She caned me in the morning. Twenty-four strokes. I'd expected no less. It was just. She'd forbidden me to go near her cabinet and I had not only peeked inside, but I had handled what was obviously a rare and precious treasure. But still I could not rid myself of the questions that haunted me, day and night, over the next few weeks. Was that really Sydney's vase? If so, how had the Mistress obtained it? Did she buy it from Sydney? Perhaps she knew where Sydney could be found! It would be a delight to see her again after all these years. And why did the Mistress hide the vase, as though were more precious than money?

But I had no answers to these questions, and no opportunity to find out. The Mistress rode me hard, assigning me arduous, time-consuming tasks so that from dawn to dusk I worked and sweated and labored with no time for mischief. She beat me more often, I noticed, and with more real anger and less amusement. I had never realized what a different that made, but suddenly I wished she would smile as she beat me, like before, even if it was a longer and harsher whipping, as being whipped for her pleasure was supremely better than being whipped for mere punishment.

It was about two weeks after the incident with the vase that it started. I noticed a change in the Mistress. She no longer smiled at me, or took pleasure in my company. My presence seemed to irritate her. Even when I apologized for touching her vase and begged her forgiveness, she only smiled wanly and motioned for me to leave her alone. She spent a great deal of time alone now, much more than ever before. I grew concerned, and I fretted that I had caused some serious injury to her. I could not imagine how, or what significance my touching the vase had, or could have, on her. But the change between us had obviously taken place since that day with the vase, and I could think of no other explanation.

One morning, when she was unusually upset with me for a reason so minor I have long since forgotten it, she took down the strap and ordered me to lie across her bed. When my skirt was lifted and my bottom bared she began the long, thorough strapping. Though by now I had more than my share of experience with her punishments, I shall not say that I was used to them, that they did not affect me any longer; rather I shall say that I was _attuned_ to her whippings. Though I certainly did not seek them out, they provided a certain release for me, an escape, if you will, from the dry boredom of daily living and the constant atmosphere of doom that hung over me and followed me everywhere. There was a certain satisfaction in her punishments, and my sigh as I knelt in position was more one of resignment and resolution than acceptance. I suspected that the whippings offered a release for her, too, though I did not know what she sought to escape from, for she was always much more relaxed and, I suppose, happy, after administering punishment.

During this whippings, however, I was painfully aware of the new, foreign dynamics within our relationship. Her beating was hard, cruel, almost ruthless in its intensity, and it went on much longer than was usual, even for her. I became aware of a subtle difference between her previous punishments and this one, namely that her beatings had at one time engaged my mind, taunting and tormenting me, forcing me to participate in the whipping, to ponder and accept each blow as though it were a caress or a kiss. Her belt or cane was always aware of what I was thinking, what I was feeling, and it would control me, pushing me hither and yon, making me feel brave at one moment, frightened the next, ashamed on another occasion. I would leave the whipping drained, both mentally and physically, but I would feel a sense of elation, as though I had discovered something priceless.

On this day, however, the whipping was purely physical. It was constant, rhythmic, and without change or mercy. She cared nothing about what I felt, what I was thinking. This was mere torture, nothing but pain, agonizing pain, and I did not like the sensation at all. At least when it had been a game to her there was something within it that entertained us both. Now I got nothing from the punishment. I did not go anywhere, learn anything, or feel a sense of accomplishment.

When she finished I lay silent, too stunned even to weep. I slowly raised myself, my flesh burning violently in a thousand places, and felt more base than I had ever felt in my life. I had been whipped like an animal, a creature without sensibility, and I felt no better than a kicked and long-abused dog. As I stood and turned to face the Mistress, my face damp and flushed, my body trembling, I hoped and prayed for the slightest sign of appreciation or gratitude from her; anything to let me know that my sacrifice was recognized, that I was more than the inanimate object she now treated me as. But there was nothing, only an empty, dull face, eyes filled with frustration and sadness and longing, as though she could not find what she sought.

As I dropped my eyes away from her pointless face I caught a figure in the doorway of her chamber and I froze, my heart leaping to my throat. I don't know why he surprised me. There was no reason he should not have been there. Perhaps it was his strange expression, part curiosity and puzzlement, part sadness, as though he were disappointed. Or maybe I was startled by his relaxed stance, which indicated that he'd been watching us for a long time. My mouth opened slightly but I did not speak. The Mistress turned, then, and saw him. I could not see her face but she appeared flustered, and ordered me to my quarters.

