Chapter 6

The rain poured furiously down. The fly-screens on the kitchen door and windows rattled and shuddered on their fastenings. The horses in the stables, frightened by the crackle of the lightning and the claps of thunder, whinnied in distress.

Elisabeth, washing up at the kitchen sink, stared out into the rain. She saw Joan, hooded, Wellington-booted and mackintoshed, running across the yard to the stables. She was evidently going to soothe the horses.

Elisabeth went on with her work, watching for her to come out of the stables. Her boy-friend, Robert Andover, had not come to see her today. Elisabeth was considering the possibility of seizing the opportunity this afternoon of going to her with a proposition. She finished the washing-up, took a tea-cloth and began to dry the dishes.

The force of the rain lessened a little. It began to fall in drops instead of sheets. The drops gradually grew finer until there was only a drizzle. The thunder passed away from overhead and became a rumble in the distance.

The door of the stables opened and Joan appeared. She looked up at the sky, nodded her head, and closed the stable door behind her. She walked back across the yard, a graceful figure in her silky mackintosh. She headed for the front door. In a moment she had disappeared.

Elisabeth wiped the last of the knives and forks. She put everything away swiftly, took off her rubber apron, and left the kitchen. "Shan't be a moment," she said to Mrs. Belton, as she went out. "Just going to get Miss Joan's wet mack. She's dripping."

She reached the hall just as Joan was taking off her Wellingtons. "Let me take your things. Miss Joan. I'll hang them in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Elisabeth," said Joan, slipping off her mackintosh and handing it to the girl. "The horses were quite frightened, poor things."

"It's stopped now. They'll be all right."

"Yes, they'll be all right now."

Elisabeth paused for a moment. "Are you going upstairs, Miss Joan?"

"No, why?"

Elisabeth paused again. "Oh, 'it doesn't matter." Now that the moment had been about to come, she was relieved that it would have to be postponed.

"Why should I go upstairs?" said Joan curiously.

"I — I wanted to speak to you. Privately." She spoke the words quickly, impulsively, as though to give herself no further chance of cowardice.

"All right," said Joan. "But what about?"

"I'll tell you later, Miss Joan. In your bedroom. It must be private."

"This is very mysterious," said Joan in a puzzled way. "But all right. Take those things to the kitchen and then come up to my room."

Elisabeth went back to the kitchen and hung the mackintosh on a wooden hanger.

"Don't put it near the fire," said Mrs. Belton. "Rubber doesn't like heat. Hang it in the wash-house. And put those wet boots there too. And then you'd better start on the silver."

"Miss Joan wants me upstairs."

"What for?"

"Don't know. She's just told me to go up to her bedroom."

"Oh, all right," said Mrs. Belton grumblingly. "But you'll have to do the silver when you come down."

Elisabeth went upstairs with considerable nervousness. How should she begin? Or should she, after all, begin at all? Hadn't she better pretend that she wanted to speak to Joan about something else? But what? She had made the whole thing very mysterious by insisting on a private talk upstairs. What on earth should she do? Oh dear!

She stood motionless outside the bedroom, her hand raised to knock, but making no movement. She stood like this for a full minute, and then drew a deep breath. She made up her mind to stop being a coward. After all, Joan couldn't eat her. And, really, it was she herself who held the whip hand. She shouldn't be afraid of Joan. Joan should be afraid of her — and probably would be when she heard what she was going to hear.

Elisabeth rapped the door with her knuckle. She rapped too loudly, in her new-found determination. She went straight into the room without waiting for a "Come in". She came to an abrupt halt beside the chair in which Joan was sitting.

Joan looked at her curiously. "You're behaving very boldly, Elisabeth. What is the matter?"

Elisabeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. She drew a deep breath through her nostrils. "Miss Joan, I ... "

"Yes?"

"I've wanted all my life — no, not all my life, but a good many years of my life — ever since I was about fourteen, or perhaps fifteen. I'd seen a film called "White Cargo," and there was a beautiful girl in it. I remember her name. It was Tondelayo, or something like that." She stopped again.

"Elisabeth," said Joan, gently. "You're not making sense. WHAT is it you are trying to say? What has Tondelayo, or whatever her name was, to do with me? And why are you shaking like that?"

"She — Tondelayo, that is — gave a negro servant a whipping — with a great big long whip."

Joan's nerves gave a jump. "Well?" she said, as calmly as she could.

"Ever since then I've wanted to give a man a whipping." There! It was out now. "It wouldn't matter what man," she plunged on. "Just any man. With a long whip, or anything."

