I am a widow and childless. This you know about me. Let me add that I am 35 years old and I have kept my figure well. My virtuous life consists of running my household, of monitoring my accountants and bank managers - I am no fool!, of charity work and of entertaining or being entertained. Quite a normal life in our circles (though I am proudly ahead in the pack of women, businesswise.) Socially, I am known as frivolous and gay, the light of parties.
The relations with my staff are cordial, but not confidential. Even with Mary, my chambermaid, who wakes me, brings me breakfast and dresses me and with whom I discuss my day, I don't discuss my feelings, inclinations or ambitions. How my staff reacted to my folly I don't know, but I am not hellbent finding out. They think me a good mistress and perhaps attribute that sudden change of protocol to my husband's demise or just to upper-class eccentricity. Mary doesn't look pleased when the day arrives again, but does not say a thing and cooperates.
What I am talking about? Well, on the one day every fortnight, I do change from civilised to absolutely shameless, provocative, obscene. I can't explain why I do this, but I evidently like it. I may stop again when I least expect it.
Mary, long-serving first chambermaid:
I respect my mistress, she is good to me, but I dread this Tuesday every fortnight when she decides to let herself go. We don't deserve this loss of decorum. She has never failed to go and do it since she started some two years ago, and is strictly regular. Tuesdays every fortnight. She has never explained herself and we have never seen fit to question her, nor to complain. Amongst ourselves, we talk, but our lips are sealed to the outside world. Call it loyalty, call it a sensible way of keeping our jobs. Among us, there is a mixture of sentiments, ranging from people like me, who abhor it, to the younger members of staff, who laugh about it. Perhaps there are a few who enjoy it. They wouldn't tell me.
The centrepiece of the day is the depilation of her pubic hair. It is this that seems to have formed the impetus for the original day. On that ominous Tuesday, Madame and I were in the dining room and she said to me: 'Mary, I have decided that I want to do something about my hair.' To my horror she leant forward, bunched up the front of her dress' skirt until she reached the hem and lifted it up, right there in front of me.
She had taken her underwear off, so that her pubic hair was in full view. Standing there like so, she looked me in the eye as if all was normal, said, 'I want you to wax me,' and explained what she meant. I protested, but she would not hear of it. 'I don't have a better candidate, my dear Mary. Only you I can trust to do this. And as chambermaid it's your job, isn't it? To take care of me and my body.' She let go of her skirt and said, 'Please follow me. Let us go to my bedroom. The required materials are there.' 'No...', I muttered. 'But why, my dear? Are you afraid of the closeness to, well... to my oyster?' She looked at me and I nodded. 'Why you? Should I not be the one who is afraid?' When I remained silent, she smiled and said, 'But I have the solution, if you insist. We shall do the job right here in the dining room on the dining table and you shall ask all to attend. Thus, there will be no intimacy to be afraid of.'
And so it happened that in front of all of us, lined up without exception, she stepped out of her shoes and removed the belt of her dress. She then turned her back to us, buttoned down and opened the dress. She let it slide from her shoulders and drop on the floor. 'Please, Mary, would you pick it up and hang it somewhere?' I complied, weak-kneed, walked up, bent over and picked up the dress. Thus, I came very close to her naked buttocks and felt her warmth! (Oh, my, why?!) The brassiere went the same way. I picked it up too and put both garments on the back of the chair beside me. (Oh, I felt the embarrassment.) I furtively glanced at my fellow staff members and saw that they were equally embarrassed. (She may have been right. Sharing the shame helped.) She then hopped on the great table and laid down on her back, with her legs over the side and open.
I did the job, or, rather,
we
did, because she required another four of us to hold her wrists and ankles while I tore the hairs out. At the end of the procedure, she lay there a while, her vagina on a pedestal, as it were, and in full view, as we stood there, in formation, uncertain of what to do. Eventually, she righted herself, slid off the table and simply wandered off, in her state of nudity, without saying a word. That day she went about her business without restoring her dressed state. Her mood was normal, friendly and cheerful. The next day she was her usual modest self and went about the business in a normal fashion. Dressed. She nor we mentioned the strange proceedings of the day before.
Precisely a fortnight later, however, she did not get dressed in the first place, had me assemble the corps of staff in the dining room and had us renew the proceedings of that strange first incarnation 'the day.' To maintain 'her hair down there'. Rather, its absence.
New male member of staff, junior gardener:
I am new here. I was briefed about the mistress' antics a few days after I first started on the estate. This will be my first witnessing. I am not sure if I mind. She is a pretty woman for her age. She is not old anyway. Standing around and being forced to observe our naked lady during the general assembly is awkward to most, so I am told by my fellow younger colleagues, but amusing to some. The rest of the day is just about the surprise of bumping into her nude self here or there, but I think I can handle that. I am not a virgin. I spend most of my time in the garden anyway and sleep in a bothy, separate from the main house.
It is true, I have bumped into her in the garden a few times, on normal days, when she is dressed like a lady. She does dress well. Vibrant colours, good fabrics, modern cuts - my experience being limited to the lady of my previous house and her guests. Anyway, her clothes become her. And more often than not, she smiles at us gardeners in passing. Seeing us, not ignoring us. Sometimes passing a comment on the garden, always complimentary and in pleasant tones.
