The Whip (5 page)

Thirteen

Charlotte wasn’t much good at sewing seams. She lacked the patience for it; she lacked the inner drive to stitch the neatest, straightest row. When it was time for the girls to be communing with their needles, she tended to drift. She was drifting now, her eyes flickering around the room—girl after girl bent over their work. From where she sat she could see the backs of their bent necks—bent necks in neat rows. The girls were for the most part kept in rows and seemed not to mind it. Try putting the boys in rows. They’d not stand for it long. Imagine Lee and the other boys sewing or knitting or darning, all in a row. What a funny sight that would be. Of course, she’d seen Lee with sewing shears once. That corner of the attic over there, with the big mending workbasket, that was where Lee, so long ago, had shorn her hair. What a terrible trouble that had been.

She touched her hair, lifting her hand from the length of muslin sheet she was mending. Her hair was long now, in two blonde plaits. Little blonde wild wisps always materialized over her forehead. She was pretty, the other girls said, always adding, “what a waste.” Well, they could go to hell. If getting a husband meant spending her days sewing, cooking and cleaning, then she would be quite happy just to be with Lee for the rest of her life.

It was so hot up here. All the heat in the world rose to that attic and was trapped there, shimmering. It baked her. It baked the unsealed eaves. The pine knots were beading with resin; the wood didn’t know it was long dead. Sweat was beading on her temples and behind her ears. Sweat slid down her neck. They had been in the attic for an hour already and were to stay for an hour more. In the meantime, the boys were outside, free, shouting and clomping; she could hear them in the yard below.

And then she heard the low, melodious whistle—Lee’s whistle for her. At this she rose from her seat and wandered to the open window. One of the other girls gave her a warning look. Charlotte ignored her.

Down there in the yard Lee whistled again, waving a stick, enticing her. He wanted Charlotte for a game of stickball.

Now fifteen, Lee was insolently handsome and despite all expectations, tall enough for a girl to feel she might lean against his shoulder. He had long blond lashes. His nose was broken at the bridge.

The girls kept their eyes on him. The boys kept their eyes on him; they couldn’t help it. There was something magnetic there, something tense and compelling. It was anger of course, showing off its sexual side.

He had a disconcerting way of looking at people with a squint, as though he was looking into the sun. But now he was grinning up at Charlotte in a fetching, lopsided way—his impish smile, the smile he reserved just for her. The others, boys and girls, got smirks and suggestive looks.

Charlotte made her way back to her chair and her hated sewing basket, picking up the long sheet of muslin she had been working on. It was linen for the orphanage. They had to make all their bed sheets, aprons, dish towels and napkins. She sat there for another minute holding her breath tight with fervent anticipation and then leapt up, knocking her pins to the ground and plunging towards the attic door.

One of the girls shouted, “Charlotte. Don’t.”

They were appalled by her sometimes. She was always keeping company with Lee. She was always skipping out on church and chores. And there were rumors that she was a bad girl…that she and Lee did bad things together. She was irresponsible and impulsive, and was always getting in trouble for it. She made that much more work for the rest of them, too—like now. Pins were spread out all over the floor, in the cracks between the rough planks.

Charlotte streaked down the two flights of stairs and out the front door and into the midst of the group of rough-housing boys with whom Lee was playing stickball. Her eyes were shining and her face was full of mischievous pleasure. She dashed in and grabbed a stick from a boy twice her size. She didn’t register the boy’s perturbed face. She just saw how Lee grinned at her.

“What took you so long?” he said as he tossed her the ball.

Charlotte swung and smacked it grandly. It flew through the air to the farthest part of the yard. But no one ran to it. The ball arced down, thudded into the caked earth, and rolled, slowing to a stop.

What? Charlotte looked around, dismayed. The other boys had stopped playing the moment she’d taken the stick. They were looking at her with disgust. They were glaring at her. She met their glares with a glare of her own.

The boys began to mill about, resentful, grumbling amongst themselves, coalescing into small grumbling groups.

