Portrait of a Disciplinarian (16 page)

Stephanie broke off. Vera was coming, writhing against Stephanie’s hand and gasping out her passion, shiver after shiver running through her flesh, while her bottom bounced and quivered to the furious slaps. Cruel delight filled Stephanie as she brought Vera off, and she was still grinning when the maid slumped panting on to the floor.

The smile remained on Stephanie’s face as she washed, threw on a light dress without bothering about underwear, slapped her school boater on her head and made her way downstairs. Spanking Vera had been immensely satisfying and had even helped to remove the shame of her behaviour the night before, leaving only the nervous thrill of knowing that the giant pig was now safely ensconced in the woods – a feeling magnified a dozen times when she caught the sound of voices from the breakfast room, her grandfather’s and that of Sir Murgatroyd Drake.

‘Good morning, Grandpapa,’ she said as she entered. ‘Good morning, Sir Murgatroyd.’

Her grandfather made a polite response. Sir Murgatroyd Drake ignored her, his face much the same colour as Stephanie and Vera’s bottoms had been a half-hour before, his moustache quivering with rage as he addressed Sir Richard, who had been reading the morning paper and had lowered it only slightly to address his visitor.

‘You, sir, are despicable, a disgrace to the county and to the Empire!’ Sir Murgatroyd stormed, thrusting out an accusing finger.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Sir Richard responded calmly. ‘Sit down. Help yourself to a fried egg. Or perhaps some kedgeree?’

‘I do not want a fried egg,’ Sir Murgatroyd snapped, ‘nor any kedgeree, and you know perfectly well what is the matter, you pig thief … you swine rustler, you …’

‘You don’t mean to say somebody has pinched your pig?’ Sir Richard broke in, his puzzled tone giving way to open amusement, which caused Sir Murgatroyd’s face to darken from smacked-bottom red to the shade of old burgundy.

‘As you know perfectly well!’ he roared. ‘I … I shall have you expelled from your clubs!’

‘I don’t have any,’ Sir Richard pointed out.

‘Thrown off the hunt committee!’ Sir Murgatroyd thundered.

‘I own the kennels, and most of the horses.’

‘Disbarred from the Tamar Valley and West Devon Association of Pig Breeders!’

‘I doubt it, not if it means the Porker’s out of the running for the show, and besides, I’m not sure why you should assume I stole your rotten pig. You’ll probably find it was the work of some public-spirited group dedicated to good causes. You know, like the chaps who provide soup to the poor of Exeter and Plymouth.’

‘What would they want with my pig?’ Sir Murgatroyd demanded.

‘Bacon? Ham? Chops? Trotters in vinegar even,’ Sir Richard suggested as the colour of Sir Murgatroyd’s face continued to darken, from a somewhat younger burgundy through ripe fig to a rich mulberry purple. ‘There would be enough to feed a whole platoon of paupers, I should think. Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast? We have devilled ham, and some excellent kidneys.’

‘I do not wish breakfast!’ Sir Murgatroyd answered. ‘I came here to demand the return of my prize pig, and if he is not forthcoming, to call you out!’

‘I do not have your pig, and therefore I am not in a position to return it,’ Sir Richard responded. ‘As to calling me out, aren’t you a little behind the times? Nobody’s fought a duel in these parts for years, and besides, as a magistrate, shouldn’t you be setting a good example?’

‘There are times when a gentleman has no choice,’ Sir Murgatroyd replied, his voice now cold and his face once more of a smacked-bottom hue.

‘Perhaps true,’ Sir Richard admitted, ‘but this is not, I feel, such an occasion. Nevertheless, if you insist, I can hardly refuse, so if you still feel the same way when you’ve calmed down a little, send your second round and he can arrange matters with, let me see … Stiffy, do you fancy being my second in a duel? It might be rather fun.’

‘Me?’ Stephanie queried.

‘Your granddaughter!?’ Sir Murgatroyd demanded. ‘Are you trying to make a mockery of me?’

‘Not at all,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘If she is to have the vote, she can stand as second in a duel. We will expect your challenge.’

‘You shall have it!’ Sir Murgatroyd promised. He turned on his heel and left.

‘What a frightful temper,’ Sir Richard remarked, putting down his paper. ‘Are you about to have breakfast, or would you care to stroll down for a look
at
the Emperor? If that buffoon’s animal really has been stolen, then I fancy we’re in the running for a gold medal.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Stephanie offered, realising that there would be no better time to extract a loan from him, ‘but you’re not really going to fight Sir Murgatroyd, are you?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ he said as they stepped out on to the terrace, ‘but yes, if I have to.’