Joan's nerves jumped again. "What an extraordinary thing to say!"

"But it's true. I swear it is."

"Why do you tell me?" Joan looked up at her, a rush of fear filling her mind. "Those are things a person usually keeps private, aren't they?"

"I've kept it private all these years, Miss Joan."

"But why do you tell me now? That's what I can't understand."

Elisabeth looked her full in the eyes. "Because I'd like to be your assistant, Miss Joan."

Joan's eyes opened wide. "My assistant? What on earth are you talking about, Elisabeth?" This is terrible, she thought. How much does she know? "You are not really making much sense," she said coldly.

"Yes, Miss Joan. Your assistant." Elisabeth spoke more calmly now. Her shaking had left her. She had burned her boats. She could only go forward. "The next time you beat Mr. Andover. Otherwise, I'll have to go to your father."

Joan stood up abruptly and turned away. Her face had become bright red. "You must have gone off your head, Elisabeth." She tried hard to keep her voice steady.

"I was under the bed that afternoon, Miss Joan," said Elisabeth, quietly.

Joan turned slowly round. Her face had now gone white. She stared at the maid for a long moment. "Oh," she said, at length. "Oh, you were, were you!"

"Yes, Miss Joan. And I'd like to be your assistant, if I may, the next time."

Joan sat heavily in her chair again. "Wait a minute, please. Don't speak. I've got to think this out."

"Yes, Miss Joan. Of course. But you can trust me, you know." Elisabeth walked to the window and stood there with her back to Joan. She waited.

This is a mess, Joan was thinking. Whatever shall I do? I daren't be angry with her. She'll go to Daddy, for sure. That mustn't happen! What can I tell her? It's out of the question, of course, for her to become an assistant. It would be too shocking for words. What would Robert think, and say, and do? On the other hand, that doesn't really matter. He'd do what I told him to do. He's promised always to obey me. But it's a wicked idea, all the same. But — wait a minute! Wait a little minute. What's so bad about it? Didn't I tell him the other day that I'd like an assistant — a pretty assistant — to be whipping him while he's making love to me? I certainly did — and it seemed a fascinating idea then. Here's the chance. And Elisabeth is pretty — perhaps a bit too pretty, but that can't be helped. Yes, here's the chance. And it will stop her going to Daddy. How damn funny, though, that she's a sadist, too. Two of us in the same house!

She said quietly: "Life is full of surprises, Elisabeth."

The maid turned to face her. "Yes, Miss Joan." Her eyes held her question.

Joan nodded. "All right, you can be my assistant."

Elisabeth's face lit up with happiness. Impulsively she ran forward, fell on her knees, and clasped Joan round her waist. "Oh, thank you, Miss Joan. Thank you. And you'll really let me do some whipping?"

"Well, if you mean whipping as a figure of speech, yes. But it'll probably be with a cane."

"Or your riding-switch, Miss Joan? Perhaps that, too?"

"Yes, my riding-switch, too."

"Good." Elisabeth said the word slowly, lasciviously. "A riding-switch is nearly a whip, anyway."

Joan laughed, a little shakily. The tension had gone. "You're rather awful, aren't you?"

The maid nodded her head decisively. "Yes, I am. Or, at least, I want to be." She hesitated. "When will the next time be, Miss Joan?"

Joan frowned. "That's the trouble. I don't know where we can do it, now that Daddy and Eric are both back. It's too dangerous here. They might pass outside the door. And there's nowhere else I can think of."

Elisabeth jumped to her feet, her eyes shining. "Yes, there is, Miss Joan. My own room at home. On my next day off. I'll send Mum to the cinema. And it's only half an hour away. You can ride over there with Mr. Andover."

Joan shook her head. "No, we couldn't ride over. Eric would be bound to want to come too, if we took out the horses."

"Then we can meet there. The three of us. Oh, please, Miss Joan. It's so safe. There's only Mum in the house and she can go to the flicks. She loves them. She always sees the film round twice over. We'll have hours — and completely safe."

"All right, Elisabeth. It's a good idea."

The maid turned in a pirouette of sheer happiness. "Oh, Miss Joan, you're a darling."

"When is your next day off?"

"Saturday."

"All right then, we'll meet at your house on Saturday. You'll write down the address for me. What time?"

"About three o'clock, Miss Joan. Will that be all right?"

"It will be very much all right," said Joan. "I only wish it were tomorrow."

By pre arrangement, Robert came to lunch again the next day. It was still drizzling steadily. He had no chance to be alone with Joan, for they could not take their drinks on to the terrace. All four of them, Clive Lyveden, Eric, Robert, and Joan, had sherry in the living-room.