The Master's face became a mask, slick and even, almost without expression, though his lips formed a genial smile, and he nodded at me as I left the room. But his eyes never strayed from his wife's face, and as I turned to close the door behind me, I saw she was staring at the floor, her high cheekbones crimson. I heard him speak then, in calm, low tones, but there was no answer, and I could not make out his words. I went to my quarters and rested.

I did not see the Mistress again until the next day as I worked in the kitchen, when, without a word of explanation, she strode up to me and ordered I bring her the cane. Blushing before all the others, I obeyed. It had been a month or so since she had punished me publicly, and I dreaded it. She spread me across a table right there in front of the cook and all the servants and gave me six vicious strokes with the cane. Then she left without a word, haughty and aloof and extremely smug. No one spoke to me about the incident, but one of the older maids casually gave me some of her meat scraps from her noon meal, saying that she "didn't feel hungry." I understood the gesture and thanked her.

I thought little more of the incident until late that evening, as I was retiring in my quarters. I was in the process of undressing, a single candle burning in one corner near by bed, my eyes already closing with fatigue. Suddenly there was a sharp, single knock on the door. It was too distinct to be mistaken for something else, and yet so quick I wondered if I had really heard it. I opened the door cautiously, holding my just-removed dress against my bosom.

The Master himself stood before me, a small lantern in his hand, his face calm and smiling, and yet with a touch of wildness, of urgency. I stood back in surprise. "Master DeMarcco!" I exclaimed. "What on earth!"

"I must speak with you, Miss Janey," he said quickly, quietly, and pulled himself inside, instantly shutting the door behind him as though frightened he would be seen. I stared at him open-mouthed, wondering what could possibly be his intentions, when I blushingly realized my undressed state and I struggled to contain my modesty.

"Sir, I am not properly dressed," I murmured.

"My apologies," he said gallantly, turning away so I could adjust myself. I gingerly sat on the bed and covered myself with my blanket. He turned, smiled rather shyly, and apologized again. "Please forgive the intrusion at this late hour," he said, seating himself at the foot of my bed and looking at me intently. "But I must ask you a question. I saw you wince, just now. The Mistress caned you, today, did she not?"

I blushed furiously at this, silently confirming his remark. "I thought so," he said grimly. "I overheard one of the chambermaids whispering about it to another. And she whipped you very thoroughly just yesterday. Are you so naughty?"

This was the kind of question that is impossible to answer. If I said yes, I implied I deserved the punishments, and perhaps more. But if I said no, maybe I was being arrogant and vain, rising above my station. I slowly shook my head. "I'm only naughty when the Mistress wants me to be," I said carefully.

The Master laughed. "Excellent answer! You are far too bright to simply be a chambermaid. You ought to be the head of staff."

"I was, sir, for Lord Gregory, until he died."

"Ah, I thought as much. But it seems that the Mistress does not have the same opinion of you as we do. How many times has she beaten you over the past fortnight?"

I sighed, thinking. "Well, sir, it's been more than normal, that's for certain. I can't seem to do anything right for her anymore."

"How many times?" He repeated, his voice slightly sharp.

"I suppose, let's see now, counting today's caning, that would be nine, sir."

"Nine!" he exclaimed. "Nine in fourteen days! How do you bear it?"

"Oh, not all were that severe, sir. Yesterday's whipping and one last week were by far the worst."

The man looked at me silently for a few moments, until I began to feel embarrassed, and looked away, pulling the covering tighter around me. He stood, suddenly. "Thank you for your honesty, Miss Janey."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, my heart suddenly leaping with fear that he would be upset with the Mistress. That would only enrage her, and she'd be certain to take it out on the help.

"I don't know," he said simply. "I don't even know why I am asking, really, it's just that--" He paused, voice suddenly rough with emotion. I saw the glint of moisture in his eyes as he stared at me in the flickering light. "I love my wife, Miss Janey, very much. But lately she has... drifted away, shall we say. When I saw her whipping you yesterday I saw something in her I had not seen in a long time. Something I thought was forgotten, buried. It was very faint, but unmistakable: I think she hates you. Do you know why she would hate you?"

I shook my head slowly, my mind going back to the incident with the vase. "Not really, sir, unless she's unhappy with my performance."

"No, this is a deep, violent hatred, an evil blackening her very heart. It must be a very personal thing for her to hate you so."

"Oh," I said. He looked at me, just a touch sharply, but he did not speak again. He pressed his ear to the door for a moment, and when satisfied that all was quiet on the other side, he slipped out and was gone. I laid back on the bed and thought about what he had said, how he had looked. I thought about the vase and the Mistress' reaction. "Surely it has to be more than just that," I thought miserably, but I could not be sure. I slept badly that night, and in the morning the Mistress gave me three strokes with the cane for "sloth and tardiness."

