"The slightest disregard of my injunctions will entail the harshest possible disciplining after you have been appraised by Mrs de Troville, and I warn you that at the Abbey the amenities for punishment are impressive." I was sure they were and, after all, what were we but whipping meat? I risked a glance at Stockton, all prinked up in her funereal taffeta, and noticed her nodding her head gravely. "And, if I may add, gracious Lady," she ventured, "further correction on return here."

"Yes, indeed, Mary dear," the beauty I felt I should still idolize confirmed. "As your supervisor rightly remarks, any misconduct on the way or at Winscome will be paid for by relegation, once back here, to the oubliette below the West Turret and merciless punishment. You, Mercer, my good man, will see to it they behave." And then to scare us: "If not, on return you may use the claw-tipped whip on them."

Hurrying the maids and drivers on with the loading of baggage, the great man bowed. "Of course, noble Lady. Tensdale, the driver, and I will see to it. Your Grace may remember the problems we had last autumn with that riotous trollop, Rose, who refused to remount the cart and had to be stripped and whipped. It meant proffering a freshly scourged body on arrival at the Abbey, to your hostess's distaste. We shall try to avoid beatings this time and deliver the flesh in satisfactory condition on presentation."

"Precisely. The incident you refer was exceptional and, anyway she's been sold off. I'm sure our three Graces will behave themselves." We received a disarming smile, sweet enough even to bewitch Celia.

(Note added later: Mildred had already mentioned, when we had made love in her chamber one free night, the Rose incident. Apparently, one day on the way to Winscome, this bitch, a cheap whore from Bedfordshire, had kicked over the traces, shrieking her head off in the middle of nowhere. Once subjugated, after bandying words with some drunken peasants and shouting abuse at Milady, she was bound to a tree by her nipple rings, thrashed senseless by Mercer and then, hog-tied, loaded on to the rear of the cart. On arrival at the Abbey, the state of the body displeased the aged Beatrice so greatly that the dowager took umbrage, refusing to present the slut in such a condition to her illustrious guests. With Elizabeth's sanction, the wretch was consigned for an entire night to the tender care of Honorine, the Abbey's second-in-command of slaves. Hung by the ankles, legs parted to dislocation point, this Rose was turned into an even deeper shade of scarlet than her name implies. The whip was dripping with more than sweat when she was taken down and auctioned off dirt cheap in the courtyard. Her new owner, I learned, added her to a brood of slaves he kept in a subterranean cellarage in London, where she lasted only two months.)

I wonder sometimes if Mildred's stories are not simply ways of raising my heat and dying for her to straddle me. It seems to work, for a minute later I'm ready for her lips and that tongue, the colour of crushed cranberries.

17 May

Forgive me, patient diary, I have rambled on. So, now back to our departure.

Thus yesterday morning our little procession set out as the sun topped the eastern edge of the lawn, the Frenchie having graciously stopped by our cart before joining Liza to wish us - or I suspect, me - a pleasant journey.

The only problem prior to departure arose out of the clumsiness of one of the harassed maids, who reminded me poignantly of Annie in London. The poor slut had the misfortune to upset over the flagstones the pot of sesame oil, destined for greasing our breasts. Stockton seized the terrified wench, dragged her to the newel post of the loggia staircase and, at a nod from Elizabeth, ripped apart the petticoat - the sole garment a Maveringham domestic wears when on duty (except if priests are present, when a gown is required), and brought her service scourge down across the well-rounded rump. The lass whimpered most pathetically - the only sound, along with the hiss and thud of the plaited leather, to disturb the sudden silence in the loggia. At each bestial lash, the maid's hind blubber shuddered like that blancmange I had often enviously seen being carried as a sweet to My Lady's dining table. Although I had absolutely no affinity with or sympathy for the wretched bitch, I did pity her and did greatly marvel how constant beating has conditioned our rears, compared with hers. Clearly the slattern was hopelessly inept, unaccustomed to the sort of service whip Mary the Maimer used - a triple-tailed flogger she greased each night with salted pork fat and vinegar, a whip that, if it slit open a buttock, let alone an udder, left one with something to remember. Watching that beating, I asked myself whether I, if ever put to it, could flog a woman... I looked at Mildred in her lace collar and audacious décolleté revealing her delicious breasts, and wondered.