‘He’s very much younger than you,’ Stephanie pointed out in genuine concern.

‘Fifteen years, I believe,’ he answered with some asperity, ‘and while I’m not in the habit of smacking your bottom, young Stiffy, any more impudence and I might change my mind.’

‘Sorry,’ Stephanie said quickly, ‘but still, a duel …’

‘I could hardly refuse,’ he said. ‘The ancestors would be spinning in their graves. But you are forgetting that as the challenged party I will have choice of weapons.’

He gave a wry chuckle and they walked on in silence for a space, down the long slope of the lawn. When they reached the lake she decided to act.

‘Grandpapa,’ she said, ‘do you remember that I asked if you could advance me twenty pounds until my allowance came through?’

‘Ten, I believe you asked for,’ he said with a chuckle.

‘Ten then,’ she said, ‘if you’d like to reconsider, that is, although twenty would be nice.’

‘I believe my sister is watching from the house,’ he replied, ‘so if you don’t want that little bottom of yours reddened up after all, I suggest we wait until we’re safely in the Emperor’s sty.’

‘Does that mean I click?’ she asked. ‘Even though I’m in disgrace?’

‘Why not?’ he responded. ‘Damn it, I’m the head of the family. Why should I worry about what Vicky thinks, let alone my daughter-in-law? But you be careful, young lady.’

‘I will,’ Stephanie promised earnestly. ‘Thank you, Grandpapa.’

They had reached the sty, and the money changed hands under the incurious eyes of Cyril Wonnacott, who was mixing the Emperor’s morning feed. Wary of her great-aunt, Stephanie waited until what she considered a decent interval had elapsed before leaving the sty and walking nonchalantly back to the house. An idea had occurred to her, and she went straight to Hermione’s room.

‘Got it!’ she announced, waving the four large, white five-pound notes she had received. ‘Do you suppose if we ran over to Bridestowe we could get it on the Emperor before Porker hears the news?’

‘Probably,’ Hermione admitted, ‘but he’s bound to be suspicious.’

‘No,’ Stephanie explained. ‘He’ll just think we heard first. There’s no reason to suspect we pinched the pig.’

‘He’d be jolly cross,’ Hermione said, with a smile that immediately gave way to a grimace.

‘Never mind that,’ Stephanie said. ‘Would he pay up, that’s the thing?’

‘He’d have to,’ Hermione answered.

‘Four hundred pounds?’

‘It would clean him out, just about,’ Hermione said with considerable satisfaction, ‘but he’d have to pay, or everyone would start demanding their money back and he’d be in real trouble. Besides, we could threaten to tell old Tredegar.’

‘That’s true,’ Stephanie agreed, ‘and speaking of telling old Tredegar … no, never mind.’

‘What?’ Hermione demanded.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Stephanie said hastily, having remembered that revealing that she knew what Porker Porthwell had made Hermione do would mean admitting to peeping. ‘Shall I go then?’

‘If you like,’ Hermione answered, and there was no mistaking the gratitude in her voice.

* * *

Stephanie set off, using the stable entrance to avoid any stalking aunts and hurrying for Bridestowe. As she went she tried to decide whether she should accost the curate with what she knew and demand that he stop it, or whether Hermione deserved it for her refusal to accept a sisterly spanking. There was really no choice. Hermione was family and Porker Porthwell was not. By the time she reached the rectory Stephanie had steeled herself for a disagreeable interview.

As before, the door was opened by the Reverend Wallace Tredegar, and it took a while before Stephanie could speak to the curate alone. However, no mention was made of the stolen pig, which would shortly be the gossip of the entire district, and she was confident of broaching the topic of adding to her bet.

‘How are the odds on the Emperor?’ she asked as they walked out on to the lawn from which she had watched her sister masturbate him.

‘I can get you in at twelve to one,’ he replied, abandoning his pious curate’s voice for the oily tones of a turf accountant.

‘Here’s twenty pounds,’ Stephanie said, slipping the note between his chubby fingers, ‘to take the gold medal.’

He took the money without hesitation and ducked behind a yew hedge to write out her receipt. For a moment she worried that he was just a little too confident, but pushed the concern aside. Gathering her courage, she looked up at his imposing bulk and addressed him in her sternest tone.

‘There’s another thing I wish to talk about. You will stop bothering my sister, or I shall know what to do about it.’

