The Farmer's Girl
By Bernadette

Gavin Hamilton stood looking down at his sleeping wife.  Her breathing was shallow and her skin held an unhealthy waxen pallor. He touched her cheek then slewed round on his heel and left the room.  His step was as heavy as his heart as he went down the stairs to the big farmhouse kitchen.  She'd been a good wife to him these twenty-eight years.  He couldn't say he'd loved her any more than she'd loved him, but there had been affection and respect.  Soon though, she'd be gone.  The doctor had told him to expect the end in four or five weeks, maybe less, and he was, if not grief-stricken, then at least saddened.

Two fine sons she'd given him.  Since the coming of the telegrams  telling of their passing in Ypres and Flanders, she'd gone in on herself, then when the sickness came, she'd not had the strength or the will to fight it.  She was glad to die, thought Gavin, happy to think she'd be reunited with her boys who'd made the ultimate sacrifice in the Great War.

He shook himself out of his melancholy and turned his thoughts to more pressing matters.  There was the milking to be done, butter to be made, the vegetable garden to see to ... all tasks usually undertaken by the women and children of the house.  He couldn't do everything by himself.  There was her care too.  He needed a woman to tend to her.  Perhaps one of the village lasses could be persuaded to come and work for him. But that had its own problems.  With all the young lads away to war, most of the girls had moved to the city to work in the factories or on the trams and buses.  Women had proved their worth, and fewer and fewer of them wanted to go into service nowadays. Soon, thought Gavin wryly, they'd even be giving them the vote.  What was he to do?

"Whit'll we dae, Jimmy?" asked May McDonald, a worried frown creasing her face.  A baby nuzzled at her breast.  Two toddlers played on the floor of the cottage, while a girl and boy aged about five and six wrangled over a tattered rag doll.  "The beasts havenae gi'en milk for nigh on a week, an' the hens are no' layin' like they should.  The price ye got for yon last lot o' barley ... we can barely feed oorsels never mind
pay rent tae Mr. Hamilton."

"Stop yer naggin' woman!" bellowed her husband.  "D'ye think I don't know the troubles we have?"

May's worn features crumpled, and he was instantly sorry for his outburst.  He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.  "I'm sorry, lass," he muttered.  "But the maister'll no throw us oot.  He'll gie us mair time ... ye'll see."  But even to his own ears, the words sounded unconvincing.  Times were hard and there was little room for sentiment.

Her doubt showed in her eyes, but she said nothing. They both knew he was lying.  With Mrs. Hamilton near death, and the boys gone, the Master, though not a cruel or vindictive man, could not afford to keep a tenant who could not pay his rent.  And with six children to provide for ...

Both struck by the same thought, they turned as one to look towards their eldest daughter, seated in a corner, sewing.

"No, Jimmy," whispered May.  "We canna ..."

"We have to," he said firmly.  "None o' the big hooses will take her ... and she'll no' find a husband. Ye have tae face that, May. It's the only way ... an' maybe ... well, maybe if she works hard, an' if ..."  He faltered.  "If the maister should see her ... well if he finds out that ... underneath, she's ..."

No!"  She laid the babe on the floor beside the two toddlers, and went to stand protectively by the girl's side.  "Maisie ... Maisie, my lass ... I'll no' let anyone harm ye."

Maisie looked up and smiled at her mother.  "Aye, Mammy ... I know that fine well."

And May's heart tore as she looked at her first-born. Her nose was a little too big, her teeth crooked, her complexion ruddy from the weather.  A slight cast marred what might have been beautiful eyes, and her hair was lank and unkempt, an indeterminate mousy colour.  But that was not all.  In Maisie's expression there was a ... a nothingness ... a blankness that spoke of a mind far away.  Mad Maisie, the locals called her, and yet, thought her mother, that was not really the case.  True, she had never mastered her letters and numbers, but she was wise in other ways. She could cook and sew, care for the bairns,  and had attended May's own last confinement competently.  She could milk and make butter, look after the animals, and generally turn her hand to any kind of farm work.  She was strong and obliging.  And more ... she was affectionate and loving.

May turned tear-filled eyes to her husband.  "Is there no other way, Jimmy?" she whispered.

