Down A Peg

Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):

“You are late, Miss Carstairs,” said Mr Hartwell.

Victoria smiled sweetly, unbuttoned her long coat and laid her copious shopping on a chair.

“I went to the market with Clara,” she said. “Father left me some spending money when he went away. The time must have run away with me.”

“I repeat,” said her tutor, “You are late. And shy on apologies. And it is not the first time.”

“Don’t be tiresome,” pouted the girl as she stroked down her skirts and fussed with her new hair ribbons.

“Your French is abominable,” said Mr Hartwell. “As is your algebra. You have missed three classes now, and never with a satisfactory reason.”

Victoria turned to face him. “My father’s paying you either way. What do you care if I know my algebra or French? I shan’t need them anyway.”

Mr Hartwell stood up. He was a tall man in a neat suit, and normally very softly spoken. Victoria had got the measure of this one on the first day, and was confident she could walk circles round him.

Now, however, he seemed changed. He approached her and something scuttled down Victoria’s spine as he grabbed her chin, bringing his face in close to hers.

“I care,” he said, “because I take pride in my work. And I never give up on a student. Even a lazy, spoilt student who does not deserve my time.”

“Get your hands off me,” whispered Victoria, suddenly afraid. Her tutor smiled cruelly, let go and strode to the far corner of the room. 

“Tell me, have you ever been caned?” said Mr Hartwell.

Victoria was horrified.

“Never! My father wouldn’t allow it!”

“Ah yes, your father. How long did he say he would be in India?” Mr Hartwell took a seat.

“Five months.”

“Ah yes, five months. That’s quite a long time. I should tell you that he asked me quite specifically to encourage your progress any way I saw fit,” said Mr Hartwell.

“You may not cane me!” cried Victoria. “I shall write to my father and tell him to dismiss you at once!”

“No you won’t, Miss Carstairs,” smiled Mr Hartwell. “Because you won’t have access to writing paper or ink. Only diligent scholars should be allowed to use writing tools. Since you have clearly decided you wish to be as lazy as a pig and as ignorant as a pauper, I think you should be treated in kind.”

“What?” The girl was dumbfounded.

“You heard me well enough. You spurn your education so often, I think you must secretly wish to be free of all this privilege. It is a lot to bear, after all, being the only daughter of the noble Carstairs family. So while your father is away, you’re going to get a little holiday from all this pomp.”

“I don’t understand.” The girl felt her stomach grow heavy.

Mr Hartwell went on. “I’ve spoken to your father’s servants and they are only too happy to grant your wish. So from today, you will be learning a new profession, as the new skivvy at Carstairs Hall.”

“Skivvy?”

“I would call you a maid but I have in mind something a little lower down the pecking order. All newcomers must start at the very bottom, after all. You will report directly to me for your orders.”

“Orders?” Victoria was incensed. “How dare you!”

Her tutor smiled and picked up a birch rod from the corner.

“Oh, I dare, Miss Carstairs. But you can always try to defy me and we shall see how you like a good thrashing.”

Victoria flew at him, claws out.

Without raising an eyebrow, Mr Hartwell dropped the rod, held her fast and thrust a blue washcloth into her mouth. Victoria struggled and bucked, but her tutor was stronger, and seemed almost amused by her efforts. He sat down and slung her over his knee. Victoria raged and cursed through her gag.

“Dear me, that’s not very ladylike,” he said. “But since you don’t wish to conduct yourself like a lady, I suppose that makes sense.”

He raised her skirts and unbuttoned her bloomers, pulling them down and exposing her bare bottom to muffled screams of indignation.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear that clearly,” he smiled. And he brought his hand down on her backside with a mighty slap.

Miss Victoria Carstairs, cosseted and spoiled for all of her eighteen years, shrieked and gurgled through her gag. Mr Hartwell’s hand came down again, harder than before. She squirmed and lashed out but found herself held in place and unable to escape.

Mr Hartwell spanked her again and again, till her eyes and nose streamed and her backside burned. The washcloth was soaking from her undignified dribbling. She looked like a chastised toddler.

The door popped open, and a small girl rushed in, carrying a tray and babbling, “I’m sorry, Miss Victoria! I’m so sorry your lunch is late! Forgive me, Miss!”

The young maid stopped when she saw the spectacle before her. Before she could check herself, a giggle escaped her. The monstrous Miss Victoria, scarlet-faced, bloomers round her ankles, washcloth in her mouth, being spanked like a scullery girl!

