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The brief tale that follows is not of Saint Clares’ in the 1950s, nor yet of the Upper IV. It comes from an earlier generation, set long before Inez first entered the school gates. In the unsettled autumn of 1938, Ned and Honour de Vries were newly wed. Told not through documents, but in the style of Regency romance, this story offers not a school record but a portrait of love, discipline, and loyalty in a world tilting toward war. Attentive readers may recognise here the same threads — secrecy, obedience, defiance — important to Inez’s own story.
It was a London drawing room, heavy with smoke and restless laughter, late in the autumn of 1938. The newspapers still proclaimed peace, yet every sensible man felt the ground quiver beneath the headlines. Ned stood aloof, a whisky glass untouched in his hand, his eyes fixed on Honour, his young bride—radiant as a flame in pale silk, perilously bright.
The pale gown softened her beauty but betrayed her youth, making her seem more the debutante she had been months before than the worldly wife she fancied herself. Her laugh—pitched a shade too high, lingering a breath too long—drew the eager attention of every young man in the room. They mistook her inexperience for daring, her girlishness for sophistication.
When she mimicked the Prime Minister, tilting an imaginary umbrella and wobbling her voice in his plummy tones, the circle of young men roared with delight. She flushed with triumph, careless of the older women’s sharp glances and of the attaché in the corner whose eyes saw her not as a beauty but as a lever to be pulled.
Ned’s jaw tightened. To the others, she was a charming bride showing off her sparkle. To him, she was a bright flame catching against dry kindling. He saw the peril of innocence mistaken for invitation, the danger of brilliance wielded without care. He sensed gossip already clinging to her like sickly perfume, a risk that could be stored, repeated, used. He admired her wit—how could he not?—yet threaded through the gaiety he heard something else: the false brightness of a society pretending it was not on the verge of war.
Once they left the party, he let his mask slip, stopped hiding his displeasure. They rode home in near silence, the hum of the motor car the only sound between them. Honour was still flushed with triumph, replaying her witticisms, humming, smiling as though she had carried the evening herself. To her, it had been another drawing room lark, a stage on which she sparkled. To Ned, it was a reminder that he was already driving headlong into a war declared in whispers, a phantom that would end only when the real one began.
At last she noticed his tension. “You’re cross with me,” she said, light as champagne bubbles. “Were you jealous, my husband? I did not think you insecure. It was but a bit of fun to pass the time.”
“You enjoy being noticed,” Ned replied flatly.
She smiled, careless. “Is that a crime, my Darlington?”
He did not turn his head. His gloved hands rested steady on his knees, his gaze fixed ahead.
“You enjoyed yourself,” he said finally, his voice level. “Too much.”
The lightness drained from her smile. “Too much? Surely laughter is no sin.”
“Careless,” he said. “Reckless. Foolish.” Each word fell like the strike of a gavel. “You thought their laughter was yours to command, but you did not hear what they said when you turned your head. Nor did you notice who was watching when you made your little jokes.”
Her colour rose swiftly, obvious even in the dim light of the car’s backseat. “It was harmless—”
“No,” he cut in, his tone flat. “No one is harmless. Nothing is harmless. Not now. Not in these rooms. Not in these days.”
Honour stared at him, wide eyed, stung less by his words than by the coldness in his voice. It was not jealousy, not even anger as she knew it. It was something heavier, a wrongness she could not name—only feel. She turned her face to the window, blinking hard, the echo of her own laughter still ringing in her ears. She felt attacked, angry. Why was he in such a bad mood? He was spoiling her memories of the evening, making her doubt herself when his regard had aways been a source of such confidence.
She tried to dismiss it as one of his grave pronouncements, setting her own jaw. As she leaned her head against the window, Ned thought of what lay ahead: the hours, the nights, the journeys he could not explain. His Honour would be alone more than she knew, certainly more than she would like. His young wife clearly expected the attention he had lavished on her during their brief courtship and honeymoon—attention he could not, would not always give. When she was bored or felt ignored, she misbehaved for attention.
She was still a girl, barely out of the schoolroom. A child.
They entered the Mayfair house in near silence, her laughter still bubbling though now with an edge of petulant anger, his jaw set like stone. She turned to him, nervous energy making her eager to tease and play despite her somewhat soured mood.
“Tell me true, Darlington—were you jealous, my husband?” she teased, leaning close. “I did not think you insecure. It was but a bit of harmless fun to pass the time. It amuses me, nothing more.”
Ned removed his gloves with slow precision, then turned to her, eyes hard. He repeated his earlier words.
“Careless. Reckless. Foolish. They watched you as young men watch any pretty girl who plays at daring, and they thought of nothing but how easily you might be led.”
Her colour rose. “I was being a good guest, trying to amuse…”
He shook his head, stepped closer, his gaze unyielding. “And you are not harmless either, not as my wife. If you chatter when you should listen, if you let them believe you may be bought with their laughter and flattery, then you endanger us both.”
