G wouldn’t be allowed to win.

Well, she thought, I told him! I told him I liked to see him naked, I told him I liked his cock! Oh God , I never imagined in a hundred years I’d ever tell a boy that! But I did, and it’s true. His penis, a nice-looking piece of muscle, and it was interesting to see it stand up like that. The girls in Cumberland laughed at me when I told them I didn’t understand what they were talking about, but there it was, as they said, standing up, getting red, as if it were blushing too … oh but he was blushing, so sweet, he was ashamed, but I know he was embarrassed for me too. But oh, his … his cock! His prick! It must be six or seven inches long! I wonder what it’s like, what it feels like? Is it warm, is it as hot as it looks? God, I mustn’t think like this. He’d never let me near it! What a daft thought! But … I’d like that, to stroke it, to feel the penis, and maybe look into his eyes as I did it, to see his lovely blush, and ….

She suddenly stood upright and took a deep breath. Oh you silly girl! It’s just a dream….

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Friday 15^th May

Dance Class

Mrs Grainger had amused herself by telling the instructor, Roberta Ford, that Matthew moved very nicely, and you should see him dancing naked!

“Oh, you’ve seen him then?”

“No,” she admitted, “Abigail told me about it. It was her cousin Annabel who was admiring him, he was dancing nude for her girls.”

“Aha! Then we can arrange things.” It was impressed on Matthew that he had to do what was demanded of him, and he had to agree, though he knew something embarrassing was bound to happen. He was welcomed to the class of about fifteen girls of seventeen or so. The first movements the class were invited to make strained the tight material of his trousers, and he winced as they caught his penis, which Miss Ford noticed.

“I can see that’s a bit uncomfortable for you in that get-up, Matthew, it’s better in a leotard. Maybe we can find you one to fit. In the meantime, why don’t you just take off the trousers, and I’m sure it’ll be easier for you to move.”

He immediately saw what was in store, but knew he had to comply. Thus for the next dance routine he was in his near-transparent lawn shirt, and blushing of course, especially when the instructor got them to do some different moves which showed him off well to the satisfaction of the class. They were made to leap widely from one end of the room to the other, and try the splits, both forward and stride, which allowed his shirt to rise above his pubis. Next they were paired off, to try a pas de deux movement, one holding the other up by the waist, then the other one having a go – of course when it came to Matthew’s turn the grasp around his waist hauled up his shirt, and Enid,the girl who held him, looked both startled and pleased. A variation involved one leaping up and straddling the other’s shoulders, from behind, then leaping up from in front to straddle the neck while the other’s hands supported the body. The girls took this in their stride, so to speak, but Matthew’s partner found her pubis right in front of his face, and blushed immoderately. Next however it was the boy’s turn, and soon he was sitting on the girl, his genitals touching her bare neck, But then, leaping up from in front, her hands were on his bare buttocks, and his penis was only inches from her nose, and both of them blushed and immediately disengaged as best they could. This grew into a more complicated movement whereby one was lifted up and placed on the arms of the others as if on a bier, then carried round the room slowly. All the girls tried this and then it was the blushing boy’s turn; Matthew was lifted, revealingly, and laid across the arms of the rest of the class, his shirt rucked up and his nakedness showing, the penis nearly erect.

When they set him down Miss Ford clapped her hands and said “Now for a treat – Matthew. I hear, is an excellent solo dancer. Please, Matthew, dance for us. Take off the shirt and dance for us.”

The girls gave cries of delight at the prospect, while the poor boy’s cheeks grew redder, as he had to acquiesce, and drew of his shirt and vest to stand naked and trembling before fifteen girls as the instructor put on a gramophone record of some sensuous music he didn’t recognise. He was told to begin any time, and he listened to the music and tried to fit movements to the tune. He shut his eyes so that he couldn’t see the fascinated leers of the girls, and stepped slowly around, attempting to interpret the music. He nearly forgot his surroundings till he opened his eyes at hearing an exclamation to find himself nearly upon one of the girls, his erection, which had nearly subsided, only inches from her face. As a result he reacted immediately with a return to full erection and slid away from her, his blushes returning in force as her eyes followed his tumescence.

The record ended, and the audience broke into applause. “Thank you, Matthew,” said Miss Ford. “Abigail said you were a natural dancer, and she’s right. And it’s so much better when one sees a dance in the nude. Isn’t it, girls?” The others agreed wholeheartedly. “You interpreted that marvellous music, by Debussy, in an amazing way. It’s called ‘L’Apres-midi d’un faune,’ ‘The Afternoon of a Faun’, and was choreographed by Nijinski the Russian dancer. I have never forgotten seeing it at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris a dozen years ago. But your interpretation was … wonderful. You really are an imaginative dancer. Matthew, I have an idea! Do you think you could repeat that, or create another one, for our school concert? Nude, of course.”

He gaped at her and couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t think of anything to say except “Wh-when is it?”

“It’s at the end of term,” she replied, “the beginning of July. That’s a couple of months away.”

“Oh no,” he said in relief, “I’ll probably not be here by then. I’m only here for a short time on loan from my employer.”

“That is disappointing. But thank you anyway. Get dressed now. Girls, thank Matthew for his participation.” As he was getting into his trousers, tucking his still tumescent penis to the side, they clapped again, and went off to change. He breathed a sigh of relief at the end of his ordeal, and said goodbye to the young instructor.

She smiled gaily at him and said, “Matthew, you’re delicious.” He blushed at the compliment and withdrew. On the way back to his room he turned over what they’d said about the concert. God, he thought, if I’m still here by then they’ll be sure to ask me to do it! I couldn’t bear it! Please God, send me back before then! But I’ll be leaving Catherine…. Oh God, what am I to do, what are we to do?

That night he calculated he was due for another bath, and scuttled into the bathroom to start the water immediately after their supper. Quickly he shed his clothes and hopped in, and managed to reach the small of his back quite successfully. He gave a rather cursory wipe to his privates, albeit paying some attention to his anus, which seemed to attract everyone’s attention, then dried himself and scuttled back to his bed, where he got between the sheets feeling quite virtuous and took up his book.

Mrs G applied her eye to the spyhole and nodded to herself. Very well, she thought, but next time we’ll manage the event.

