Headmaster Smyth in Winter

An Edwardian era parlor drama with stuffy language, mind games, role playing, romance, an unusual courtship, bare bottom canings, and sex. Is it coercion or cooperation? Who is leading whom? All characters are over 18 years.

It's told in the third person, new for me. I started this in the dead of winter and so, of course, I finally finished in the heat of summer. Just pretend it's winter during a particularly bleak period of recent history. There are doubtless many historical inaccuracies. Enjoy!

*****

A Friday in mid-December, 1915, England.

Headmaster Smyth rose from behind his desk and walked to his third floor window overlooking the campus quadrangle. He stood between the heavy curtains and peered out into the late afternoon gloom. A light snow was falling and beginning to stick. As in years past it would soon accumulate and make travel difficult. Most of the campus was deserted now, the students having left during the week for home or elsewhere as they finished their examinations.

"Headmaster?" he heard a woman's voice behind him.

Smyth turned to face his secretary, Evelyn Nash, standing in the doorway to his office. She was some thirty years old, perhaps a dozen years younger them himself, and quite competent, seeming to know what Smyth needed even before he did. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her style of dress always reserved and professional. She had been only a year in her position but already had proven herself indispensable to the operation of the Saint Anne Collegiate School.

Saint Anne's, as is was called, offered upper and middle class girls a full academic education including sports to prepare them for university or career, the same as boys. That was unusual during a time when most girls went to finishing schools, if they attended secondary school at all. At Saint Anne's, daughters of wealth and privilege lived and studied alongside daughters of teachers and tradesmen, learning the habits and skills necessary for the modern age. Headmaster Smyth had assembled a strong faculty and student body and held them to high standards. These experiences tended to create a strong sense of loyalty to the school and to each other.

Miss Nash walked across the polished hardwood floor and placed a folder on Smyth's desk. Smyth smiled inwardly at the sharp clicks of Miss Nash's low heels and the faint echo from the book lined walls. There was something about Miss Nash that aroused his curiosity. She was always reserved and business-like, a model of decorum, but she had inquisitive eyes. At times, and for only a moment, the faint suggestion of a smile graced her face to reveal, perhaps, a more playful side of her otherwise formal persona.

"Here is our file on Trudy Bradshaw, the American student in her last year. She has an appointment to see you at 4:30," she said.

"Did she say what she wanted to see me about?" asked Smyth, picking up the folder and leafing through the pages. "I don't believe I've spoken to her more than a few times."

"No, she didn't. I offered her an earlier time but she asked for the last appointment of the day. As you can see, she has been a good student, consistently earning good but not exemplary marks. No behavioral issues, active in sports, that sort of thing. Her mother is American, her father British. Her mother's an actress in New York, somewhat famous, and her father's in the British Navy serving on a dreadnaught; the HMS Conqueror, I believe," said Miss Nash.

"Perhaps she is in need of a place to stay for Christmas," said Smyth. "The residence halls close this weekend and she is still here. What has she done in previous years?"

"She has stayed with her aunt in Paris but that's out this year, what with the war. I suppose she could stay with me in my flat if it came to that," said Miss Nash. The war had made all things more difficult, and everyone recognized that compromises must be made.

Headmaster Smyth looked up from the folder. "That's quite generous of you, Miss Nash. I'll keep that in mind, should the need arise."

"There's more. Her aunt has been paying her tuition and expenses but that stopped two months ago. I've sent two letters but received no answers; the war, I expect. Miss Bradshaw's account is in arrears one hundred twelve pounds."

"Hmmm, really? Her mother?"

"She eventually wrote to say she considers her daughter emancipated and responsible for her own debts. She's nineteen, you know, nearly twenty. She's more than a year older than the other girls by virtue of her American schooling."

"Her father?" Smyth asked. He was beginning to feel uneasy. The thought of suspending a student for non-payment was abhorrent to him.

"He sends us ten pounds a month, quite a lot for a British seaman, I expect," she replied.

"Are they married?" asked Smyth.

"That's unclear. But there's more."