Honour stared up at him. He knew she did not, could not understand, yet he was frustrated that she wasn’t trying, was barely registering his frustration. Yet he was mistaken. The cadence of his words recalled Saint Clare’s rules and punishments, as though she were a schoolgirl again, in her modest navy wool gymslip rather than an ethereal pink gown. Tears pricked her lovely eyes at the severity of his tone, making her look down; he was not often cold or cruel. She was hurt, he was angry, though he had not raised his voice.
“I only wished to please,” she whispered. “How can that be a danger to you?”
“You please me by keeping your wits about you,” he said, not softening. “Not by handing your charm to men who would use it against you. Against our families. Against us both.”
She stared at him, trembling, eyes full. She wanted his reassurance, his embrace. So quickly she had come to depend on his regard, his love. But Ned could not give it—not yet. He felt cool toward her. Cold, distant. Honour’s brother’s joke warning on their wedding day—that she would need “a firm hand”—echoed. It was not a jest, after all, but a warning.
“Go upstairs and prepare for bed. I shall be up directly.”
Her tearful eyes widened. “I will not. I’m not a child.”
Ned said nothing, but stared at Honour until she broke their gaze, looking away. “You will go upstairs to our rooms, Honour. Immediately and without another word. If you are not a child then don’t behave as one. Honour, instead, keep the vows you made to me as I will always honour mine to you.”
Without a word his wife spun and ran up the stairs, her choked sobs trailing her. He heard a door slam and closed his eyes. He would give her ten minutes and give himself a small whiskey while he waited.
When he entered their room, she sat at the vanity, brushing her golden hair in sharp, angry strokes. The maid scurried about, gathering her hastily discarded gown, underthings and shoes, until Ned dismissed her with a curt nod.
He waited for the door to close behind her, crossed the room, and took the brush from his wife’s hand. Ned felt his heart thudding as he wordlessly brushed her hair in long, slow strokes, counting each pass. Even once he passed one hundred, she said nothing, but he felt her tension relax. He had brushed her hair every night since their wedding, an act he had performed for no one else—a simultaneous gesture of service and possession. Finally, in the mirror, her reflection trembled. At last, she whispered, voice broken:
“I’m sorry.”
He set the brush down, gathered her into his arms, and carried her to a chair. For a moment he simply held her, feeling the hot tears soaking through his shirt. When she began to giggle, to tease again that perhaps they should attend parties separately, he cupped her chin.
No, clearly she did not understand. He shook his head. His wife was small and slight, still very much a girl. It was no effort to change her position on his lap so rather than sitting, Honour found she was bent across his knees, gasping in shock as his hand came down hard on her thin silk nightgown.
“What are you doing? Don’t you dare spank me! Don’t you dare!”
Ned was glad she couldn’t see him as he rolled his eyes at her words. Spanking her was exactly what he was doing. He smiled briefly, thinking how lovely she was, even feeling some enjoyment at how easily he could hold her in place despite her clear efforts to rise. Ignoring her words and struggles, he smacked his hand down on her silk-covered bottom, leaving little time or space between the spanks.
After a minute, when she had not stopped kicking, or telling him to stop, though her protests had become more pleas than orders, he lifted her thin robe and night dress, pausing only to admire the pinkness of the skin peeking under her step-ins. However much trouble she might be, his wife was adorable.
“I will not, not until I’m done.”
His spanking continued, her protests becoming less clear but not ceasing. After another minute, he paused again.
Thinking he’d stopped, Honour turned her head and, face red, said “That’s more than enough, let me up!”
He lifted his brow, left arm tightening around her waist.
“When did I say I would stop?”
His hand smacked down hard once, twice.
He paused.
Nothing.
Once, twice, and then repeated.
He paused again.
“When you’re done. Do let me know when that might be, milord.”
Her sulky, spoiled tone would have had him laughing under any other circumstance. She would never bore him. As it was, he couldn’t help smiling a bit despite the seriousness of this situation. Its potential dangers. Ned squelched that down, however and reached into his jacket.
Honour couldn’t see him, but the cold back of a wooden hairbrush was unmistakable, despite several years having passed she’d last felt one. Her body stiffened.
“Wait!” she cried, panicking. It hadn’t been that many years after all.
In answer he tightened his hold on her and brought the brush down, peppering her bottom with quick smacks, none especially hard, but fast enough that he left no time for breaths between. In his head he was counting, but not with any number in mind.
By forty she was crying freely, but still clearly angry, kicking and trying to cover her bottom with her hands. It was no trouble at all to pin them, despite his hold. At fifty, though she stilled, her crying turning quieter. Somehow though, it was deeper.
“I’m sorry. Truly I am.” she gasped, forcing the words out.
He slowed then, the smacks further apart, but delivered with more force.
“I expect you to obey me, Honour. Anytime I tell you you must or must not do something, I will have a good reason, even if I can’t explain. Even if you don’t understand. You must trust me.”
He paused then.
Silence.