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Saturday 16^th May

Croquet, the skirt fitting

Abigail found Catherine in the scullery washing up and told her to get to the morning room. “The Jackson men are here,” she said. “Maybe they want to see more of you.” Catherine flushed and couldn’t think of a reply, but dried her hands and made for the door. “Wait,” said Abigail. “Take your new clothes with you.”

Catherine looked at her desperately. “Not wear them?” she asked, “you mean just--”

“Yes, just take them.” Abigail looked after her as she dejectedly left the room. Yes, she thought, we’re getting her trained right enough, to expect humiliation and be in constant anxiety about it. She smiled to herself and went in search of Matthew; perhaps he was up on the rooftop abusing himself again. Somewhat disappointed to find he wasn’t, she reminded him of his appointment with the Academy girls for a croquet game, and he dragged himself over there with a heavy heart.

The game took place on the lawn outside the school, and Matthew noticed a few faces at the large windows. He felt hot in the sun and so were the girls. Abigail, his escort, suggested a game of forfeits, whereby a player found at fault would remove an item of clothing. The games mistress laughed and said certainly. Matthew felt sick, for he could see where Abigail wanted to go. The girls were understandably unwilling to play under these conditions, but Miss Cramond gripped her switch and glared at them, and they had to obey. Two of them faulted rather soon, which was easy enough because they were nervous to begin with, and the list of faults that Abigail read out before the game got under way was awfully long and confusing. So of course they quickly lost their knickers and dresses, and Matthew got a hard-on, which he couldn’t very well conceal as they moved over the lawn. Miss Cramond caught him touching the ball with his hand, and off came his shirt. Next a girl lost her shift and was naked, but had to continue, blushing whenever she met Matthew’s eyes. Matthew infringed one of the complicated rules and had to remove his vest. Some more girls lost their clothes, and then he faulted again. Off with his trousers. He looked up to see a crowd of faces at the overlooking windows, and his hard-on grew to a full erection. He stood erect in the midst of the twelve-year-old nymphets, half of whom were as naked as he, but had to continue till the game ended, with a victory for the other side. He wearily retrieved his clothes and made his way back to the main house, ignoring Abigail’s attempts at cheery commentary.

*

Catherine came to the morning room with her clothes over her arm and was welcomed by the man and his grinning son. Mrs Grainger sat to the side and bade her give the clothes to the boy and drop her robe as before. Wearily she did, and another blush suffused her pretty face. Mrs Grainger for the hundredth time remarked on the virginal innocence that caused a blush even after so much exposure.

“Right!” she said. “Martin, perhaps you can dress her, and then we’ll see about the skirt.”

“Yes, Mrs G,” he replied licking his lips, and took the knickers. He knelt at her feet to get them into the panties, then drew them up past her vulva, and sat back well satisfied. Next he took the shift and indicated she should raise her arms to put it on. In doing so she elevated her delicious young breasts, and he licked his lips again. Oh, he thought, thank you, Mrs G! Maybe we can persuade you to let us make a swimming suit for the girl….

“You needn’t bother with the blouse, of course,” said the chatelaine. “Mr Jackson, let’s have the skirt.” The older man produced the garment, in fine black wool, and had Catherine step into it, then drew it up to her waist and fastened it with three ornamental buttons. It came down nearly to her knees, and looked quite stylish to Mrs Grainger. “My compliments, Mr Jackson,” she said, “and Martin too, I assume it was you who suggested the black?”

“Yes, madam,” he said in a fawning way, “thank you.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s the tout ensemble. For now, at least. You do have all those measurements you took last time, so the making up of any other pieces should present no problems. Naturally though we’ll have a fitting before we make up our minds, hmm?”

“But of course, Mrs G,” said the father, “just let us know. I’m pleased with the material of the skirt, by the way. As you see, it’s a very fine wool, and I’m afraid it’s a bit expensive, but you’ll agree I think that it’s well worth it. Nice and light, not at all heavy. She’ll be very comfortable in it, I assure you.”

“Excellent as always, Mr Jackson. What next?”

“Hold on, Mrs G,” said the tailor, “we’ve got those other panties for you.”

“Oh, yes! Thanks for reminding me. Catherine, take off the skirt and the panties, and Martin, you can demonstrate?” He was only too willing, of course. The first pair he produced were greeted with a nod of approval, Mrs G beckoning Catherine close to see just how thin the material was. While it obscured her pubis, it did not entirely conceal it, and Mrs G was pleased to see the cleft of her vulva clearly delineated behind it. “Very good!” she said. “And the other one?” Martin brought down the knickers to the ground and off the red-faced girl’s feet, and produced the third pair with a flourish. He carefully pulled it up her legs, gazing all the while at her vulva, which he was becoming very familiar with, but he hadn’t got tired of it yet. “Right, Catherine, let’s see you. My, Mr Jackson, I’m amazed. It’s so sheer as to be practically not there. Oh, how cheeky it is! And her slit is nicely brought out. Excellent. Well, that takes care of the ensemble. Now Catherine, take them off and fold them away nicely.”

While she was disrobing, under the lascivious stare of young Jackson, Mrs Grainger raised another suggestion. “Mr Jackson: as I said you’ve got plenty of measurements of most bits of her body—” Catherine flushed again – “and I’ve just had the idea that a longer skirt, to just below her knees, would probably be very suitable. That’s for later of course, we’re hoping after all for warm weather. Summer is a-coming in, and we’ll probably be going via Paris to the south of France.” Catherine, who was standing with her clothes in her arms, looked at her in surprise and pleasure. Then she cast about for a place to put the clothes while she donned her robe, but Mrs Grainger forestalled her.

“Right, take them upstairs and put them away. You can come back for the robe.” Catherine cringed and blushed again but had to go, followed by the men’s libidinous stares, up to her room to put the clothes away and then return in full nudity to the morning room, where Mrs G was pouring tea for her guests. “Yes, Catherine! Come over here,” ordered Mrs Grainger, and when the girl was standing two feet away she proceeded to discuss her wardrobe with the men, pointing to the girl’s body to illustrate, while she quailed under the inspection and had lost count of her blushes. “You see,” said her madam, “that’s probably as short as one can legally get, I’m afraid,” indicating a level an inch or so below her vulva. “This,” at mid-thigh, “is where her robe is, and here,” just above the knees, “is her skirt length. Just under her mount of Venus here” – and Catherine shivered – “is where her shift is. Now I’m wondering about other lengths, you see. In order to be free and flexible, so to speak, I’ll have her wear no underpants.” Catherine looked at her aghast. The others nodded and smiled. “So my next question is, what’s the best length of skirt? For it won’t be the same as when she’s wearing knickers.”