Charlotte looked at Lee. They met eyes across the yard. That look…everyone always said it was as though they had a secret language between them, that look.

Lee approached a group. Charlotte followed him.

“What the hell’s the matter?” Lee asked one of the boys.

“We don’t play with girls,” the boy declared. He gave Lee a challenging look.

“She’s not a girl. She’s, you know…Char.”

“She’s still a girl.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Yes, she is. Why do you always have to play with her? Why don’t you go up to the attic and sew with the girls if you like her so much?”

There was a sudden swift blur as Lee swung his stick and in a fierce, cruel move—an unexpected move—savagely hit the boy in the forehead, inflicting a bloody gash.

For a split second nobody moved.

Maybe it was Charlotte’s imagination. But no—there was the boy, bleeding from his forehead, not sure what had just happened. There was Lee with the stick, breathing hard, a wide grin on his face. The boys around them were stunned; it had happened so fast.

“I say she’s not,” said Lee.

Words broke the spell. The boys were coming back to life. The boy who had been hit was lifting his hand to his face. It was wet. He looked at his hand. His hand was red.

Charlotte stared at Lee, shocked.

“You bastard—” roared the boy. He stepped forward, clenched his fist, and took a swing at Lee. The rest of the boys formed a ragged circle around the two, egging them on.

Lee, still wielding the stick, plunged forward.

“Lee, no,” screamed Charlotte.

She dove in and clutched at the end of the stick. He released it and, howling like a wildcat, leapt upon the boy. They were both on the ground now, the boy squirming under Lee’s punching fist. Charlotte jumped at Lee’s back, trying to grab his shirt.

The boy under Lee, kicked Charlotte in the stomach.

Incensed, she kicked him back. She tumbled away from them, her dress ripping. Another boy jumped on her to even out the fight.

At the front of the main house the door was opening. The toe of a shoe. A dark hem. Miss Haden. What’s this? Fighting. Boys. Shouting. Pounding. A boy with blood covering his eye. Blood. And that Lee Colton. That Lee.

Miss Haden lifted her skirt with one hand, beetled down the front stairs, and began to run toward them. At these times she came alive.

“Headmaster,” she shouted as she ran. “Headmaster.” A formality, as it would be she and not the headmaster who would stop the fight. How brilliant she was at handling moments like these. “Headmaster.”

In his office Mr. Meade heard her cries. He let out a sigh and rose from his seat. He shuffled to his door and made his way down the hallway. Children were dashing beside him towards the front door. They were not allowed in the yard at this time of the day— the girls, the younger children, the boys with chores—but they bulged outward from the doorway anyway.

“Children, children,” he said, already defeated. Of course they ignored him or moved left or right so as to make no difference. He turned then to make his way, bent-shouldered, overwhelmed. Miss Haden would take care of it. She had an instinct for high drama; she’d wait for the height of the battle before stepping in. He should arrive just at the end to pronounce the godly benediction. But he could take his time. He should take his time.

Faces were appearing at the upstairs windows and then turning round to inform the others: a fight—a real good one. Lee Colton. Blood.

Miss Haden was panting at the outskirts of the melee, dust was rising, and she scanned the scuffling crowd. Boy. Boy. Boy. Lee. She started to position herself. Boy. Boy. Girl. Girl? It was Charlotte. It was time.

She stepped forward, grabbed a collar, and stepped back in triumph with her prize—Charlotte indeed. At that, the tussle stopped. She hadn’t even needed to speak. The dust was already settling and boys were shrinking backwards, chagrined.

Miss Haden looked down at Charlotte, but Charlotte was staring at Lee. Lee, whose lips were tightening into a straight white line…his face holding the same willfulness as Miss Haden.

The headmaster came round the corner of the building. Now it was his time. He straightened up to full height and quickened his pace, trotting across the yard to the scene of bedlam and disarray. “Well, what’s this?” he demanded in full voice. “What’s this?”