Although there were no real duties for her to perform, Elisabeth managed to find an excuse to come into the room twice. She would not be serving lunch — it was the other maid's turn — and she wanted to have another look at Robert from her new standpoint as the assistant.

Her heart thumped as she glanced at him. He was sitting on the sofa, wearing well-polished brown shoes, dark gray trousers and a brown tweed sport coat. He looked extremely handsome and desirable.

Joan had watched her eyeing Robert. To her surprise, she felt no jealousy or irritation. She realized that the maid only wanted to vent her frustrations on him, that she had no designs on him.

Eric had noticed it too, but he had felt some irritation, some strong twinges of jealousy. He had long wanted to seduce this beautiful maid. He had tried in all manner of ways to arouse in her some awareness of his existence as a man, not merely the young master. And he had signally failed. She had either not understood the double-entendre of some of the things he had said to her, or she had deliberately ignored it. Only this morning, when she brought his early-morning cup of tea, he had asked her lightly whether she wouldn't stay and scrub his back when he got into the bath. She had answered, equally lightly, that it would be better for her to send Mrs. Belton up to him. He had sworn as she left the room. He swore again now, below his breath. She took not the slightest notice of him, and here she was, drinking Robert in with her lovely big eyes, obviously ga-ga about him. Bloody hell and damnation, Eric said again to himself.

Clive Lyveden had noticed it too. He had also noticed his son's furious jealousy. And he had noticed, above all, that Robert himself had seen nothing of the maid's glances at him. He had eyes only for Joan, gazing at her with dog-like devotion as she sat or stood or moved about the room.

Here's a potentially tricky situation, thought Clive. It's quite obvious that there's something going on between Joan and him. Perhaps they've already been to bed together. Perhaps he even wants to marry her. It's much too early. He's a nice chap, but he's not finished with the university yet. And Joan still has her finishing school in front of her. The sooner she goes away to it the better. Things will become a good deal safer. But what about Eric, though? I should have thought he'd have enough sense not to soil his own doorstep, but it's quite obvious that he'd throw that maid into bed if he got only a quarter of a chance. All the same, it doesn't look as though she'll give it to him. She'd give it to Robert though. My God, she'd undress for him here in front of us all if he lifted his little finger!

The door opened and Elisabeth came into the room again. This time she did not come far in. She stood just inside the room and said: "Lunch is served, Miss Joan." She stood there as they walked past her to the dining-room. She tried hard not to undress Robert again with her eyes as he passed her. She did not succeed. —

Joan chuckled silently to herself as she saw it.

Eric cursed violently beneath his breath.

Clive Lyveden reflected sadly that no woman had ever looked like that at him.

Robert did not notice it at all. He had eyes only for the back of his beloved Joan, as she led the way into the dining-room.

"When do you go up again?" Clive asked Robert, as they opened their napkins and spread them on their laps.

"Oh, another two months, sir," said Robert.

Eric said: "When are you off to Germany, Joan?"

"In ten days," she answered, without looking up.

A look of pain came into Robert's face, but he said nothing. It was not lost on Clive, however.

"Are you looking forward to it, chicken?" he now asked.

"Yes," she said. "In a way, I am. It'll be nice to be at that particular finishing school, after all I've heard about it. But I wish it didn't have to be so soon. I don't feel as though I've had any holiday yet." She had a strong impulse to look up at Robert, to give him a smile of affection, but she kept her eyes on her plate.

When lunch was finished they went back to the living-room for coffee.

Joan looked out of the window. "Still raining a bit. Not much, though. Anybody like a walk." She prayed that Eric would make his usual answer.

He did. "In this rain?" he said. "You're off your head. Who wants to walk in the rain?"

"I do," she said smoothly. "I like walking in the rain. I've told you that hundreds of times."

Eric said: "You're crackers. Always have been."

Robert laughed. "I must be crackers, too. I'll come with you, Joan. I like rain too."

"Good," said Joan, and turned to her father, praying again. "Daddy? Like to come with us?"

"Yes," said Clive unexpectedly. "I think I would. A breath of air would be nice."

"Lovely," said Joan. There was no trace of disappointment in her voice. "Let's go then. I'll go and put a mack on."

That was a good performance, Clive thought, as she left the room. You must have been damned disappointed, but you showed none of it. All right, chicken. I won't come. You can be alone with your boy-friend. Not that it will do you much good in this rain. Love-making in the rain isn't a very pleasant idea.

