This is a story about damsels in distress in the Regency period. It contains non-consensual bondage and bad period dialogue; reader discretion is advised.
1.
Twenty generations of Thornfields lived at the great house, each conscious in their way of being a small link in a large chain, responsible for maintaining their successors' legacy as much as their forebears' honour; no sovereign was spent, no timber felled, without due consideration of the decision's consequences in a century's time. "I am not the owner of this house," said Lord Randolph Thornfield, in the time of the good queen Bess, "but merely its caretaker." If a Thornfield went to his grave with more money in the bank than he started with, he would feel he had done his duty; and if the property had been improved in his lifetime, by way perhaps of a fine new wing or a well-appointed observatory? Why then, he could die positively happy.
Yet the mightiest chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and the richest blood thins to water in the end. The twenty-first Thornfield, whose name has been lost to history but was probably Hugo or Boris, was a poor specimen indeed, and drained in one lifetime a fortune that had taken twenty to collect. The house was sold; the family passed into obscurity; but the land endured.
Readers who have never visited Thornfield are to be pitied, and no description from this humble pen will do justice to that noble building. Suffice it to say there is no finer dwelling place in England, as Mr Fox remarked to Mrs Fitzgerald as they stood at the crest of Thornfield Hill and gazed down at the house with the greatest complaisance. Its antient stones had stood on that spot long before the village existed, and would no doubt be there after it had collapsed into the river or blown away in a storm.
"Lord Bristol," she replied, referring to the previous occupant, "once remarked to me, that he believed himself so fortunate in his choice of abode that he would not willingly trade places with Kubla Khan, nor the Prince Regent himself."
It was not unusual for gentlemen to make such extravagant figures of speech when Mrs Fitzgerald was present; there was something about her
ambience
that appeared to provoke it. She was, for the benefit of readers unhappy enough to miss the first chapter, a pert blonde widow with bewitching eyes and an agreeable complexion, not to mention a still more agreeable manner of dress. On this occasion she was wearing a tight bottle-green jacket which almost concealed the plunging neckline of the ivory-coloured gown beneath, but not quite. Mrs Fitzgerald had the happy knack of inspiring the liveliest regard without appearing to seek it. She was, in short, exactly as respectable as the occasion demanded, and not a whit more.
Mr Fox agreed with the sentiment, and further opined, that Kubla Khan would be lucky to obtain any land in this part of the country, what with prices being so scandalously high. Mr Fox was a fine figure of a man, but if we are to be honest with one another, and we must, his appearance is of less importance than that of his fair companion; indeed the author is privately of the opinion that Mr Fox could be ten foot tall and made of bronze for all it would matter. Suffice it to say that Mr Fox is a poor curate who supplements his tiny ecclesiastical income by acting as a private detective for genteel clients, and that Mrs Fitzgerald is his extremely capable assistant in this vocation.
After an agreeable stroll down the hill and along the fine, curving drive, the pair reached Thornfield's great door, whereupon they sought and were granted admission by a footman with side whiskers and a knowing glance. Mrs Fitzgerald had developed a nice discrimination when it came to untrustworthy servants and resolved to keep a weather eye on this person's movements. A similar-looking fellow had once successfully tricked her into trying on a set of antique manacles in a Limehouse bordello. It is difficult to be genteel under such circumstances, but I beg the reader to conceive that Mrs Fitzgerald managed it.
"The master will see you," said the servant, having returned from an exploratory expedition into the interior spaces of the building, "if you will have the goodness to proceed down yonder passage; and here is a taper to light your honours' way."
The footman being called away on urgent and no doubt villainous business, the detectives navigated without additional help to Thornfield's ballroom, a space ordinarily bathed in natural light during the day and dazzling with candles at night, but swathed to-day in gloom. The shutters, heavy curtains and dust covers remained in place; the servants focused their efforts on bringing in a series of midsize crates and stowing them in random positions about the room. A tall and hawkish gentleman superintended these labours, but looked up when his guests entered and beckoned them over. They were expected.
"Mrs Fitzgerald, I presume?"
The gentleman kissed her hand in the French manner, but his accent told a different story: Greece, perhaps? One of the Italian isles?
"And you will be the Parson Fox. My name is Malamar and I bid you welcome to my humble home."