Martin predictably had ideas. “It seems to me, Mrs G,” he said, putting down his cup and extending his hands to show where he was talking about, “you need about four if not five inches below her pubes, here,” putting his thumb to the base of her mound and his little finger to indicate, “in order to avoid any problems. Otherwise she might as well be naked, she’ll be showing her …”

“Don’t be vulgarly unctuous, Martin. Call it her slit.”

“That’s it,” he said, fingering the place, “she’ll be apt to show her slit. Father?” Catherine was clenching her fists and beginning to sweat under this frank discussion of her charms, but the others continued speaking of her in the third person.

“Martin’s right, Mrs G,” said his father, “we have to be careful. I suggest we try several lengths, and several weights of material, before making up our minds. Trying something quite long,” he put his hand on her knee, “and some things quite short,” with his hand under her pubis. “Don’t you agree?” Mrs Grainger smiled at the prospect of more unveilings and examinations of the girl’s nudity, and nodded enthusiastically, while the bare subject of their deliberations trembled to envisage what else she’d have to endure. “And if you’re going to France,” said the elder Jackson, “the south, you said? Well, I expect it gets pretty hot there, so the cloth has to be suitable, not too stifling, very light in fact. Yes, we’ll see about several varieties, Mrs G, several thicknesses and so forth.”

“That’s all then, girl,” said Mrs G, “off you go with the robe. It’s getting on for tea-time.” She turned her attention to her guests as Catherine swiftly dived into her gown and went up forlornly to her room, thinking that at least it would be nice to be in the sun in the south of France. Wouldn’t it?

Meantime the tea party continued, and Martin crunched a biscuit as Lydia Grainger brought other ideas to the fore. “As for opinions on the length and so on,” she said, “we should have more than one or two opinions. I think we can ask some more people, particularly young people, about this, so I’ll invite a few to attend a fitting next time. What do you think?”

“An excellent idea, Mrs G,” said Jackson, “the more the merrier. There’ll be us, of course, and perhaps a couple of Martin’s friends?”

“Yes, that would be appropriate,” said Mrs Grainger, “of your own age, Martin?”

“Well, there’s Billy Franklin, for instance, he’s just turned sixteen, and his brother, who’s eighteen…”

“Just the thing! I suggest you sound them out and see whether they’re willing to give us their honest opinions. I meanwhile have one or two others in mind.” So it was decided, and Lydia Grainger smiled to herself as she imagined the scene of undressing and assessment, and how the girl would react. Delightful!

At tea Abigail regaled the other servants with a long-drawn-out account of the exciting contest, and they were amused and poked fun, all save Catherine, who looked down at her plate and bit her lip. She didn’t seem to have an appetite, and Matthew wondered if she’d had another awful experience at Mrs Grainger’s hands. He couldn’t stand the teasing and ate quickly, and disappeared into his room to lose himself in his books and try to forget. But he wasn’t too successful.

The girls went on to talk about the summer, and what to expect. “Mrs G was talking about going to Paris, and the south of France,” said Catherine hopefully, rousing herself from her sombre mood. “Will that be true?”

“Oh yes,” said Abigail, “she’s done it before. Let me think.” She lit a cigarette and blew smoke up in a cloud. “Yes, Mrs G had the property in 1919, and went there in 1920, the year I came here. She goes other places too. In 1921 she was in Belgium, I know, and in ’22 it was Florence in Italy. She has a villa there. But she likes France, and spends a bit of time in Paris too, like two years ago. I was with her on that trip. Then it was Switzerland last year. She likes to go for the sun I think. She agrees with one or two trend-setters, like that Coco woman, that a slight tan is healthy-looking.”

“So what’s the place like? She has an estate like here?”

“Bless you, no! It’s quite tiny compared to this, but it’s roomy enough. There’s a dryness about the place, though it rains, obviously, and the air is different somehow. The colours on the trees are … more vivid? Maybe, and you should see whole fields of lavender. You may know that some great French painters went there to paint the landscape. It’s quite beautiful. But do you mean that Mrs G wants to take you? If she does, I’m sure you’ll like it. And Paris too? Well, well. She must like you.” Yes, she said to herself, or at least she likes to have you under her thumb! Knowing the mistress, she’ll want Matthew along as well just so she can torment them both. Unless he’s shuttled back to Maude Crossley’s. Meanwhile I expect I’ll have control over the others here. That’ll be fine. Enough of a responsibility. Or headache.

“What’s Paris like?” asked Jennie, round-eyed.

“Oh, I can’t really tell you,” said Abigail. “I was only there a matter of hours, then on to the estate in the south. We had a biggish apartment on the top storey of an old building, can’t remember the address, but it was sunny and airy at the same time. It had been used by an artist, before, and I’m not surprised because the light came in nicely most of the day. Anyway what I saw of Paris was very interesting. There’s this huge iron structure, the Eiffel Tower, that you can go up and see the panorama of the city. Mind you there were some pretty poor-looking places. Really shitty, frankly. Still, Catherine here will be able to see all that. Mrs G will probably take you on a little tour, maybe, to the royal palace at Versailles and that kind of thing. You’ll probably have a nice time.”

Catherine could hardly believe that the tyrannical Mrs G would be so nice to her, but she hoped that away from this ominous house she might see a different side of her. And would dear Matthew be able to come too? Maybe she’d send him away back to his family, and maybe he’d stay there! Oh no, please God, she didn’t want to lose him so soon after finding him. Maybe she should ask Mrs G if she could take him as well.

“But what’s the estate like, Abigail?” asked Georgina. “Where is it?”

Abigail sighed impatiently. “It’s in the south, Georgina, in a place called Provence, near the Mediterranean. The actual place is called Vaulx.”