He tapped the brush on her now red bottom before bringing it down again six times. The first two were on the lower curve of her bottom cheeks, the second pair were aimed at the juncture of her bottom and thighs. When the last two landed on the top of her thighs she howled.
He paused again. Then Ned repeated himself. “I expect you to obey me, Honour. Anytime I tell you you must or must not do something, I will have a good reason, even if I can’t explain or you don’t understand. Will you trust me?”
He paused again.
“Yes” she gasped. “I shall.”
He tapped the brush again.
“You shall what?”
“I shall obey you, sir.”
He dropped the brush and rubbed her sore bottom gently.
“Even if you don’t understand?”
“Yes sir.”
His rubbing continued.
“Even if I can’t explain?”
“Yes sir.”
He patted her, his hand moving to the small of her back.
“Even if you don’t agree?”
She didn’t reply at once. He stopped rubbing, giving her a moment. He felt her tense. He patted her and gave her a second chance.
“Even if you don’t agree? Will you honour your vows? Will you trust me?”
“Yes. Yes sir. I shall obey you sir. Even if I don’t understand or agree. Even if you can’t explain.”
She exhaled in a soft sigh, her body relaxing.
At that he turned her on her lap, gathered her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He brought her a handkerchief, and tucked her in, stroking her hair and face. She hugged and let him hold her, apologizing while he soothed her, urged her to sleep. She cried again, promising again she’d be good, that she’d obey him in all things.
“I hope so.”
Yet he was unsure. As he spanked, he had seen more than sulk or rebellion. He saw how fiercely she wanted his notice, how much she craved the proof of his strength, the certainty that she could not sway him as she swayed others. When at last she lay quiet, crying into the crook of her arm, he spoke low:
“I notice, Honour. I always notice. I always see you. Know you. And if it is a thrill you want, I can give it — but not in the sight of other men. Never again can you play such games.”
She turned her tear-stained face to him, eyes shining with both shame and relief. “Yes, Darlington,” she whispered.
“Yes, I promise.”
He kissed her temple, tucked her into bed, and sat beside her until sleep claimed her.
Then he rose and slowly went back downstairs.
At his desk, with the sound of her muffled tears still in his ears, he poured another whisky (though his first was still untouched) and stared at the fire. He could not silence her — she was not a woman to be cowed. Nor could she be made meek; if he tried, she would only rebel. She was too beautiful not to be noticed, even had she been inclined to play the wallflower — and her debut season had already proved she was anything but. Would he be required to keep her buried on the estate? Thrash her until his displeasure made her tremble? He did not want a wife who feared him.
That was no life.
He closed his eyes as if in prayer. Perhaps he did pray.
She would not blindly obey him. He couldn’t expect that. However, she was smart, eager to please. She might be steered.
He thought of the gathering that evening — the way her mimicry had held a circle of men, the way their laughter and eagerness to refill her glass had seemed innocent to her but perilous to him. She played at daring, not knowing the stakes.
Ned uncapped his pen. Better a task set by him than mischief sought elsewhere. If she must play games, then let him set the rules.
Ned wrote at the top of a clean sheet: Exercise. She was to attend her next gathering with her eyes open, not for admiration but for information. She was to listen, to note, to report. A leash, disguised as a lark.
When Honour awoke the next morning, she found the fresh inked page titled “Exercise” folded neatly on her nightstand. She read it slowly, a smile spreading across her face. The words offered a flirtation, a private code, a new game for only the two of them.
And so Honour’s secret game began.
Even Ned could not foresee where it would lead.
What an excellent story, and excellent on so many levels. I like very much how Ned, while taking a firm hand to curb Honour’s dangerously unbridled enthusiasms (and to do so in a manner that, of course, I heartily endorse), also understands that no rigor of discipline can change her nature—at least not without breaking her spirit. So, he sets about channeling her skills and inclinations into productive use of greater importance than she could, at this stage, ever imagine. (I envision the “exercise” as a drawing room version of Kim’s Game.)
Beyond such high-minded analysis, lest I try too hard to top it the literary critic and social commentator, let me also note that was a tremendously hot spanking story of my very favorite sort, described deliciously.
First and foremost, I’m glad it works as a spanking story. Things had all gotten a bit *subtle* if you know what I mean. It was fun to break it up with a straight forward narrative.
Darlington and Honour have somehow developed into a huge huge backstory — I have no idea how I’m going to use all of it. I blame the lovely Brigitte for getting me caught up in the sweeping World War II novel *Coming Home*.
It was such a fascinating time. I’ve had a deep interest in WW2 (the European theater) and the Cold War since I was a child — it all started when an aunt gave me The Diary of Anne Frank when I was 9. She wanted me to start keeping a diary. Alas that didn’t work – I’m a very fickle journaler, but it did trigger my reading everything from The Winds of War to Rise and Fall of the Third Reich to William Manchester’s series on Churchill.
Nice to be able to dust off that end of history for a bit. Hopefully Darlington and Honour will be back soon.