The Academy Read online

  ‘And who else goes? I must say I haven’t heard of it before,’ Aunt Emma had asked, adding, ‘she won’t be mixing with the wrong set, I trust.’

  ‘Good gracious no. All the young ladies at the Academy are very much like Lady Miranda. Very much like her indeed,’ the solicitor replied.

  ‘And supervision? One hopes that certain standards are maintained. One is expecting a little discipline in the regime to govern their learning.’

  ‘Be assured of the fact that Lady Miranda will both experience and benefit from constant vigilance and strict supervision,’ he had purred.

  With these exchanges still fresh in her memory, Miranda sat back in the sumptuous leather seat of the cruising Daimler. Beside her, Mr Porteous, charged with the task of escorting and delivering her to the Academy, remained silent. At last, the luxurious car glided to a whispered halt.

  Moments later, Miranda heard large, heavy iron gates being drawn back. The car nosed across a cattle grid and crunched on loose gravel chippings. Gate lodge and drive, Miranda thought. Seems promising so far. And at least we are deep in the countryside. Instead of driving on, as expected, Mr Porteous ordered Freddie to wait. Then, politely but firmly, instructed Miranda to step out of the Daimler. The cold night air made her shiver.

  ‘Keep your blindfold on until given permission to remove it, my lady,’ the weasel insisted. ‘Merely a security precaution in these turbulent times of terrorism and kidnapping,’ he added.

  Gosh, Miranda thought. Who on earth actually came to the Academy? Arab princesses? How exciting. Would she have to share a maid? she wondered. And then, suddenly in the cold night air, all her vain and petty fears surfaced. What would become of her glorious blonde hair if it wasn’t cossetted by her little Knightsbridge treasure, Julio? And would the clothes and shoes issued by the staff at the Academy be designer items from Milan? The French season was rather disappointing this year, she reflected. Paris was expensive but dull. And would they allow her to have her favourite wild bilberries flown in from Norway? Such a simple pleasure, when laced with vodka and double cream. She sighed.

  ‘Goodbye, Lady Miranda. I am sure that I am leaving you in very capable hands. I trust that you will benefit from your experience here at the Academy. It has, I believe, an excellent reputation for getting results.’

  With that, Miranda heard the heavy car door shut and then the Daimler’s engine rise in mild protest as Freddie reversed it back out through the gate.

  ‘This way,’ a firm female voice said curtly.

  Miranda bridled slightly at the churlish tone.

  ‘I would like —’ she began, haughtily.

  ‘Silence. No talking.’ The sharp tone cut her off in mid-sentence.

  Miranda shrugged her shoulders, tossed her head and followed the sound of the retreating feet as they trod gravel.

  ‘Quickly, come along. In here.’

  Miranda found herself, as she obeyed the command to remove the blindfold, inside the yellowed, peeling walls of the gate lodge. It had a heavy smell of sour damp and a strong whiff of mice. Miranda’s refined nose wrinkled in disgust. The formidable woman, dressed in a loose tracksuit, her hair brushed back into a severe bun, pointed to Miranda’s golden watch. A Cartier, from an exclusive limited edition of only 105.

  ‘Watch, and any rings or jewellery. Come along. Quickly,’ she snapped impatiently.

  Miranda surrendered her Cartier with some misgivings.

  ‘Shoes.’

  ‘My shoes?’ Miranda said, puzzled.

  ‘At once.’

  Miranda slipped them off and handed them over.

  ‘All these items will be returned to you on your eventual departure from here. A receipt will be issued.’

  Elaborate security precautions, Miranda thought. But why? Her shoes, simple gold rope necklace and rare Cartier? Perplexed by this question, and engrossed in its search for an answer, her usually sharp mind failed to pick up on the word ‘eventual’ which the offensive women had used. If it had, Miranda would have become instantly perturbed. As it was, she remained merely distressed at having been stripped of all her most personal possessions. The dominant woman beckoned. Miranda, awkward in her bare feet, followed her out of the musty gate lodge in silence.

  The silence grew more oppressive and became almost unbearable as she sat in the back of a small Fiat which punched the darkness ahead with twin silver beams as the car roared up a twisting gravel drive, flanked by brooding elms, towards a large, eighteenth-century Queen Anne mansion.