“Vo?” repeated the girl with a laugh. “Silly name!”

“Yes,” said Abigail, spelling out the name, which made the other’s eyes grow round. “It’s a little village hundreds of years old, looks quite quaint really. The estate is a bit outside the village proper, we went in every so often by car, though mostly you get about by donkey cart. Or maybe it’s a mule, I don’t know. Called ‘Modestine’ for some reason.”

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Catherine.

“Oh yes what?” queried Abigail crossly.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s just that Mrs G probably named her (she’ll be female) after Robert Louis Stevenson’s donkey. He wrote this book, Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes.”

“Hm,” said Abigail, “probably. Anyway that’s how you get to the village. It’s a bit of a drive to get to the coast, though. Down there you have Marseilles and along the coast Nice, where our French teacher comes from. The weather is fine and sunny most of the time. At that time of year at least. I’ve no idea what it’s like in the winter. There’s never much of a rainfall, so you’ve got to conserve your water, but the property is lucky because it has three very productive wells on it, quite unusual. The house, it’s old-fashioned I suppose, maybe a hundred years old for all I know, but Mrs G modernised it, it’s quite up to date, considering. Comfortable. We put in indoor plumbing, and a telephone too, just before we left. The peasants all speak French of course, and Mrs G is good at it, her family is French originally, so there was never any problem there, though they all speak a funny dialect as well among themselves. And in their songs too.”

Catherine was interested in this. “You heard them sing, then? And play music?”

“Oh yes,” said Abigail in dismissive tones. “They play little drums and high pipes, whistles, and it grates on the ears. There’s a little bagpipe as well, and tambourines and things. Fiddles. And the tunes go on for ever. I was bored to tears myself. Mrs G likes it though, she had the locals come to the house to entertain. They dance as well, and I suppose it looks nice, for a while at least. Imitating horses prancing, for instance, they have their own special sorts down there, and a line dance – they all get into one big line and go round and round and twine about, for perfect ages. You’ll probably like it,” she added with something of a sneer. Catherine was imagining herself and Matthew hand in hand in the middle of a great line of dancers, weaving a way through fields of lavender.

“So it’s shut up in the winter?” asked Georgina.

“Yes,” replied Abigail, “though it’s looked after, of course, by a local fellow who helps in summer too. He’s called Pascau, he’s middle-aged, a bit rough but I suppose all the peasants are, it’s not an easy life. He has a daughter called, what, oh, Mireio, yes. A pretty name. She’ll be seventeen by this time. He had a wife naturally but she died about five years ago I think.” She looked at Catherine. “There’ll be someone to cook for you, though you might manage things by yourself. Mrs G of course will be waited on hand and foot. She’s there for a holiday after all, away from the cares of the school mostly. So apart from fetching and carrying now and again, you can have a holiday too. Explore the countryside if you like. Soak up the sun.”

“Maybe I can talk to the villagers,” said Catherine, ‘they’ll tell me about the place.”

“Only if you speak the language,” said Abigail. “I couldn’t make out what madam and Pascau were saying, and the peasants sounded quite strange, not like French, I mean. But do you speak French then?”

“I had French lessons for a while when I lived with my uncle,” said Catherine, “and he told me I was pretty good, but that doesn’t mean I can follow it when it’s spoken fast, and I imagine that’s how it goes in real life, not like a book I mean. But if I ask them to speak slowly it should be all right.”

“That’s fine then,” said Jennie. “They’ll probably like it if you try to talk to them. Not acting like an English person, that isn’t interested in other people.” She looked at Abigail. “How did you get on with them?” she asked snidely.

Abigail didn’t take offence. “Oh,” she said airily, “I tolerated them and they tolerated me. Mrs G talked, I just stood and collected what she was buying, for instance. I didn’t notice if they resented our presence there, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides, they needed us, we bought things, and I know Mrs G donated some money for local projects, like a library and a public toilet.”

“But you never went among them on your own?” asked Catherine.

“What on earth for?” asked Abigail in amazement. “I couldn’t talk to them, they couldn’t talk to me, they were all Catholics and didn’t trust an Anglican, so they didn’t try to start a conversation anyway. I didn’t like their music, oh, there was nothing in common. I wandered around a bit, but mostly I stayed on the estate.”

Jennie looked at Catherine. “Well,” she said, “maybe you’ll enjoy it a bit more. Abigail doesn’t seem to have had a good time, except for the sun, I expect. But maybe Mrs G will want to take Matthew as well, to be a companion for you, sort of?”

“Yes,” said Grace, remembering her first conversation, “and he knows languages too, which’ll be handy.”

“He does? He knows French?” asked Jennie.

“I think so. Well, German, anyhow. So he probably knows French too. I think he said so.”

“They’re nothing like each other,” said Abigail scornfully. “Everybody knows that. But in fact it’s very likely that Mrs G will take Matthew too. I think she’s getting used to him being around, like you, Catherine. If the pair of you can go visiting, with as much French as you have, you’ll probably have a nice time. I suggest you seek out the local priest, he might want to talk about the parish. And the local teacher as well. I know there’s one, there’s a pretty little schoolhouse in the village that looks hundreds of years old. So if he’s well enough educated, he might know English.”

“Thank you, Abigail,” said Catherine in some astonishment. “I’ll do that. I hope Mrs G will let us roam about, and not keep us by her on the estate, though she’ll have to be served one way or another. There’s the man Pascal, is it? And his daughter—“

“Pascau,” said Abigail. “That’s the local way of saying it. And his daughter Mireio, yes, they’ll be there to cook and so on. So you might be allowed off the chain to go and charm the locals, why not? Anyway, we’ll know later all the details. As soon as Mrs G tells me, I’ll tell you.”

Mrs Grainger lifted the telephone after a few rings and answered “Hello?”

“Good afternoon. Mrs Grainger?”

“Yes. Is that Mr Bradley?”

“It is indeed, ma’am. I can tell you all is arranged for your party to visit the school. Is everything all right at your end?”

“Yes, Mr Bradley. May I ask whether you have any punishments pending? I have a special reason for asking.”

“Well, now that you ask, it’s true that there are a few boys who are due for chastisement for various transgressions, and there may be one or two more by the time you arrive. Do I gather that you would wish to witness them?”