When she returned to the living-room clad in her silky mackintosh and Wellingtons and hood, he said: "Do you mind, my dear, if I change my mind? I think I'd rather stay and do my crossword, after all."

Joan went to his chair and ruffled his hair. "Lazy Daddy. You're as bad as Eric." She turned to Robert. "Where's your mack? In the hall?"

He nodded.

"Let's go then," she said.

"That was a near thing," said Robert, five minutes later.

"It was," she said, putting her arm through his, and squeezing herself to him.

"I missed you like hell yesterday."

"And I missed you."

"And you're going away in ten days," he said gloomily. "That's going to be really awful. What'll I do? It's dreadful just to think of it. It'll be unbearable when it happens."

"I'll be back in three months," she said softly. "And don't imagine that it's going to be any less unbearable for me. But it'll pass. Three months only."

"Then you'll go back again."

"Yes, for another two terms. But, darling, that's so much in the future. Don't let's spoil things now by being sad and depressed. I love you and I'm with you. That's what's important at the moment."

"And I love you — and you're quite right. That's what's important."

She sighed. "I am depressed about one thing, though."

"What?"

"I can't give you a thrashing today. A lovely, sound, thorough thrashing!"

He chuckled. "You're a terrible girl. Quite shameless."

"It's so long now since I did give you one."

"Yes, all of four days."

She grinned at him. "Don't be cheeky. I'll give you an extra dozen for that, next time."

"Is there going to be a next time?"

"There is. I have news for you."

"Tell."

"In a moment or two. But I'm not sure whether you're going to be pleased about it."

They came to a small land leading off the main road. They turned into it. She disengaged her arm from his and put her hand into his mackintosh pocket. She felt about inside the pocket.

"Is there an opening?" she said.

"Through to the trouser pocket? Yes, there is."

"Ah yes," she said. "Found it." She put her hand through the opening and felt for his fly buttons. "I want this, not your trouser pocket." She undid his buttons and put her hand inside. She felt for the slit in the front of his pants and put her hand through that too. She gripped his hard penis, agitated it violently once or twice, and drew it out through the slit. He groaned with pleasure at her touch.

They walked slowly down the lane, her hand inside the front of his mackintosh clasping his penis. He put an arm around her shoulders.

"And now for my news," she said.

"Yes."

"You remember that last time we made love in the copse?"

"Shall I ever forget it? You nearly killed me.

She gave his penis a hard squeeze. "No, you were a sissy that day, that's all. Well, do you remember something I said to you afterwards, when you were lying on top of me?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Think again." She glanced at him sideways, wondering how he was going to take it.

"Oh yes," he said. "You mean about having an assistant to beat me while I'm lying over you and making love to you?"

"Yes."

He looked at her. "Well? What about it?"

"Just that I've got one."

His eyes opened wide. "You've got one? An assistant, you mean?"

"Yes," she said, in a small voice. He looked a bit shocked.

"Who, for heaven's sake?"

"Elisabeth."

"Elisabeth who?"

"That pretty maid at home."

"Good God! That one who announced lunch today."

She smiled. "Dear sweet Robert. Was that the first time you noticed her? Yes, that one."

He was silent, deep in his thoughts. After a few moments, he said: "But how, for God's sake?"

"I'll tell you all the details in a moment or two. I just want to know first what you think about it."

"I don't know. I'm a bit dumb-struck. Can't think properly."

"Do you mind?'

"No," he said slowly. "No, I don't think so. Not if you don't. But how? How has it come about?"

"All right," she said. "I'll begin at the beginning." She told him in detail about Elisabeth's request for a private talk the day before, and then of her revelation about having been under the bed on the day he had been thrashed across the bedroom floor. "And then she asked me to let her be my assistant," she went on. "She asked quite politely, but it was clear that it was a demand — with a threat behind it."

"That she would go to your father. Would it be so bad?"

"Darling, it would be the most terrible thing in the world."

"I see."

She laughed softly. "What she didn't realize was that it does rather fit into my ideas to have an assistant."

He laughed with her. "But you weren't serious about that, surely?"

"No, not really. But when I'm offered one on a plate — "

"You're not going to refuse. Yes, I see. But where can anything happen? It's difficult enough with just the two of us. But with three now?"

"That," she said, "is my last bit of news. Elisabeth's home is about half an hour away. She goes there on her days off. There's only her mother there — and she is very fond of the cinema. You see?"

He looked at her admiringly. "Yes, I see. You're a good organizer, aren't you?"

"Oh, no," she said, "it's Elisabeth who organized that, not me. She's rather taken things into her hands."

"Has she fixed the date too?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Next Saturday. At three o'clock."