  ‘Out,’ came the curt command after the Fiat had braked sharply at the imposing, columned front entrance. ‘Up the steps. Ring three times and wait.’

  Miranda forgot the gruff instructions to maintain absolute silence.

  ‘What shall I —’ she began.

  ‘Shut up and get out,’ snapped the Fiat driver with a snarl.

  Startled more than alarmed by this display of utter rudeness which was alien to her normally genteel circle, Miranda frowned, opened the car door, stepped out into the cool night air and slammed the door behind her testily. The driver sprang out of her seat and strode around the front of the Fiat. Large dark shadows danced against the façade of the mansion as she crossed in front of the headlights.

  ‘Come here,’ thundered the woman angrily.

  Miranda, taken aback by the flurry of activity, hesitated.

  ‘I said come here, you spoiled little bitch. You need a sharp lesson in manners and obedience, girl, and I’m just the one to give it to you.’

  Before Miranda fully realised what was happening, the surprisingly agile and athletic woman grabbed her arm, held her in a powerful grip and deftly spread-eagled her over the warm metal bonnet of the car. Unpocketing a small, leather strap, she pinioned Miranda face down onto the ticking engine hood, one large, capable hand clamped vice-like around the struggling girl’s white neck.

  Crack. The strap spoke, breaking the brooding silence of the dark night. A flash of red pain seared through Miranda’s brain. Crack. Crack. The double blows left her soft, fleshy thighs a-tingle. Crack. Her bottom, still tender after the attentions paid to it by her aunt, received the scorching fourth lash. Crack. The fifth, an evil swipe, stung her scalding cheeks.

  A voice, rich and confident in its authoritative tone, spoke out in the night.

  ‘Good evening. Welcome to the Academy, Lady Miranda. I see you are settling in well. Jolly good. Press on, Matron. Chastise the girl.’

  The mellow tones rolled down the wide sweep of steps and echoed down the gravel paths and manicured lawns beyond.

  ‘Just teaching the wretched girl a little politeness, ma’am,’ the Matron replied, the leather strap dangling limply in between the treacherous strokes.

  ‘Pray continue. Standards must be kept to a rigorously high degree, dear Matron. Let the lesson be a memorable one,’ the voice from the entrance porch boomed.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Writhing under the unerring lash of the deadly strap, Miranda’s soft, rounded cheeks blazed as they absorbed three more harsh strokes. The warm bonnet of the Fiat received her squashed breasts and swelling belly as Matron kept a fierce, pinioning grip. Miranda’s thick mane of blonde hair tossed wildly as her lithe body jerked responsively to the hot kiss of the cruel leather. The punishment over, the firm grip was relaxed. The punished girl remained spread face down over the Fiat.

  ‘Thank you,’ the grim voice of her chastiser said.

  Miranda turned her flushed face sideways and looked up, uncomprehending.

  ‘It is our custom to say ‘‘thank you’’ in this establishment, girl,’ the stern voice from the top of the stone steps thundered.

  Miranda, with gathering understanding, turned to the woman who had just ignited her buttocks with the supple strap.

  ‘Thank you,’ Miranda mumbled, not a little sullenly.

  ‘Speak up, you wretched girl,’ the unseen speaker boomed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Miranda said, distinctly.

  Mat
ron furled up the little leather strap and pocketed it, slid behind the wheel of the Fiat and drove off back down towards the gate lodge beyond the towering elms.

  ‘Matron sleeps in the gate lodge. You will meet her again tomorrow during your induction to the Academy. I trust for your bottom’s sake that your manners will have significantly improved. Come, girl. I will take care of you tonight.’

  Mrs Boydd-Black was a superb specimen of her type. Admitting to 45, but looking eight years younger, she was tall, angular and not without a certain graceful strength. The source of her strength lay generally in her tanned, openly handsome face — and specifically in her piercing eyes made sharper by the glittering pince-nez they sparkled behind.