He shook his head despairingly.  "Hamilton's a good man," he said.  "He'll no' take advantage o' our lassie."  He turned to Maisie.  "Come, girl ... ye're goin' to go out in the world an' earn yer livin'.  How will ye like that?"

"I'll like it fine, Faither," she said.  "If I can bring in some pennies, then you an' Mammy'll no' have tae worry any mair."

And both parents were struck by how much she understood.

Gavin Hamilton looked at the girl standing calmly beside her father.  She wasn't the comeliest lass he'd ever clapped eyes on, but that was immaterial.  "She can cook and look after a sick woman, ye say, McDonald?"

"Aye, Sir," replied Jimmy, fumbling with the cap he held in his hands.  "She's no' bright, Sir ... but she's a worker is our Maisie."

"And ye offer her services in lieu of rent?"

Jimmy hesitated.  "Well ... if ye could see yer way to payin' her a bit, Sir ... maybe a shillin' or so?"

Hamilton did a quick mental calculation.  He nodded. "Four shillings a week and her keep," he said.  "Would ye be wantin' it paid to her or to you?"

"Well, maister, she'd like a few coins to spend in the village ... say a tanner for her, and the rest tae me?"

"Right ... sixpence for the girl and three-and-six for you.  Done!"  He nodded to Maisie.  "Inside then girl, and begin yer duties."

She took a step towards the door.  Jimmy grabbed her suddenly and hugged her to his chest.  "Be good, Maisie.  Sir..." he called.

Hamilton turned.

"She's a good girl, Sir ... but a bit dreamy at times. If she neglects her work ... well, a lick of the strap will set her right again."

And Maisie MacDonald stepped over the threshold to begin her new life.

Part 2

Maisie stood in the middle of the kitchen as Gavin Hamilton appraised her.  She wore an over-sized, washed out woollen sweater which might once have been blue but was now a dull, patchy grey.  Her skirt of worn brown tweed barely reached her ankles, and showed the stout, working boots common to the farm-girls.  Standing with shoulders hunched slightly forward, twisting a strand of straggly hair around her fingers, she did not present an attractive picture.  That was all to the good, thought Hamilton.  She would not be any distraction, and if she was hard-working and obedient, then his shillings had been well invested.  He wondered what went on behind that passive stare.  Probably nothing, he decided.  He picked up her bag.  "Come, lass.  I'll show ye yer room."

It was small.  An iron bedstead, a wooden chair, a scarred washstand.  But Maisie gazed him, and spoke for the first time.  "For me, Maister?  Me masel?"  Never in her twenty years had she known the luxury of a room to herself, and this tiny box-room was to her a palace as grand as any she had seen in the magazines her mother sometimes had.

Hamilton grunted.  "Aye ... you yersel.  Ye didnae think to be sleepin' wi me, did ye?"  He coughed.  "I'll gie ye a wee while to settle, then ye can meet the Mistress an' I'll tell ye yer duties."  With a brief nod, he left her alone.

He'd been wrong in thinking that nothing went on in Maisie's head.  She did not think deeply and her thought processes were slow, but she was a woman and she had the same hopes and dreams as any other woman.  Left by herself, she walked round the little room, touching the furnishings with all the reverence she might have given the King's throne.  She stopped at the washstand and peered into the spotted mirror which hung on a nail on the wall.  What she saw saddened her.  Wise she was not ... but she was wise enough to know that no man would ever want her.  Slow of mind and plain of feature, she knew that her life would be one of servitude and hard work without the blessings of a husband or children.  She brushed away a tear of sadness.  At least she was helping her mother and father and the wee ones.  That was a blessing in itself.

Hamilton returned and took her first to meet his wife.  Mrs. Hamilton was barely awake, but she smiled kindly at the awkward girl in front of her, and made her welcome.  Next, he took her around the house, then to the byre and the Dairy, outlining the work she would be expected to undertake.  Maisie nodded her understanding.  Now and then she asked a pertinent question, surprising him with her knowledge of farm and household matters.

It was time to start work.

