By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com
Copyright 2025 by Governess, all rights reserved
[2,434 words]´
* * * * *Chapter 77
At five o’clock, they
reassembled in the hall. The vaulting horse had been placed at the
front in the centre of the stage. The legs had been shortened so the
boys once hoisted, would present their bottoms at just the tight angle
for a sustained flogging.
“Stand behind the horse,
Elizabeth. You will be required to hold the boy by the wrists to
prevent his slipping off the seat over which he has been
stretched.”
“But supposed his fights and tries to free himself,
Mother.?”
“We can prevent that very easily.”
She turned to James Fairclough.
“I think it would be prudent to cuff the boys before they are
led into
the hall. I can do that after they have been stripped in the infirmary.
A leather strap around each wrist with an interlinking strap holding
them together should provide the necessary restraint. I use similar
cuffs from time to time, in the dormitories. Elizabeth, instead of
holding the wrists, can grip the strap securing their wrists together.
That should make it well nigh impossible for them to escape her hold.
So, would you be happier with that, Elizabeth? “
“Yes. Thank you, Mother.”
“Good. So Mrs Fairclough and I will lift the boys and
position them with their bottoms bare and exposed toward the
assembly.”
She smiled.
“And you, Elizabeth, will reach over and pull up their
shirts.”
Elizabeth could feel her pulse beginning to race. She stood behind the
horse and reached out, imagining she were grasping a boy’s
bound wrist.
And she felt a further thrill pass through her as she realised that the
height of the horse would allow her to see every stroke of the tawse or
birch as it was laid on. She saw her mother looking at her, and knew
that she was aware of exactly what she was thinking.
James placed a hand on the suede leather top of the buck.
“So, the boys are to receive alternate strokes of the birch
and tawse.
I suggest that after a dozen strokes of each, you pause and let the boy
writhe and smart for a while. When the full quota has been delivered,
he will be let down and made to kneel with a straight back and watch
his companion suffer a similar fate. And that boy will also have been
kneeling watching the first boy receive his punishment. ”
“That’s an excellent idea, James. It introduces a
further element of
shame and anticipation that cannot but be valuable. Don’t you
agree,
Cordelia?”
“Yes, I am very happy with that. “
“And
James, you remember that time Howard had been playing with matches in
his room and had set the curtains on fire. Fortunately, nothing but the
curtains were damaged – other than his bottom. If I remember
we gave
him a double birching. The shock of what he had done, and my fury at
what he had done rendered him utterly quiescent. And there was no
opposition nor protest when I stripped off every stitch of clothing. I
turned him over the usual stool and fastened the strap around him.
However, what I remember most was that there was only one birch in the
pail ready for use. And after two dozen, it was becoming frayed and
needing to be replaced. But there was none to replace it and I had to
continue to give hm the further four dozen with a birch that was
becoming increasingly useless.. I hope nothing like that will happen
tomorrow.”
“No fear of that, my dear. There will be four
stout extremely punishing rods in steep and ready for use. If
necessary, a rod can be changed after every dozen strokes. And Matron
will, I am sure, have a pail of saline to hand to swab them down when
the skin becomes worn and bloody.”
“Yes, I will certainly be doing that.”
“And afterwards, I assume you will march the boys off to the
infirmary
to recover from their ordeal. But I want them back at their desks on
Monday. They don’t deserve any consideration and must be back
sitting
on a hard school bench at the earliest opportunity.”
“They
certainly will be. There’ll be no snuggling down between warm
sheets in
an infirmary bed, either. . I see no reason why a well flogged bottom
should prevent their resuming their normal routine the same
day.”
“Excellent. Well, unless there are any questions, thank you
for your
thoughts and contribution. And you are happy, Elizabeth, with what you
have to do?”
“Yes, thank you, Sir.”
And the meeting
broke up, leaving the hall empty but for the gymnasium buck awaiting
the weight of two ten-year-old boys stretched across it, wriggling in
agony as birch and tawse alternately raised their distinctive weals on
their bottoms and thighs.