  Miranda studied the headmistress of the Academy guardedly as she stood by the large fumed-oak desk in a vast study warmed by a leaping fire. From the sweet, scented fragrance in the air, Miranda knew that the short logs that yielded so eagerly to the orange and yellow flames were apple. The head-mistress wore a heather twill thorn-proof skirt, fine lisle stockings of clouded oyster-grey, a lemon blouse and matching cardigan and strong, sensible brogues. A healthy, outdoor type. Fit enough to tire her gun dogs, probably. Sports bra, suspenders and no knickers, Miranda mused. A powerful woman, certainly not one to be underestimated or crossed. Unaware of her new charge’s surreptitious appraisal, Mrs Boydd-Black paced before the fire as she prepared to speak. Planting her sturdy brogues fourteen inches apart on the rich oriental rug, she commenced.

  ‘I have been advised of the details of your illustrious career during the past few months, Miranda. You must, I feel most strongly, change your ways and change them quickly. But before such a change can be seen in your behaviour, there must be a change in your attitude. Rest assured that we shall be taking certain measures to achieve the desired results.’

  Miranda gulped and swallowed hard. She knew at once what those certain measures would be. Her rump had just sampled them.

  ‘You have been placed under my charge and supervision here at the Academy and I have given assurances to certain parties…’

  Aunt Emma and the weasel Porteous no doubt, Miranda thought, mentally grimacing.

  ‘…To certain parties. The regime here is simple. Listen and obey. Always obey. The rules are sovereign. Deviation or defiance will warrant instant punishment. We dispense several degrees of punishment, and though they may vary in kind they are blessed with a unique similarity. Severity.’

  Miranda trembled imperceptibly, her left hand unconsciously going behind her in a protective gesture to guard the swell of her rump.

  ‘You are headstrong, spoiled, undisciplined and ungovernable. A perfect specimen of privilege gone to the bad. I and my colleagues, together with the regime and range of punishments here at the Academy, will change all of that. Have I made myself perfectly plain? Do you understand me, girl?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Boydd-Black,’ Miranda replied, a little shakily.

  ‘Jolly good. Then we understand one another perfectly. And the length of time you remain here will be determined almost completely by you yourself.’

  Miranda looked up in surprise.

  ‘Those placed in our charge must earn their remission and ultimate release. We operate a points system. Merits. All new receptions commence with zero.’

  Norway, nul point. The cliché swam into Miranda’s brain to taunt her. She had never actually watched the Eurovision song contest, but had a portfolio of preferred shares in a satellite consortium.

  ‘Good behaviour,’ continued Mrs Boydd-Black implacably, ‘prompt and immediate obedience, all earn merits. Achieve one hundred merits and you will be eligible for discharge from our control and care.’

  Miranda rapidly calculated how long her incarceration might actually be. She stared back directly into the magnetic dark eyes that gazed unblinkingly through the glinting pince-nez.

  ‘Each transgression, display of disobedience or symptom of regression will earn both chastisement and a demerit.’

  Damn, thought Miranda. Typical bloody catch-22. She suddenly felt a forlorn sense of doom shroud her usually mercurial mind. The last sentence hung heavily in the apple-wood scented air between them. For Miranda, the word chastisement made the peachy soft flesh of her twin buttocks tingle.

  ‘Discipline is the main purpose of the Academy,’ the headmistress continued, a warmer, richer note stealing into her voice. ‘We dispense with the usual curriculum. A spartan regime is what we aim for. Simple food, vigorous exercise. No fripperies or frills. And rigid discipline.’

  Again, for a full two, silent minutes, the protracted pause weighed heavily between the strong, powerful headmistress and the somewhat chastened new girl. Miranda felt a little giddy and stretched out to steady herself against a large chair which stood, incongruously, marooned alone in a sea of richly patterned carpet.

  ‘Do not touch that,’ the headmistress snapped. Miranda recoiled and looked up, startled.

  ‘That is a very special piece, my girl. We refer to it only as the Chair.’ Mrs Boydd-Black seemed to reCover Page her composure as quickly as she had lost it. Miranda detected a strange, excited note as the headmistress continued.

  ‘That Chair is reserved for the administration of very special punishments. They do not concern you for the moment, girl. Perhaps they never shall. You are not, I am given to understand, a stupid girl. Just spoiled, disobedient and in dire need of discipline. Only those who fail to respond to the strict regime here at the Academy are summoned to the Chair for certain exercises. The Quarter Exercise, a severe reminder. The Half Exercise, a very painful lesson. The Full Exercise, reserved for the very, very wicked …’

  Suddenly snapping out of her reverie, during which her voice had almost sunk into a trance-like whisper, the headmistress concluded the interview abruptly.