For an instant he looked surprised, then answered her.

‘Your sister is a dirty trollop, and she enjoys every minute of what we do together.’

‘How dare you!’ she gasped. ‘How dare you call her a … a …’

‘A dirty trollop,’ he filled in as words failed her, ‘which is what she is, whatever she may have told you.’

‘She didn’t tell me anything,’ Stephanie retorted. ‘I saw, the last time she came for a piano lesson.’

‘Then you’ll have seen how she deliberately tossed me into her mouth, and all over those fat little bouncers of hers,’ he said, ‘and you, Stiffy Truscott, shouldn’t be peering in at people’s windows.’

‘Miss Truscott to you,’ she snapped back, ‘and you made her do that, you filthy beast!’

‘I think not,’ he answered. ‘Last time, she let me do it over her bottom, after I’d spanked her. She even ate some off her finger, just to show off for me.’

‘I don’t believe you! She hates you!’

He shrugged, then answered in a thoughtful, almost philosophical tone.

‘It is a curious thing, human desire. Perhaps she does hate me, in her own little way, but she loves being my trollop. Did you watch her rub her cunt after she’d finished with me?’

‘No,’ Stephanie replied, ‘and I don’t believe it either.’

‘Oh, she did,’ he assured her. ‘She sat on the stool with her legs wide open, showing me everything and rubbing my spunk into her bouncers while she diddled herself, and when she came … ouch!’

His description of Hermione’s behaviour ended abruptly as Stephanie’s shoe made contact with his shin. But as she fled from the rectory garden she was far from sure that he’d been lying.

Rather than return to the house, Stephanie walked up towards the main road with the intention of catching a train for Postbridge. The two-seater would be ready, and she was itching to get back behind the wheel, although rather less keen on the prospect of teaching Hermione to drive. Then she heard her name called. Recognising the voice of Claude Attwater, she said a rude word under her breath before turning around and forcing a smile.

‘Hello, Claude. I was just on my way to the station.’

‘I’ll walk with you then,’ he offered, extending his arm. ‘You will of course be at the rally at the Okehampton Show?’

‘Um … yes,’ she agreed.

‘Excellent. I am expecting a good audience, and intend to speak on social decay and the dangers inherent in Bolshevism.’

He paused, then spoke again.

‘A beautiful day, isn’t it?’

‘Rather dull, I thought,’ Stephanie replied, glancing up at a sky the colour of lead.

‘So it is,’ he agreed. ‘I hadn’t noticed, and the reason I hadn’t noticed, Miss Truscott … Stephanie … I may call you Stephanie, I trust?’

‘If you like,’ she answered cautiously, somewhat alarmed by his tone of voice.

‘Stephanie,’ he went on, ‘every day is beautiful to me and always will be, so long as you, my darling, are upon this earth. Your face lights up the dullest day, the blackest night, the darkest coal bunker. I worship the ground you tread on, Stephanie, and so it is with both ardour and pride that I ask you to accept the honour of becoming my wife, and thus honour me in turn.’

He had got down on one knee in the middle of the road, causing considerable inconvenience to an oncoming bicycle.

‘Um … er …’ Stephanie faltered, too flustered to make a coherent response to the proposal. ‘Mr Attwater, please …’

‘I love you, Stephanie,’ he repeated, taking her hand and beginning to kiss it as a metallic clatter signalled the failure of the bicyclist to remain on his machine.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do,’ he insisted. ‘I adore you, Stephanie, as no man has ever adored a woman before.’

‘No, you don’t. You’re only saying that because you saw my Aunt Lettice spank me, aren’t you?’ she
answered
, and immediately regretted it, blushing crimson at her own words.

‘No, no,’ he assured her, rather too hastily, she thought, ‘that is not the case at all. I will grant that I am not immune to your physical charms, only a statue would not be, and that I am pleased to discover that you take a correct attitude to domestic discipline, but my love for you is pure and true, unsullied by base carnality … well, not as such, anyway. And think, Stephanie, I am destined to be a man of importance, and you will be my helpmate, and one day a great lady.’

‘Look, Mr Attwater, I –’

‘What can the matter be? We are in agreement on political matters. We share the same religion. My family is above reproach, while I have seven thousand a year.’

‘Please, at least let me think about it,’ she said desperately.

‘Why, of course, of course,’ he replied. ‘How foolish of me to expect a delicate creature such as yourself to provide an immediate response, and yet –’