“Marigold! What perfect timing!” said Mr Hartwell warmly. “I was just preparing Miss Victoria for her new role!”

“Sir?”

“But of course, perhaps Cook and Mr Baron haven’t yet told you all. Well, you shall be the first to see her uniform! Would you be so kind as to pass me the small box from the table?”

Victoria kicked and grizzled in his lap. He smacked her sharply ten times and she fell to sobbing.

Marigold carried the box across and took a look at her mistress.

“Sir, is Miss Victoria….well?”

“Oh yes. She’s never been better,” said Mr Hartwell, at which Victoria angrily growled and kicked, and he delivered another volley of spanking to her bottom until tears ran down her face.

Marigold couldn’t help it: she spluttered, snorted and finally laughed her head off. That little madam, taken down a peg at last! Marigold’s own cheek still smarted from Victoria’s swipe this morning, when she discovered her eggs had been scrambled, not poached. How sweet to see that brat of a girl bared and beaten in such a humiliating way!

Victoria snivelled in humiliation. That little wretch from below stairs! Laughing at her! Her bottom must have been comically scarlet and how horrifying to be found across that smug tutor’s lap, being spanked like a naughty little girl. She would find Marigold later and threaten her with dismissal if she so much as hinted at what she’d seen.

But Mr Hartwell clearly had other ideas. He allowed Victoria to stand back up. She didn’t wait, but pulled the cloth from her mouth, smoothed down her skirts and refused to look Marigold in the eye. 

Mr Hartwell took a bundle of dull brown hessian from the box. 

“What an ugly thing to wrap a uniform in,” spat Victoria.

Her tutor smiled. “Oh my, didn’t you realise? This is your uniform!”

He unfolded the hessian. It was a farm sack, stained and old. He took a pair of scissors and cut three holes for her arms and head.

“NO!” shouted Victoria. “I won’t do it!”

She ran to the outside door and pushed it firmly.  Too firmly, for it opened easily and she fell into a huge puddle outside the door. Muddy, sodden and furious, she struggled to stand.

“Oh dear,” said her tutor. “What a filthy little girl you are. Do we need to give you a cold bath? It’s what they do at the workhouse. It helps to wash away the lice and fleas.”

“You beast!” cried Victoria. “I’ll have you arrested for this!”

Mr Hartwell ignored her, and took a firm grip on her arm.

“Hold the new girl, would you Marigold?”

The young maid obliged, grabbing the spoilt young mistress, who, in her bedraggled state, sprayed droplets of muddy water with each kick. To a chorus of shrieks, Mr Hartwell took the scissors and cut away her clothes, right down to her chemise. This he calmly stripped and laid aside, leaving the spoilt girl naked.

Victoria hung her head in shame, unable to cover herself. Her tutor brought the sack-dress  forward and held it in front of her.

“I believe you might feel more modest with some clothing.”

Victoria found her voice and writhed in Marigold’s arms as she shouted, “Get away from me! Jenkins, send word to my father!”

Marigold kept tight hold..

“You little witch!” hissed Victoria. “Let me go or I will beat you black and blue. I will see to it that you are turned out onto the streets!”

Marigold gripped harder, highly amused.

Since Victoria would not put the uniform on voluntarily, Mr Hartwell and Marigold forced her into it. She cried that it itched, she hollered and she complained until her tutor bent her forward over a table, hitched up her ragged little sack-dress and spanked her smartly.

When she was allowed back up, Victoria sniffed and pouted, blushing in shame.

“Now,” said Mr Hartwell. “You can’t have a name like Victoria. Much too nice for a dirty little wretch. It needs to be something that really describes you.”

“Sir,” said Marigold, “How about Grub? You know, because she’s all grubby.”

“I like it!” said the tutor. “And because she’s a snivelling little grub. Oh yes,” he said, approaching Victoria and taking hold of her ear till she winced, “Make no mistake, Grub. I’m going to make sure you crawl and grovel through filth. You’re going to be such an obedient little skivvy. Not just to me, but to the entire staff. By the way, they’re your superiors now too. I have instructed them to train you, to give you orders and to report back to me if you need discipline. After the kindly way you’ve treated them, I’m sure they’ll be most benevolent.”

He turned to Marigold.

“My dear, how would you like to learn French?”

“Sir, I can’t even write my name,” blushed the girl.

“Well then, we had better give you English lessons too,” said Mr Hartwell. “Someone should make use of my time. And if you make a mistake, I’m sure Grub here will be happy to take your caning for you.”

The thing that had been Miss Victoria shivered and dripped in the corner.