Smyth sat down with the folder and leaned back in his chair as if to read it, but mostly to regard Miss Nash. She knew details about the students that never failed to impress him. He noted, and not for the first time, her trim figure and fecund, womanly hips. Her movements flowed with a natural grace that made her an island of calm in a seething hallway of students. Even bereft of makeup, scarce during wartime, her poise and natural beauty turned heads. She had such a sharp mind, too. He looked up to her face and she graced him with another enigmatic smile. Had she noticed his attention to her figure? Probably.

"More, you say?" he asked. He was enjoying their subtle game of cat and mouse, this gentle parry and thrust. Miss Nash could be such a tease at times but always, oh, so proper.

"Yes, Headmaster, there is more," she replied, leaning over his desk to flip through Miss Bradshaw's file. Their sudden close proximity startled Smyth. He caught the faintest whiff of perfume combined with the sweet smell of her breath, and the more earthy smells of body heat and sweat.

"Here on this page. You see, Headmaster? Combined with the credits from her American high school and her courses from this semester, she meets our school's criteria for graduation. You could award her a certificate this very afternoon; pending approval of the board of regents, of course. However, I'd suggest not doing so until her debts are settled."

"And how might she do that? She appears quite destitute from your description, all but an orphan from what you say," Smyth said.

"Hire her. Put her to work in this office. I could use her help managing payroll and procurements and she could assist you in your literary research. It would be instructive for her to delve into 18th century poetry, don't you think? Let her work to pay her debts."

"Quite irregular, Miss Nash, to hire a student mid-year," he replied, pushing back against this unexpected feminine onslaught. But she had a logical point. It was wartime and everything was difficult, especially here in the north of England. One must make do. Smyth laid the folder on his desk and turned again to Miss Nash.

"I'll have to give that some thought. If there is nothing else, Miss Nash, you have my permission to leave to catch an early train before the snow sets in."

"Thank-you, Headmaster, but there is one last thing." She turned and walked out of his office, returning a moment later with a small box of books.

"I found these in Miss Bradshaw's quarters just this morning," she said, placing each book on his desk in turn. "Lady Chatterly's Lover; The Yellow Room; The Way of a Man with a Maid; The Unwelcome Guest; My Year in Captivity. Quite an interesting collection of reading material for a young woman, wouldn't you say? I think Miss Bradshaw leads a secret double life," she concluded with another faint smile.

She noted the grim look on Smyth's face as he sorted through the books. Yes, Miss Bradshaw was about to have an unpleasant late afternoon with Headmaster, she thought, with a touch of schadenfreude. She wondered: Would he put all the pieces of the puzzle together and arrive at the proper conclusion? She could tell him the full story but this way was ever so much more interesting. Let him figure it out for himself, she thought, let it get his mind working and his juices flowing. In any event, she would doubtless learn the details come Monday.

"Well, this is very interesting, Miss Nash. Thank you for uncovering this rather unpleasant business. Now you should leave to catch that train. I don't mind meeting Miss Bradshaw alone so long as you leave the lights on in the outer office and keep the office doors open," he said.

"That's kind of you, sir. I'll leave straight away, thank you," she said. With that she turned and walked smartly out of his office. Smyth admired her figure as she left, imagining for a moment how she might look without her long woolen skirt and knickers. A very spankable bottom he imagined, and he wondered, and not for the first time, how he might someday find out for himself.

Smyth spent the next hour paging through the books. Some were quite well written; D. H. Lawrence, of course, but some others as well. Obviously, some were the product of less mature minds, but all had themes of illicit sex, spanking, and even bondage and forced sex. He wasn't too surprised that a student would be interested in sex. They were, after all, entering adulthood and many students would soon marry and have children, barring some wartime catastrophe. But these books depicted acts beyond normal marital relations, revealing Miss Bradshaw's prurient cast of mind. He found that fact intriguing.

Again, Smyth walked to his office window. The snow was falling heavily now and the buildings on the far side of the Quad were only dimly seen through the snow and darkness. He noticed a lone figure walking this way, bundled against the cold. Miss Bradshaw, no doubt.