So this was the Count, the new resident of Thornfield and a gentleman of legendary wealth. Yet he did not seem quite respectable.
"Thank you for seeing us, Your Excellency," said Mr Fox, smiling at his companion's uncharacteristic silence. "I trust the house is to your liking?"
The Count said it was smaller than he was used to, "but indeed a most convenient foothold in England, a nation he had long wished to invade. Ah, but I beg pardon," he added; "my English is most deficient."
"Not at all," Fox replied, with more gallantry than truth. "It is better, upon my word, than that of most English peers I could name."
Malamar's attention was drawn by the gestures of an underling, who gave it to be known that he wished to open one of the crates but did not desire the responsibility of having chosen to do so. The Count nodded eagerly, and the nails were removed one by one; the boards were levered up; and a draped form was lifted from the sandalwood-scented interior. The cloth wrappings were peeled away to reveal-
"What in heaven's name is that?" wondered Mrs Fitzgerald out loud. The statue, for such it must be, was unlike any she had seen in a life of considerable travel and extensive study. It formed the figure of a young woman in Italian marble; but the figure's arms were bound behind its back, its head was thrust back by a tall stock about the throat, and its face was covered by a separate mask of black leather, attached to the marble with straps.
"The name of this piece, young lady, is
Pleasure
," the Count purred, "although it has always been a matter of debate: whose pleasure does it depict? If we could look beneath her mask, perhaps we should know; but the artist required me to swear on pain of death never to look."
"An early Soprano, I make no doubt," said Mr Fox, "and one of his best. An unmistakable talent. I congratulate you, Excellency, on a remarkable acquisition."
"Since you assure me that the sculptor is a man," Mrs Fitzgerald observed, "I believe we can view the matter as settled; for all male art is exclusively concerned with male pleasure."
The Count was delighted by this epigram. "Ha ha ha! Very true, my dear, very true. And so much male pleasure depends on female suffering. Perhaps you may enjoy this piece?" And he instructed the servants to unveil a second sculpture, this time depicting a chained damsel on her knees. Again, a black leather mask prevented a view of the subject's expression, and it was therefore open to interpretation whether or not she found the situation to her liking.
"What is this called?" Mrs Fitzgerald wondered. "
Capital Fun
?"
The unpacking continued, and it quickly became apparent that every crate in the room contained a depiction of stringent feminine bondage in Italian marble and black leather. The positions and binding methods varied considerably, yet the female forms were essentially the same in every piece: young, slender, long-haired and astonishingly flexible. Count Malamar knew what he liked.
It was not easy to approach the subject that had brought them to Thornfield, but Mrs Fitzgerald felt it best to plunge in without further loss of time.
"Have you met Mr Catchpenny, your Excellency? And are you familiar with his daughter's recent misfortune?"
The misfortune, described in the previous chapter, involved the young lady in question being waylaid, stripped, bound and gagged by a mysterious highwayman: an occurrence Mr Fox and Mrs Fitzgerald were currently investigating.
"No," said the count, "and yes. I have not had that pleasure, but I did hear of the occurrence to which you allude. A sad situation indeed; it would appear the villain knew his trade, if reports of his technique are accurate."
"May I ask, sir, what you mean by his technique?"
"I will say only that I have heard the details. The young lady was quite helpless, I understand. This was no ordinary thief."
"It would appear not."
"Answer me this," said the count, warming to his subject. "Why were the male servants allowed to flee, but the young lady was captured? Why was she naked? Why was she moved from a spot where she was hidden to one where she was on display? I shall tell you. The highwayman's aim was not to rob her; it was to humiliate her, and to take pleasure in her humiliation. You are looking, in short, for someone who shares my taste in art."
Well; there was no answer to that.
"I understand that you must suspect me, Mr Fox. And I confess to enjoying the sight of a helplessly bound and humiliated maiden as much as your highwayman. But you must understand that I am rich, and young, and handsome. I do not need to force my attentions on young women. You should be seeking a gentleman who does."
2.
"I never expected, Mr Fox," said Mrs Fitzgerald, as they compared impressions in Thornfield's great drive, "to hear a gentleman of rank and good breeding speak so openly of taking pleasure in binding and gagging young ladies. I know from bitter experience it is an occupation that certain men enjoy, but I did not expect to hear it confessed with so little shame."