  ‘But more of that later. Come, girl, to supper and bed. No questions. Just listen, learn and obey. That is all that we demand of you. Have I made myself perfectly clear? Hmm?’

  Chapter Two

  Supper was a plain but wholesome repast. No tubs of ice cream or elaborate Thai banquet, Miranda’s normal midnight grazing. Just two thick slices of homemade bread spread generously with golden butter and clear, almond-hued honey.

  ‘From our very own bees,’ boasted the head-mistress, barely concealing her evident pride. ‘Such adorable little creatures, but my goodness, how they sting.’

  Sting. Miranda’s thoughts turned immediately to the little leather strap which had scalded her bottom so thoroughly not an hour since. She was sticky. The honey was thick. She furtively licked her sweet, dripping fingertips and secretly tongued apart her cloyingly webbed fingers.

  ‘Vitamins. And drink your milk,’ Mrs Boydd-Black urged in her headmistressy tone. She briskly tapped the table with an extended forefinger. The vitamins danced in their little plastic cup. ‘Drink.’

  Miranda, head bowed, obeyed.

  The basement kitchen was cavernous, though warm and well-lit. Miranda gazed at this alien environment. At the huge Aga, polished and gleaming in the brightness. At the rows of winking saucepans in serried ranks along the scrubbed, white-tiled walls. Almost a foreign country to Miranda. In her exclusive London penthouse she had a large American Frigidaire with six shades of lipstick and a bottle or two of wine on standby. In town Miranda always dined out, taking breakfast in a brasserie. When at Sandstones all her needs were supplied simply by touching a bell-push, from her early morning mocha — served in a solid silver Georgian coffee pot — to an impromptu supper party for a bevvy of unexpected friends.

  ‘All the work is undertaken by my girls. We do not have any domestics,’ the headmistress said. ‘Hard work is very character forming. Cook is a tartar. Rules this kitchen with a long, wooden spoon. If you behave yourself, in time you may be lucky enough to get a work detail down here. It can be so cold out in the gardens at this time of the year.’

  Miranda shivered slightly, though uncertain as to whether it was at the thought of the tartar cook
with the long wooden spoon — just imagine what that could do to one’s bare bottom — or weeding gravel pathways with blue fingers on a frosty morning.

  ‘Finished? Good. It is simple but nourishing fare. And no drinking or smoking during your time with us at the Academy. I take a very serious view of any such infringements. A very serious view indeed. Wash and dry those dishes. Quickly.’

  Miranda rinsed her plate, knife, spoon and glass and tidied them away.

  ‘We’ll see about something for you to wear.’

  Miranda followed Mrs Boydd-Black up several flights of stairs and then along a warm, airy landing.

  ‘This is the kit room. You may be assigned to household duties here. I am reliably informed that Miss Pigeon, our capable seamstress, is a wizard with the clothes brush. Quite expert.’

  Miranda gulped. Was Miss Pigeon as expert with her clothes brush as Aunt Emma had been with the cherrywood hair brush? She sincerely hoped not.

  ‘As I said,’ the headmistress continued. ‘I see to it that everyone works here. And works hard. We are quite a thriving, busy little community. Slackers soon repent. Strip off those rags. Quickly.’

  Miranda blinked. After the brisk punishment with the strap, she knew that the Academy might be exclusive, but it was no ordinary private school. Even so, the nonchalance with which Mrs Boydd-Black rummaged through the shelves in a large airing cupboard after instructing Miranda to peel off her clothes, startled her. Hesitantly, the ‘rags’, some seven hundred pounds worth of silk slacks and cashmere jumper, fluttered down onto the lino beneath her feet.

  ‘No bra? We don’t issue them at the Academy, so that’s all right. Some of the sillier girls whinge, but a warm bottom or two gives them something else to think about, ha ha.’

  Miranda was beginning to find the vibrant woman’s heartiness just a little bit too much.

  ‘Panties off.’ Again, a command skimpily dressed in the guise of an invitation. But beneath the pleasantness, Miranda knew there lurked both a will of iron and a ruthless resolve.