Smyth walked to the stove, picked up the coal scuttle, and poured more coal into the top of the stove. Miss Bradshaw would likely appreciate the extra warmth, he thought, and he adjusted the draft and flue for maximum heat. A heavy door closed in the distance and he heard her footsteps coming up the stairs and approaching his office, echoing in the empty hallway in the same manner as Miss Nash's. He heard her enter Miss Nash's outer office and then stop at the door to his inner office. He heard a gentle, tentative rap on his door jam.

"Mister Smyth?" asked a quiet voice.

"I am Headmaster Smyth," he said, turning toward her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Headmaster Smyth," she said, attempting an American version of a curtsey. "May I come in, please, sir?"

"Of course, please come in and take a seat," he said, gesturing toward a leather armchair near his desk. "You must be Miss Bradshaw. I am making myself a cup of tea; may I make a cup for you, too?"

"Yes, please. I hope I'm not keeping you late, sir," she said, walking toward the wingback chair.

"Not at all. The work of the school continues even while the students are on Christmas recess. Here, let me move that chair closer to the heat." Smyth picked up the heavy chair and set it down facing the stove.

"May I take your coat, Miss Bradshaw?" he asked, extending his hand.

"Yes, please."

She took off her mittens and scarf, handed them to Smyth, then her hat, and finally her winter coat. Smyth held her outerwear over his arm and regarded Miss Bradshaw. She was of medium height with a trim, medium build. Her shoulder length reddish-brown hair was held back by a white hairband, an optional part of the regulation uniform she wore. Her long sleeve white cotton blouse was buttoned to her neck, as per winter regulations. Her wool vest with school crest was buttoned as well, and hung over the waistband of her long wool skirt. The skirt ended just below her knees, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Smyth. It should have extended to mid-calf, but Smyth knew that many of the older girls raised their hems to express their individuality and budding sexuality, and generally were allowed to get away with it.

Her cheeks were rosy pink from the cold and her blue eyes clear and bright with the glow of youth. She had the ivory complexion of a redhead with freckles across her nose and cheeks and Smyth wondered if she could have Irish ancestry.

She remained standing by the chair, shoulders hunched, arms against her chest, rubbing her hands together. She was chilled but also seemed anxious. Had he been too stern in his greeting? Miss Nash had often accused him of that, of scaring the younger students with his gruffness, and he had resolved to be friendlier with the students. But he had just met Miss Bradshaw and surely he hadn't done anything to set her ill at ease. He hung her garments on a coat rack near the door.

"Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the leather chair. "Your overshoes, too? Please, allow me."

She nodded and sat in the chair. He knelt before her to remove her snow galoshes from over her plain black leather shoes. He gripped the back of each leg in turn and pulled off the overshoe, each helping the other. It felt strange to feel a man firmly grip her leg; strange in a good way.

She sat with elbows and knees held tight together and shivered. He walked across the room to a cabinet and removed a wool blanket, placed it across her shoulders, and then addressed the whistling tea kettle on the coal stove.

"Milk and sugar?" he asked.

"Yes, both please," she answered. He prepared her cup and handed it to her on a saucer. She took a sip and smiled up at him. "Thank-you, sir. It is very good, sir." The war had made tea scarce and expensive and she gratefully received it.

Headmaster Smyth took his cup of tea and again walked to the window. Outside it was dark as midnight and in pools of light below each lamppost lay several inches of new snow. He pulled the heavy drapes closed to conserve heat. Well, time to find out the purpose of Miss Bradshaw's visit. He guessed she needed accommodations but sensed that there might be something else. Years of experience had given him a good sense about his young charges. Young women often cloaked their true intentions and feelings, he had found. And then there was the matter of the contraband books.

"How might I help you, Miss Bradshaw? I assume you have come to find last minute quarters for the Christmas recess. Is that correct?" he asked.

She was surprised and blinked rapidly. "Why, yes...yes, sir. You know my situation, then... my mother in New York and my father at sea... and my aunt in Paris."

She stopped to wipe away a tear. Smyth handed her a tissue and she blotted her eyes. "I haven't heard anything from Auntie since the German invasion. I hope she is alright. I had thought to be spending Christmas in London with my friend Fiona Blackwell and her family, but that fell through."

Smyth barely suppressed a snort. "Fiona Blackwell? I didn't know you consorted with her. She's a bit of a hellion."

"Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir, but she's been quite nice to me...except she's left me in the lurch with no place to go for Christmas."

"Well, that's already been taken care off. My secretary, Miss Nash, has offered to take you in. I'll get you on a train and she'll pick you up at her station. This is not the first time this has happened with a student and I've emergency funds available for situations such as these, so it's settled."

He looked at his pocket watch. "The next train is at 8:30 tonight, so we've plenty of time."

It was becoming warm in the office with the stove going full bore, so Smyth picked up an iron poker to adjust the stove for less heat. He mulled over what he had just learned and smiled. Miss Nash had set this up for him to figure out! The late meeting? The illicit books? Fiona Blackwell? The lingering mystery of the third student? There was much more to Miss Nash than met the eye, he realized, just as there was more to Miss Bradshaw.

"There's something else, too, isn't there?" he suddenly asked, standing up from the stove and turning toward Miss Bradshaw. "Something to do with Fiona Blackwell? And her friend Sonya Stratton?"

He regarded Miss Bradshaw closely and saw her stiffen in the chair and her smile fade. She fidgeted with her fingers. Smyth saw this and immediately knew he was right. He prided himself in being able to get information from recalcitrant students.

"You know they've been to see me recently? Fiona and Sonya? Yes? Something to do with smoking cigarettes? Perhaps a bit of brandy, too?" He let his words hang in the air. Tobacco and alcohol were strictly prohibited, punishable by expulsion.

"I've seen this before, you know. A good student corrupted by bad rubbish. It rarely works the other way, in my experience." He continued eyeing her, noting her discomfort as he walked around his desk to sit down in the tall leather chair, the seat of power at the school. He was sure she was keeping something hidden and felt sure he knew what it was.

"Please, Miss Bradshaw, come closer and sit down here," he said, pointing to another chair alongside his desk. "You're quite warm enough, now. We've got some things to discuss, don't you think?"

Trudy Bradshaw took a seat next to his desk and in his close proximity felt the full weight of his stern countenance. Time slowed to a crawl. She became aware of the ticking of the wall clock and the soft noises from the stove. The warm air in the room suddenly felt thick and oppressive. She wanted to bolt the room but knew that option was out of the question. Once before she had run away but she had vowed henceforth to take her medicine as an adult. She had come here of necessity but also as a moth to the flame. Headmaster suspected her guilt and perhaps already knew for sure, but she could not find the courage to confess. Her face felt hot and sweat collect on her upper lip.

There were three girls involved in that shameful incident in town and the headmaster had found out two of them. He would have never suspected her...except she had let slip her friendship with Fiona and, by extension, Sonya.

Fiona was the one who had suggested the three of them sneak into town after curfew to meet some boys. She was the one with the package of cigarettes and the bottle of brandy, the one who had encouraged their transgressions. The brandy had been surprisingly potent, at least to a young woman with no drinking experience, and it had led to more brandy. The cigarettes had made her cough and made her head spin, leading to even more brandy. She remembered the empty bottle breaking against the cobblestones in the dark alley, and the warm, silly feeling in her head.

The three boys...grown men, really...where had they come from? They had brought with them homemade liquor and hand rolled cigarettes. Two of them seemed to know Fiona and Sonya, and the third boy had carried on as if Trudy and he were old friends. What was his name again? Nigel? Ian? She couldn't remember. But she could remember his kisses, hot with the acrid taste of cigarettes and alcohol. They had melted together, grasping at each other and pulling clothes aside. Long delirious minutes of kissing followed. Her hand had reached down his suddenly opened trousers to stroke his erect penis, the first she had ever held in her hand. She marveled at its velvet hardness and how he reacted to her touch. His hand had pushed up beneath her clothing to grasp a bare breast and although rough, his touch had thrilled her.

Then, an unexpected bright light had shown in their faces, interrupting their passion in the alley.

"You there! What are you kids doing here?" the policemen had demanded, shining his carbide torch all around.

The three young men had immediately taken flight, leaving the three girls standing alone. Fiona and Sonya had straightened their clothing and seemed irritated by the intrusion but Trudy had been well and truly terrified.