“Exactly, I and some of my girls. I believe it would be a salutary lesson to see punishment administered.”

“That’s very probable, Mrs Grainger. I’ll arrange that, then. All right, we’ll expect you next Sunday, at two p.m.”

“Very well, Mr Bradley. Goodbye.”

She replaced the receiver and smiled cruelly. She was looking forward to seeing the boys whipped, and she’d make sure as many of the Academy girls and staff saw the spectacle too. It would be a dire warning for their own behaviour, and maybe they would be thankful that her own regime was not so harsh. With that thought of self-congratulation she rose and prepared for a drive. Should she take one of the young people? Not today. But she’d think of some activity for them to undertake tomorrow, something resulting in yet another humiliation. Oh heavens, she thought, Bradley didn’t say, but – I wonder if he takes their trousers down, as they did in the good old days Henry talked about? Then they’re flogged on the naked arse? Aha! It’ll be very interesting!

====================================================================

Sunday 17^th May

The next day, Sunday, was a holiday, thank God, and absolutely nothing was asked of him. Matthew had a long lie and went down to the kitchen in hopes of breakfast but found it deserted. He made himself a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast and marmalade, then made his way to the roof and lay in the sun for a while, reading his Kipling. Then he went looking for Catherine. Running into Jessica, he asked where she was and was told she’d been seconded to the school to help the cleaners, so he wandered somewhat aimlessly about the garden and fretted. Lunch was a tasty salad and soup, and he at least saw Catherine, though not to really speak to. Afterwards he strolled around the garden again, and found Mr Bryden sleeping on a bench. The old man stirred at Matthew’s approach and opened one eye.

“You’re the Raven boy, aren’t you?” he said, clearly sober by now.

“Yes, sir, I’m Matthew. I—”

“Yes, I remember seeing you before. How are you settling in to this … establishment?”

“I … I think….”

“You’re not, are you? Hey? You think it’s a madhouse, don’t you? You think you’re hard done by, don’t you?”

“Sir, I don’t….”

“Don’t mind me, young ’un,” said the old man. “I’m pretty sure you’re not happy. But I won’t tell on you. Besides,” he gave a wink, “herself wants you to be unhappy, you know.”

Matthew stared at him, knowing he was right. He licked his lips and said, “Mr Bryden, you’ve been here a long time, since before the academy—”

“The Academy!” the other snorted. “You know what it is? It’s a training school for sirens and Jezebels, that’s what it is. Madam makes a big thing about discipline and all that, and she certainly treats them shameful, but the ones that survive leave here all ready to do battle and win, young lad, beat the men at the sexual game.”

“What? Sexual—”

“Yes, lad, of course. Madam likes … likes moulding young people. And she does it by a mixture of carrots and whips. Especially whips. She’s only been running the school about seven years, mind. Once her husband died and left her all that money and property, she’s gradually doing more and more.” Matthew looked at him in dismay. So he was just a pawn in this game, a guinea pig, and Catherine too?

“Don’t misunderstand me, young Raven. Mrs G educates these young rips very well. By the time they leave here, they have as good an education as they need. But they learn a lot more. I reckon you’re one of the carrots.”

“What?” said Matthew. But he knew what the old man meant. He was here to amuse the girls and keep them interested in the rest of the programme. He nodded bleakly. “Thank you for telling me this, Mr Bryden,” he said with a sigh. “A lot of what’s been happening makes sense now. I thought it was just a cruel amusement for Mrs G, but I see she has a sort of motive.”

The butler winked at him. “If ever you want to escape their clutches, come to the pantry. Nobody ever bothers me there.”

“Thank you,” said Matthew, “I’ll do that.”

“And I think I’ve got the only lavatory with a door on it!” Matthew smiled and made his farewell, and continued his walk, pleased to have found another ally in this dreadful place.

=====================================================================

Monday 18^th May

English lesson

Matthew had been sadly disabused about nothing happening in the French class, but he thought he’d be pretty safe when it came to English, whether they were talking about grammar or Shakespeare. As it happened, the teacher, who had introduced herself as Joan Cairns (a chestnut- haired woman in her late thirties), had decided to discuss the literature of eroticism, and a pleasant half hour was spent talking about English authors of what Matthew had considered dirty books.

“Let us have no false modesty here, girls,” said Mrs Cairns, looking round at her attentive audience, “Erotic books may mostly be written by men, but their subject matter is always of interest to women also. It’s true however that a lot of it tends to portray the female sex in less than complimentary colours. Still, one can find stories in which the chief character is a heroine who lands on her feet and cannot be subdued by the machinations of an unspeakable dastard.”

The class made amused noises, and shifted in their seats to comfortable positions. Matthew was finding the lecture quite fascinating, though he wondered at the freedom of expression from a teacher he had expected to be a prim puritan, for some reason, or a maidenly virgin. All at once he found himself wondering whether she was in fact a virgin; she certainly seemed to have read all sorts of suggestive stories. But then, she was called Mrs., so she’d been married at one time, and he wondered then about her husband. Had they read dirty books together? What did they do in bed? He flushed as his thoughts took their usual turn.

“You must of course be prepared for the coarsest of language, and while I’m pretty sure you all know these expressions, you have to understand them and indeed use them if this genre of literature is to mean anything to you – which it will have to, to inform your participation in society, no matter how exalted, believe me. Even such an acknowledged classic as Shakespeare uses some expressions that … while they’re not obscene, they’re suggestively close. Perhaps you can debate whether it’s better to merely hint than say it out straight. Look up Twelfth Night sometime – Act Two, Scene Five, where the bard spells out a naughty word.” Matthew couldn’t believe that, so he determined to look it up. “And there’s a scene in Henry the Fifth which has an English lesson for the French princess, and it features a couple of French obscenities. A lot of this stuff comes from upper society, you know. Take Rochester, for instance – a prominent member – what are you giggling about, Stephanie? I meant that literally – an egregious participant in the Restoration court of Charles II. The erotic poems he wrote are extraordinarily plain in their language, and have never been openly published in England.”