Fourteen

“
So Charlotte, you like to play with boys, do you
?
”
said Miss Haden. A smile flickered across her face. Her eyes, her body energized, aroused. They were in the headmistress’ office.

With an insolent smirk, Charlotte stood with her hands on the back of a chair, waiting to be whipped.

“So you like to play with boys,” Miss Haden repeated, tearing off each word. Charlotte said nothing. She looked straight ahead.

Behind her, Miss Haden was lifting the leather strap from the hook where it hung on the wall. She ran her fingers over its worn edge. Then in a single, almost balletic move she turned and swung her arm forward. She was a decisive woman, one who took pride in persevering, in getting results.

The strap connected with Charlotte’s back. Miss Haden paused, observing her, awaiting some reaction, getting none. No scream, no cry, no begging. She raised the strap again.

“What sort of playing do you do with the boys, Charlotte? What about Lee Colton? What do you do, Charlotte?” Now she was whispering. “What do you do together? What do you do to him?”

She swung her arm again. And again.

Charlotte flinched, clenching her teeth, but she would not cry out.

Mr. Meade had paused in the hallway outside the closed office door and was listening to the sound of the repeated blows. His face was twisted with anguish. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened the door.

Miss Haden, her arm raised, looked up, surprised. Mr. Meade gave his rare headmaster look. She dropped her arm, defused. Charlotte turned her head around then, saw the headmaster, and removed her hands from the back of the chair.

There was a silence.

“May I go?” she said to Mr. Meade.

The headmaster kept his eyes on Miss Haden.

Miss Haden paused, twisting the strap back and forth in her hand. “Fine. Go.”

Charlotte walked out, closing the door behind her.

“Why do you let those two get away with such bad behavior?” snapped Miss Haden. “We should have thrown the Colton boy out years ago…and she is no better than he is. She and that boy are cut from the same cloth; miscreants…mark my words.”

Mr. Meade answered with his rare headmaster voice. “Don’t get bellicose, Isabelle. It is my decision. They are both staying until they are sixteen or until they are adopted, married or have an outside job. You know the rules. Just as it is for all of our wards here.”

“Don’t you reprimand me, Franklin. I know the rules here.”

Miss Haden’s eyes glittered with an idea; she was an imaginative woman; no one could suppress that imagination of hers. “She shall have to be broken then, like a colt.”

Fifteen

Fresh from her beating, Charlotte was led across the yard by the iron clasp of her headmistress at a great pace. The stable yard at night might have been nightmarish—all those long shadows, the soughing in the branches, the sudden mad motion of the underbrush shagging the margins; but strange though it might be, Charlotte felt at peace. Being led at all by someone felt good.

In the distant past, Lee would wrap his larger hand around her smaller one and guide her through the skinny legs and knocking knees that jammed the orphanage hallways. He would lead her across the yard of the orphanage through a barrage of snowballs. Now it was Miss Haden leading her through the thrashing wind that whipped the trees about. Why was she taking her out here?

At the stable, Miss Haden pushed Charlotte in front of her and through the doorway, soft lantern light seeping out as they entered.

The horses munching, looked up.

Jonas, the groom, looked up from the harness he was cleaning, quiet surprise in his dark eyes. A girl? Here at the stable, at night? Then Miss Haden loomed in…her right hand closing, talon-like, on the shoulder of the girl. She pushed her forward. The girl stumbled.

Charlotte, entranced, had stopped to look all around.

The horses were nickering and shifting their flanks…their hooves stamping on the resonant, straw-strewn floor. The groom, his coal black skin burnishing in the glow of the candle lamp, smiled at her. Multiple parentheses of wrinkles appeared around his eyes. He had salt-and-pepper hair cropped close.

“Jonas,” said Miss Haden, “allow me to introduce you to your new stable boy.”

Jonas regarded Charlotte with curious sympathy.

Miss Haden glanced at the horses in their stalls. “Which of these creatures is most difficult to control?” she asked.