After the children had been
settled down for the night, Cordelia was tempted to continue reading
from Laura Ravenscourt’s memoirs that Diana had left with
her. But she
instead went into her little study and thought about what she was going
to say to the boys in chapel in the morning. She decided that it would
be appropriate to base her words on a verse of Scripture. She took down
her Bible, and after some consideration, decided on Proverbs 23:13-14
Withhold
not correction from a child: if you beat him with the rod, he will no
die. If you beat him with the rod, you will save his soul from hell.
She
wondered how best to shape the address, and decided that for boys, a
compelling narrative expressed in vivid and arresting language was
required. She would make some brief heading and then speak from those.
The Rector read his sermons,. They were worthy but quite unsuitable for
boys whose thoughts she could see were always elsewhere. She had every
confidence that she would be able to give an extempore address that
held their attention and prepared them for witnessing
Clough’s and
Graham’s punishment.
She got up and retrieved the Ravenscourt
memoirs, and sitting in a comfortable chair continued from the point
where she had broken off.
And the versatility of the birch
is something, too, that should be treasured. It can be used to punish a
small boy, even a young as three or four, tickling his bottom to a warm
and tingling glow, and providing the promise of further, more painful
punishment if his behaviour does not improve; while it is quite capable
of reducing an older boy, even a late teenager, to a blubbering,
quivering wreck, with buttocks and thighs covered in the long throbbing
weals that are the marks of a thorough birching.
And so I
began to make the transition to birching James, although I did not
entirely set aside the hairbrush. The issue of who was to bind up the
rods, drawing on the extensive provision of birch trees in the grounds,
was soon settled. I had made representations to Mrs Fairclough on the
need for a housekeeper to cook and keep house for us. Mrs Fairclough
suggested several women from the village who might be suitable and of
those I interviewed Mrs Cranborne was undoubtedly the best. She was a
widow who was the mother of two boys. Both had left home, one going
into service as a under footman and the other apprenticed to a farrier.
She was free to provide as much time and assistance as we required and
was even prepared to live in as necessary. Careful questioning
established that she had no reservations about the use of corporal
punishment, and indeed had birched both her boys during their
upbringing. When asked whether she would be willing to select and bind
up the birch lengths required for James’s discipline, she
agreed
without hesitation. Even when I explained that my recourse to the birch
would be frequent and that on occasions up to three or four rods might
be needed a week, she did not demur.
Each Monday morning she
would go into the grounds and bring home on a trug, sufficient lengths,
to bind up four birch rods which she would place to steep in a pail of
water in the scullery. Another pail was placed in the schoolroom ready
for the week ahead with a rod ready for use. James found the transition
to the birch difficult to accept. His protests were voluble and
physical. It became immediately clear that restraint was necessary to
break in this young colt and Mrs Cranborne was more than willing to
assist.
On the very first Monday, James chose to argue over
an explanation I had given, displaying a complete lack of respect, and
indeed common sense, as if an eight-year-old knew better than his
mentor. I called him out to stand in front of my desk and explained
that his manner and unwillingness to learn were unacceptable and that
he needed to be punished. He narrowed his eyes and looked away,
confirming the need to be dealt with severely. I stepped from behind
ted desk and pointed to the pail.
‘Do you know what is in that pail, James?’
His manner was truculent.
‘No, I don’t’
‘Well, you will soon be finding out. Undress, please. I want
you
stripped completely. Your shoes and socks off. And fold your clothes
neatly and lay them on the top of your desk.’
“No. No. I won’t. You can’t make
me”
He was breathing heavily, and stiff with resistance.
I twisted my finger around a tuft of hair and dragged back his head,
and delivered half a dozen stinging smacks to his left cheek. He
screamed and sank to the floor in a sobbing heap. I reached down and
hauled him upright. Bending down, I kissed him on the smarting cheek.
“Stop crying and listen to me, James. When boys behave
foolishly they need a quick shock to bring them to his
senses.”