“Please, miss, you’ve got to give us examples,” said a girl in the back row, and Mrs Cairns made haste to accommodate her. “All right, Cynthia, let me see,” and she hefted up a large old book onto her desk. “This, ladies (and Matthew too, sorry) is the 1680 Antwerp edition of his Poems on Several Occasions, a very rare and valuable tome! I’ve borrowed it from the marvellous Grainger Library next door. Now here’s a poem – oh wait. I really think you’ll get more effect from it from hearing it read not by a girl but a boy. After all, it was written by a man. Matthew! Please come forward.”

He did as he was bid, curious to know what he could do for them, and they looked at him with bawdy expectation. At the least, he thought, I’m not going to be embarrassed here, as it’s usually been. Mrs Cairns pointed to the page, and he adjusted his eyes to the old print (and they widened in amazement) as she proceeded to tell the girls the subject of the poem. “Well, it’s a satirical little piece of verse purporting to be addressed by a lover to his girl who isn’t very clean. It’s quite clear what he means…. He talks of ‘flowers’ in the first verse, which you must know is a reference to the ‘flow’ of one’s menses. Matthew, read it, please, with as much expression as you can!” The boy licked his lips, and a blush settled over his cheeks as he read.

“By all love’s soft, yet mighty powers,

It is a thing unfit,

That men should fuck in time of flowers,

Or when the smock’s beshit.

Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,

And all my joys restore;

By using paper still behind,

And sponges for before.

My spotless flames can ne’er decay,

If after every close,

My smoking prick escape the fray

Without a bloody nose.

If thou would have me true, be wise,

And take to cleanly sinning,

None but fresh lovers’ pricks can rise

At Phyllis in foul linen.”

The class sat in shocked silence. Matthew looked up at the girls and his blush grew deeper, and the name reminded him of the girl who’d laughed at his prick on the stairs that time. Mrs Cairns drew her breath and commented, “It’s a remarkable poem, isn’t it? You do see what it’s about? Helena, what’s it about?”

The girl she spoke to flushed as she replied as honestly as she could. “It’s about … about fucking,” she said with an anxious look at her teacher, “during the time the girl is menstruating, or when she hasn’t wiped her bum after a shit.” She glanced up at Matthew and her flush grew.

The other girls looked shocked, but Mrs Cairns nodded in a matter of fact way and said, “Exactly so, Helena, and bravely said. Perhaps you see why Rochester’s reputation went down in the ensuing centuries. Dr Johnson didn’t like him, but Voltaire, the French philosophe, called him a genius. Mind you, the play he’s supposed to have written, called Sodom, is a bit over the score in my opinion, and maybe he didn’t write it. But we do know (or, shall I say, we’re a lot more sure) he wrote this other poem, an address to his penis, and cursing it for coming too soon (what they call premature ejaculation) and then not performing. It’s called The Imperfect Enjoyment. Matthew, do you think you could read this, please?” She turned to another page and pointed it out. The boy read the verses, trying to distance himself by deliberately acting it out and declaiming with as much passion as he could muster. As he neared the end he gestured, and forgot himself in the play; his audience followed him with rapt attention.

“… Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,

Through all the town a common fucking post,

On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt

As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt;

Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,

Or in consuming weepings waste away;

May strangury and stone thy days attend;

May’st thou never piss, who didst refuse to spend

When all my joys did on false thee depend.

And may ten thousand abler pricks agree

To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.”

He took a deep breath as the girls, and their teacher, broke into applause. “There!” said Mrs Cairns. “That was really a magnificent performance. Thank you, Matthew!” The bell rang for the lesson’s end, and the girls left, shaking their heads in amazement. The teacher congratulated the boy again, and as he went out in something of a daze she smiled and invited him back “any time.”

He had no appetite for lunch, and merely swallowed a mugful of tea before escaping to the library. There he amused himself by gloating over some very erotic etchings, but couldn’t stay awake. He came to with a start to find he’d missed tea, and thought he could visit the butler and perhaps unburden himself. When he got to Bryden’s rooms the old man was hospitable.

“Hello, young Raven! Come in and have some gin.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I don’t … I mean thank you but I don’t like it. Have you—”

“I can give you tea and biscuits,” said the butler, “and maybe a piece of cake or something. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please, Mr Bryden,” said the boy, “I’m a bit peckish, I missed lunch and tea.”

“Good heavens, lad, we’ll have to see about something then.” He busied himself with the kettle and teapot, and opened a tin. “I did say you could come and visit any old time. Have the little vixens been getting at you?”

“Mr Bryden, I think I can confide in you, maybe I can tell you what I’ve been going through this past while.” The old man looked at him and merely said “Oh, yes?”

As tea was prepared and the table set out, Matthew told in a halting way something of what had been happening to him. Bryden listened without comment, merely pursing his lips now and then and nodding as if to say “I’m not surprised.”

As they sipped their brew he broke silence, saying “Well now, young Raven! As I said before, she’s using you, and maybe this new girl, to amuse the staff and the schoolgirls. She’s done this before, you know.”

“Really? I might have known I wasn’t the first, somehow. When was this?”

“About six months ago it was. It didn’t last long, the girl ran away. Her name was Sally Crawford, a rather pretty girl with pale hair, not exactly blonde – grey eyes and a sort of appealing look to her. I liked her a lot, but she soon had too much of Mrs G’s tries to make her into a sort of wind-up doll that you could make do anything, anything shameful anyway. She trusted me I suppose, and she let me know she was going, the night before. She’d found some old boy’s clothes in one of the attics and cut her hair, a pretty good disguise, and her figure was boyish too, slim hips and not too prominent bosom, and she told me she was going to run away to a friend she had quite a bit away. She kissed me,” the old man said with a reminiscent smile, “and said she’d never forget me. I’m glad to remember her like this. Thank you for helping me remember. I have a photo of her here, somewhere….”

Matthew looked at his friend and smiled himself. “Mr Bryden,” he began, “I want you to meet Catherine. I know you’ll like her. I wonder if we can come here to visit--”

“And have tea and scones? Of course, lad. It seems she could do with a bit of sympathy too, eh? How often do you see each other?”

“Well, breakfast time is really the only time we can be sure of, somehow. Mrs G makes plans for us, and they’ve all been separate so far. But I can’t promise to give you warning before we come, you see.”