Two evenings later the Mistress announced that I would be serving at dinner, and I knew what she had planned. I had served dinner on several occasions since that first fateful time, and at most dinners, but not all, managed to find myself publicly flogged before the guests. No doubt this would be another occasion for the latter. This distressed me, but I had long since learned not to concern myself over punishments before they occurred. What would be, would be; there was little I could do to change my circumstances.

The evening began well enough. The guests were a young couple just returned from Paris, a Countess and her new husband, and they had all the gossip my Master wanted to hear. The woman, I noticed, was quite haughty and vain. She practically dripped jewelry, any single piece of which would have served to feed me for a year. She treated me rudely and with contempt, but I managed to serve her pleasantly, and by the time the desert was served, I thought that perhaps I might escape the Mistress' intended fate. Then I heard the high-pitched voice of the Mistress, and though at first I didn't even hear the words, simply the accusing, degrading tone which told me it was directed at me, I knew with a sinking heart I had finally given her cause.

"Miss Janey!" said the Lady coldly, grim triumph flooding her face. "How could you! Shameful, it's shameful!"

I was sick of this game. I would not play. "How could I what?" I asked boldly, daring startled glances from the others.

She glared at me. "Give me your apron!" I obeyed, wondering what on earth she would do with it. She made a big show of spreading it out on the table, and then ran her hand into one of the large pockets. She slid her hand around for a movement or two, and then it emerged holding a small, glittering object. "Ah, ha!" She chortled. "My eyes did not deceive me! You are nothing but a thief!"

My jaw dropped in horror. For a maid to be accused of thievery was instant death. No one would hire me ever again, should I not prove my innocence. I saw myself crawling through a pile of refuse at the edge of town, my body old and filled with disease, dying a horrible death of starvation.

"Mistress DeMarcco, I did not take that!" I exclaimed, horror creeping into my voice. The Lady held it up to the light, now, and there was a gasp from the Countess as she recognized her ring. It was gold and sparkled with rubies and emeralds. It must have been worth a small fortune.

"My god!" she gasped. "She stole the ring right off my finger!" Her beady eyes blazed with fury as she turned to leer at me. "You ought to be thrashed and hanged," she said with a cold disdain I didn't think was possible to come from one human to another.

"But I did not take it!" I protested, reckless now, as I felt the heat of accusing faces all pushing at me.

"So how did it come to be in your apron?" asked the Mistress, her voice taunting, mocking, as she handed the ring back to its owner.

"I do not know. I did not put it there. Perhaps _you_ did, just now!" My heart pounded loudly at my brazen disregard for authority, but no one was listening to me. My voice was high, irrational, desperate. I stared from one leering face to another, trying to find a friend. Finally I settled on the Master, who's face looked grim. He would not look at me, but only stared across the table at his wife. She was haughty and proud, her lower lips projecting slightly in a pout.

"I think she should be caned!"

I saw the Master's eyes widen slightly at this. Stealing, if it could be proven, was a serious offense, one usually handled by the courts. Often, in the case of a servant, it was enough of a punishment to throw the thief out, for he or she would soon starve. By suggesting a caning, the Mistress was implying that I would not be released, and that justice could be better served here, by the DeMarccos themselves. I could see this puzzled him, for if the accusation was true, why would the Mistress want a thief in her house?

But the Mistress was already ordering a servant to fetch the cane, and apologizing magnanimously to the Countess, promising her that my thrashing would be most severe and memorable.

I stood off to one side, almost forgotten in the melee, my heart beating slowly and loudly. I could feel the blood moving through my skin. Nothing seemed real. I did not move as servants came and stripped me naked, removing my dress and petticoat and undergarments until I was completely nude. I was led before the fireplace, so close I could feel the fierce heat against my front, leaving my back cold. My arms were raised and fastened to the mantle with a piece of rope, and I stood there, silent, slightly bent, and waited for the pain to begin.

As I stood there, trembling despite myself, tears filling my eyes, I glanced back and managed to catch the Master looking at me. He appeared very sad, and he did not smile at me. He looked thoughtful and concerned. It comforted me, at least, that he was not full of the mirth and glee of the others, who eagerly gathered behind me to watch me be beaten.

Though it may seem strange, I remember very little of the caning. I suppose it was bad, my worst ever, but it held less terror for me than any of my previous punishments. I did not care what happened, somehow. My spirit was broken, perhaps. I had given up hope and I resolved to leave and die like I had desired to do when I had first come to the DeMarcco's.