I put my arm around him and drew him close against me. I’m
already very
fond of you, James, and am here to provide the loving discipline you
need. So please be a sensible, boy and do as I ask. I’m
waiting.”
He hesitated, and looked down, tearful but now calmer.
“I . . . I am sorry, Miss Ravenscourt.”
And slowly but obediently, he began to ease out his shirt and pull it
over his head. Then off came his vest.
“Fold them neatly, please, James.”
It is one thing for a boy to strip off his top, but he was clearly
reluctant to divest himself of his lower garments.
“And your trousers and pants, James. Bot first, take off your
shoes and socks. Quickly now"
He looked at me pleadingly through fresh damp eyes.”
“No, James, all off.”
And soon a small shivering naked boy was standing flushed and anxious
before me. Like all boys, so exposed, his hands went to cover his limp
penis and his tight little scrotum.
“Take your hands away, James and put them by your side. And
turn round.”
Again, I marvelled at the perfection of his body. The smoothness of the
back, the sweep of the buttocks flaring into that soft firm heaviness
that invited punishment. Wordsworth had waited five summers and five
long winters before enjoying again the delights of the Wye, but more
years than that had passed before there was a governess to delight in
James's soft sensitive little bottom .
I stepped across and put my arm around him, and felt him press against
me.
“Good boy. Now go across to the armchair and stand facing its
back.”
He was quiet now and seemed to accept that resistance would be futile,
and probably guessed that it would only lead to additional punishment.
I walked over and lifted him over the back of the chair. However, he
began to squirm and protest, and I placed my hand in the small of his
back.
Mrs Cranborne!”
She came into the room but stopped in the doorway.
“Well, that’s a slight for sore eyes and no
mistake, Miss Ravenscourt. The lad’s in need of a little
correction, is he?”
“Well, Mrs Cranborne, I’m not so sure about the
‘little’. I'd say a
rude argumentative eight-year-old boy is in need of more than a
‘little' correction, wouldn’t you? And the way he
is wriggling and
resisting suggests to my mind a good birching is in order.”
‘‘I won’t disagree with that, Miss
Ravenscourt. My two were no
strangers to the birch. Which at this boy’s age was usually
several
times a month, and often more frequently. A widow has to make clear
who’s in charge. It makes no sense to let them drive you to
distraction. First hint of disobedience and it was over the stool with
a strap around him and two dozen strokes swished across a bare little
bottom.’
‘You heard that, James? Stop wriggling this instant
and lie still. Or else I’ll have to tie you down and you can
take the
consequences. That birch in the pail was cut and bound up by Mrs
Cranborne. She is here to assist me in bringing some necessary
discipline into your life. Painful discipline, James. But loving
discipline The imprint of the birch on your soft little bottom is no
less loving than the kiss on your lips apt bedtime. It is love in
action, shaping and making you into a strong obedient boy.’
He began to cry.
‘Why are you crying, James?’
‘I don’t want to be beaten. Please don’t
beat me?’
‘Does he need to be beaten, Mrs Cranborne? What do you
think?’
‘The question, it seems to me, Miss Ravenscourt, is why
shouldn’t he be beaten.’
‘You heard Mrs Cranborne, James, why do you think you
shouldn’t be beaten?’
“Please, Miss Ravenscourt, I was only beaten yesterday. It
really hurt. I won’t be bad again, I promise.’
‘That is strange, James. If you were beaten yesterday and
misbehaved
again today, it seems to suggest to me that you were not beaten enough,
and need to be beaten again today. Isn’t that
right?’
‘No! No! I promise, If you don’t beat me,
I’ll be especially good. Please! I promise! Please!’
‘But James you had every opportunity to be
‘especially good’ after yesterday’s
beating. Why should it be different this time?’
‘But, it will. I promise, Miss Ravenscourt. It really
will.’
‘James, is that likely? You expect me to believe that if
yesterday’s
beating didn’t lead to better behaviour, then no beating at
all is
likely to do so?’
And I stepped across to the pail and took out a birch, shaking off the
excess moisture.