“If I’m here, and decent, you’re welcome,” said Bryden. “If I’m not here, you’re still welcome. Don’t worry too much, young Raven. I’ll be pleased.

“And,” he added, “ I can always go out for a walk and leave you alone for a while.” He looked at the boy, who blushed. “Oh yes, young Raven! I can see you’re interested in her. What’s she like?”

“Oh, Mr Bryden! She’s just an inch shorter than me, and she has nice golden-brown hair, and the sweetest smile you ever saw. Her—” He stopped abruptly.

“You were going to tell me about her body, weren’t you?” said the old man knowingly. “Well, is she well-made, and all that?” Matthew hesitated to describe her charms, but had to tell somebody.

“Her body is slim, her waist is small, her … bosom is … is girlish, she doesn’t have big breasts like Abigail – her hips are narrow, she’s not broad in the beam like Gertrude. She moves nicely, her voice is soft and … and melodious, somehow. Her eyes sparkle, and when she smiles she lightens up the room. I think--”

“I think,” said Bryden, “you’re in love with her.” Matthew looked at him in a sort of shamefaced shock. “Yes, young lad, I can see you’re absolutely smitten. What does she think of you?”

Matthew looked away in a melancholy sort of way and said, “I don’t know, Mr Bryden. I only hope she likes and trusts me as much as I do her. I’ve tried to be nice to her and make things as easy as I can for her, give her sympathy for all the awful things they’ve done to her--”

“What things?”

“Well,” said Matthew, “I don’t feel right talking about her behind her back, breaking confidence….”

“All right, lad, I understand. But she’s been subjected to Mrs G’s regimen, has she, humiliated? Of course. I know the kind of thing. Sally told me a lot of what she had to endure. So anyway, you’ve done your best for her. I think you don’t need to worry about what she thinks of you. Whether she actually reciprocates your tender feelings though, that’s another story. And you’re both very young. Still, bring her along, I look forward to meeting her.”

“Thanks, Mr Bryden. You don’t know what this means.”

“I have an idea,” said the old man, “believe it or not, I was in love once myself.” His face grew grave and he looked away. “A long time ago. Half a lifetime ago.” Then he sighed and shifted in his chair. “But enough of that. Have some more tea, and I’ve got a mutton pie you might like.”

=================================================================

Tuesday 19^th May

Latin class

“I don’t know that you’ll derive anything from this class at all,” said Elizabeth Huxton, “so I think it better if we deal not with declensions and conjugations, but the literature and habits of old Rome. What do you think?”

The boy blinked and stammered “Yes, miss. I’m sorry to interfere in the lesson--”

“It’s all right, boy, we have to do it some time, so take a seat. Girls! Come to order. Let’s talk about the literature that’s written in the language we’ve been studying. Big names to remember here are Tacitus, an historian, Cicero, an orator, Julius Caesar, a general and politician, and Virgil, a poet.” She wrote the names on the board. “Tacitus, whose name literally means – what, Stephanie?”

“‘Silent’, miss.”

“Yes, quite ironic. He was the son-in-law of Agricola, which means – what, Mary?”

“Er, ‘farmer’, miss.”

“Quite right. He was the man, the general, who invaded Britain and defeated the Celtic tribes at the Battle of Mons Graupius. ‘Mons’ means ‘mount’ of course—” There was a snigger from the girl sitting next to Matthew, and Miss Huxton looked at her sharply and said “Yes, Jeanette, the same word as in mons veneris, the mount of Venus between your legs.” The girl coloured and looked at Matthew, and was silent. “He was fighting a famous chief called Calgacus, who was I suppose a Scotsman, you might say nowadays, and his name is certainly Celtic, it seems to mean ‘The Swordsman’. Tacitus tells us how he rallied his troops before the battle with a wonderful rousing speech, in which he characterised the might of Rome in really candid terms – and this is the son-in-law speaking, remember! There’s a great ringing phrase in the speech which I never forget – he says the Romans solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant – ‘They make a desolation, and call it peace.’ Isn’t that marvellous?” Matthew found himself nodding in agreement, and was interested in the enthusiastic lecture.

“Tacitus is full of good phrases,” she continued, “though his language, his style, is a bit difficult, I admit. Now take a poet, Catullus. He has some grand memorable things – Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, ‘Let’s live, my Lesbia, and let us love.’ Why are you whispering? Oh yes, I suppose you’re thinking it refers to a woman’s love for a woman.” Her eyes flickered to the back of the room. “No, Lesbia here is just a common name of the time, addressed by the male poet himself. There are poems in Latin that imitate those of Sappho, though, like another of Catullus’s, it’s really a translation from the Greek, and in fact you could apply it to either sex. It’s addressed to a girl, though, and it’s traditionally called the Ode to Anactoria, though her name doesn’t appear in it.” She wrote it on the board. “Catullus makes it apply to his own Lesbia.

“Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
   spectat et audit
dulce ridentem….”

She declaimed the little poem with feeling, and Matthew got the impression she meant every word of it, looking from time to time at a particular girl in the back row. She followed it up by a translation, evidently her own.

“He seems to me the equal of a god, and even, if it’s allowed, to surpass the gods, who, sitting opposite you, sees you and hears you laughing so sweetly—” Her voice was no longer the clear tones of a lecturer, but something more intimate, low and sensitive.“Which stole all the senses from wretched me, for when I look at you, Lesbia, there’s no more
voice in my mouth, the tongue slips, a thin flame pours down my limbs, my ears ring, and my eyes are covered by night. Yes, dulce ridentem,” she added, with a glance at the girl, “another wonderful phrase.”

At the end of the lesson Matthew had to go up to Miss Huxton and thank her for an interesting talk. “And all from memory, too,” he said. “You really know your stuff.”

The attractive brunette smiled and showed her dimples. “Thank you, Matthew. I’m glad you enjoyed that. It’s not always I get appreciation from that lot of would-be flappers. There’s only one – or two – who listen.”

Matthew looked at her keenly. “Who’s the girl in the back, who seemed to understand better….?”

The teacher looked at him gravely and said with a half smile, “Her name is Eithne, like the heroine of The Four Feathers, do you know?”

“Oh, yes,” said Matthew, “I’ve always thought it was a beautiful name. And she’s a beautiful girl.”