“Why, ma’am,” responded Jonas without pause, his voice a soft even keel, “I’d have to say that’d be Beelzebub.”

“Beelzebub,” she said, delighted at the name. “Where is he?”

Jonas, who was used to swiftly sizing up horseflesh—their stance, their spirit, their nature; who had long ago assessed the headmistress, and was now already almost finished sizing up the girl, turned and indicated a fine looking black stallion. The horse appeared calm enough at the moment, but his eyes were feral and untrustworthy.

“Yes. Perfect. Beelzebub, chief of the devils,” said Miss Haden. She turned to Charlotte. “Everything that goes into that horse, and everything that comes out is to be your responsibility. If he is difficult, if he disobeys…you, not he, are to be punished.”

Charlotte could not take her eyes off the great black horse.

“Now, I am nothing if not reasonable,” continued Miss Haden. “Be informed that you may return to us at any time, under condition that you deliver to me a profound and heartfelt apology for your unruly and disruptive behavior, and that you vow to dedicate yourself to the acquisition of the womanly arts.”

“Yes ma’am,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes still transfixed on Beelzebub’s lustrous dark coat.

Leaving Charlotte with the horses, Miss Haden walked out, inclining her head empress-like for Jonas to follow her. They stood outside.

“Now Jonas, I expect you to do as I have instructed. Do not go easy on her. She is too stubborn, too rebellious, and too independent, for her own good. We must help her find her way.”

“Yes’m,” said Jonas nodding.

He was noticing something, a sound that wasn’t the wind, a tree branch, or the motion of an animal. He turned his eyes towards the sound without moving his head: he could just make out a shadow that didn’t belong. It might have been that of a boy or young man. It was stepping back into the woods. It was gone now. Miss Haden was still speaking.

“Don’t be concerned,” she said, granting him a painful little crease of a smile. “She shan’t be with you more than a night or two. One taste of shoveling manure and she’ll be begging for a needle and thread.”

“Yes’m,” said Jonas, inclining his head in outward agreement. Had Miss Haden been a reader of eyes, she’d have seen that he wasn’t so sure. In any case, Jonas was now looking over to where the shadow had been. He couldn’t see it now. He’d warn her anyway.

“Ma’am, I…”

“No complaints, Jonas. I trust that everything is clear and that there is no need for us to prolong this unpleasant conversation any longer. She is your responsibility. I am leaving her in your care, and I am leaving now.”

“Yes’m, Miss Haden.”

She swept off, pleased with her handling of it all.

Inside the stable, Charlotte was walking around peering into the different stalls. It was so cozy in here she thought…the warm musky smell of horse and hay.

Charlotte entered Beelzebub’s stall. Cautious, she approached him. She stood in front of the stallion, looking him in the eye. She raised her hand up toward his nose.

“There now,” she said. “You’re not so mean, are you? Can I pet you?”

The horse lunged his head down and nipped Charlotte’s hand hard.

She cried out, falling backward into the hay.

Jonas entered the stable, ran into the stall and kneeled down next to her. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“He bit me,” said Charlotte, confused. She started to sob. And once she started she was unable to stop, her thin shoulders shuddering.

He laid a gentle hand on her back and she winced in pain. He then noticed the tear in the back of her blouse and beneath it; he saw her back covered with angry purple welts. Jonas, who was past being shocked by anything other people did to the creatures in their care, knew what to do. He stroked her head comforting her, letting her weep.

Unseen by either of them, Lee was standing in the shadows of the doorway, watching. Charlotte was laying her head on the groom’s chest. He was stroking her hair, murmuring something to her. She was sobbing in his arms. He was holding her close and she was letting him.

In a furor of conflicting emotions Lee turned and ran away into the darkness.

Jonas heard a sound and looked up, but seeing no one, he turned his attention back to Charlotte.

“You will like it here, missy,” he said to her. The headmistress hadn’t even told him her name.