Miss Huxton looked at him and looked away. “Yes, Matthew, she is. Dulce ridentem or not. I can see you knew what I was doing there. But perhaps you understand what it’s like….”

He looked at her with a sympathetic smile. “I’m in love, too,” he said simply. “And Catullus, or Sappho, knew all the symptoms. It’s just like that. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Matthew, yes! All I can say is, good luck with it.”

“You too,” he said.

The teacher nodded and said “Thank you. I may find out very soon. Bless you, boy.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and departed.

That afternoon he attended Miss Birkett’s Dressmaking class and enjoyed himself, learning to sew a fine seam. He was of course the subject of a measuring session, but apart from some giggles when the girls took their tape to the inseam, all passed off without embarrassment.

That night he sought out Catherine, who was tired doing laundry all day, and took her to Mr Bryden’s rooms, where they were welcomed with tea and scones and jam. The old man seemed to take to her immediately (and why not? Of course he would. Anyone would, she was so … adorable) and prevailed upon her to tell something of her life. “It’s short, of course,” he said with a smile, “but maybe you’ve had some experiences?” She looked sombre and gazed at him with thoughtful eyes. “Yes, maybe.”

She took a sighing breath. “I can’t remember my parents,” she said, looking into the fire. “I was only two when I lost them. We sailed on the Titanic—”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Bryden.

“Yes, with a nanny (we were quite well off). Anyway, the ship went down. I was told that my mother kissed me and handed me to the nurse, who was getting into a lifeboat, and told her she’d stay with her husband. So I was saved, but they drowned….

“I was sent to my uncle, who had a farm in Sussex. I was happy there, but it only lasted a dozen years. He educated me though, and I had a governess and piano lessons and a pony….” She smiled sadly. “Uncle died early last year, and I was packed off by the lawyers to Mrs Grove’s orphanage.”

“Lawyers handled the estate, then. Was your uncle well off?”

“I thought he was, Mr Bryden, and he’d have inherited from my mother I suppose, but evidently there were debts to pay and all sorts of problems. So I was suddenly in this awful place….”

Bryden looked at her. “Catherine, my dear,” he said at last, “I want you to write down all the names of those people, and their addresses too, as accurately as you can. I’ll do a little bit of research, if you don’t mind. Oh, my dear! It reminds me of The Little Princess, do you know it? Used to a nice comfortable home, suddenly thrust into a repressive prison.”

She looked at him and nodded. “It was rather like that. But there was no wonderful solution, no restitution, like the story. I was a skivvy and starved and beaten when I looked the wrong way. And then kind Mrs Grainger rescued me—”

“Ha!” scoffed Bryden. “It seemed that way, but you found out pretty quick there was a drawback or two, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, then looked across at Matthew. “But there has been one wonderful positive thing. I met dear Matthew.” They smiled at each other, and Bryden couldn’t help a catch in his throat as he recognised the look of true love passing between them. Yes, he told himself, he’d do his damnedest for them, this pair of dear lovebirds, these children of his heart.

“Mr Bryden,” she said hesitantly, “maybe we can tell you how we met, and what Mrs Grainger and Abigail are doing to us. Unless Matthew’s told you already.” Matthew looked at her askance, and their host nodded and said “I have an idea, but tell me anyway. I suppose it’ll be a bit embarrassing, no? You’ll have my sympathy though.”

Matthew looked at him and said “You know about the humiliations we’re going through. That began the very first days. I had lost my smock that they gave me, and was naked and trying to hide behind a curtain in the morning room—“

“—When Mrs G brought me in to … examine me. She stripped me,” said Catherine shakily, “and examined … examined my body,” she said bravely, “very … intimately. My … private parts,” she said with a rush, “and Matthew was there behind the curtain. I saw him –”

“And I saw her,” said Matthew, “naked. She was the first girl I’d ever seen like that. I thought she was marvellous, and I was … speechless.”

Catherine went on, “He was naked too, and he was marvellous.” She looked at the old butler and smiled ruefully. “It was a mad, ridiculous way to meet, and we should have been scared to see one another again, but we did, and when we did it was … somehow … we made a connection, we saw we were both victims, we became comrades, you might say. And having seen each other naked ….”

“We realised we … liked each other, desired each other,” said Matthew. “And that’s the beginning of love.”

Bryden looked at them. “May I suggest,” he said almost diffidently, “that you agree to maintain your level of attachment as it is, and don’t take it further until you’re a lot older? I mean,” he added, seeing the looks on their faces, “that you are both very young, and decidedly below the age of consent, if I know my law. There’s nothing to prevent you cuddling one another, though, and in fact I’d recommend it – you have to release your passion somehow. And moreover, you couldn’t marry, if that’s crossed your mind, for ages yet, even at Gretna, though I should look that up. The Scots are more accommodating! I do know, though, that they’ve had a law about three weeks’ residence there for seventy years or so. Anyhow, I think that you’ll just have to brace yourselves for more onslaughts on your modesty. Oh yes,” he said, seeing the despair on their faces, “it can’t be helped, it can’t be avoided. Mrs G wants you to be naked and ogled by everyone, and she always gets her way. I would guess too that if she is disappointed in her game she won’t just stop it, she’ll retaliate in some way.”

“Yes,” said Matthew, “that’s what stops us complaining. Catherine would be cruelly punished, and my Mrs Crossley would probably dismiss my family.”

“Well then,” said the old man, “it probably behoves you to play along with her. Let her think she’s winning. At the same time, keep your emotions concealed, let her think you’re totally submissive and yielding to her. She likes to feel she’s in charge – let her think so. As long as you keep your own integrity. In the long run, I’m convinced, you’ll be fine.”

They looked at each other and nodded. Catherine said “Thanks, Mr Bryden, you’re a helpful comfort. It won’t be pleasant submitting, but in secret we’ll be laughing at her and despising her for her inhumanity. Right, Matthew?”

He nodded. “It’s maybe the only way to keep sane,” he said, “in this madhouse. And we’ll always be able to come here,” he looked gratefully at his host, “and unburden ourselves, just be ourselves.”

“That’s the ticket!” said Bryden. “Now, have some more tea.”

(The End)