For two days all went well.  The work was no harder than she had been used to at home ... in fact without the bairns round her feet she found she could get through her chores even more quickly.  She missed the company though.  In the evening when she had washed up the dishes, seen Mrs. Hamilton comfortable for the night, and attended to the animals, she found herself in her room alone.  But the evenings were mercifully short.  Tired out by long hours and hard work, she generally fell asleep quickly, sometimes thinking of Gavin Hamilton's rugged form. Her mind was slow, but her imagination was not.

The third morning was the kind of day she loved. Bright sunshine flooded the land, bringing beauty to the countryside.  Maisie attended to the milking and set the pans for the cream to rise, then collected the eggs.  When she returned to the farmhouse, she left the back door open to enjoy the early morning air while she prepared breakfast.  While the oatmeal simmered on the hob, she coddled a fresh egg for Mrs. Hamilton. With the mistress fed and made comfortable, Maisie gave the pot a stir, then stood at the back door gazing out at the hens pecking about in the yard.

Her pleasant daydreams were rudely shattered when a hand grabbed her and Gavin Hamilton's voice thundered out.  "Yer faither tellt me ye were a dreamer ... now look what ye've done!"

She whimpered as she was forced to turn around and face the noxious black smoke and the stench of burning porridge.  With a little squeal, she wrenched herself out of Hamilton's grasp and ran to the stove to repair the damage.  She grabbed the pot and threw it out into the yard.  "Sorry maister ... I'm sorry maister ... I'm sorry."  She repeated the litany of apology over and over as she tried to clear up the mess from the hot stove top.

"Over here, lassie!"

Maisie dropped the cloth with which she was trying to wipe up the burned oatmeal, and scuttled over to stand before the wrath of the Master.  He scowled down at her.  "Aye ... a dreamer, he said ... an' he tellt me how to deal wi' it an' all."  He unbuckled his belt.  "Haud oot yer hauns."

She obeyed, holding out her trembling hands to be strapped.  Hamilton doubled the belt and drew it back over his shoulder. Her eyes were screwed shut as she tensed to accept the punishment she knew she'd earned ... but the blow never fell.

As Gavin prepared to bring the belt down, he noticed the redness of her palms ... burns from when she'd grabbed the hot iron pot of oatmeal.  Instead of the blow she expected, Maisie felt her hands taken in a kindly grasp.  She opened her eyes to find herself being led over towards the big stone sink.  Hamilton held her wrists as he pumped the cold clear water over her blistered hands.  She struggled as the pain made her gasp, but he kept a tight hold till the fire lessened and she felt little but a  blessed numbness.

Hamilton stood back.  "Dairy," he said.  Sniffing miserably, she followed him out.  In the coolness of the dairy, he took down a can from the stone shelf and poured some of its contents into a shallow bowl.  With all the tenderness of a woman, he bathed her hands in the soothing buttermilk, keeping his eyes on the job and never once looking up to see her face.

She could not comprehend what was happening.  One minute he was going to punish her ... the next he was tending to her as gently as ever her mother had done.  She was still stunned when he led her back to the farmhouse to apply ointment and a dressing.  "Are ye all right?" he asked gruffly.

"Aye sir ... I'm all right."

"Right then ... we'll get back to the matter of yer carelessness."

Maisie looked down at her bandages, then back up at Hamilton.  Tentatively she held out her hands towards him.

He gave what might have a been a short laugh, and shook his head.  "Nay lass ...  there's another way."  He picked up the belt from where he'd dropped it, and pushed her down across the kitchen table.  Her skirt was lifted.  Before she had time to react, Hamilton had drawn back the belt and cracked it down across the seat of her coarse flannelknickers.  She yelped but stayed put.  Twelve times he lashed the leather down, and twelve times she shrieked in pain.

She cried.  There was fire in her hands and in her backside ... and in her poor heart.  Would he send her away?  Would she have to go back to being a burden on her Mammy and Daddy?  She was still weeping when he pulled her upright and swung her round to face him.

"On wi' yer work, girl.  Ye've much to catch up on."

Maisie choked back her sobs.  "Aye maister," she sniffed.  She went about her business, but all through the day her mind was filled ... not by the sting of the leather or the force of his anger ... but by the gentle way he had tended her injuries, and the look of concern on his handsome face.

Part 3

In less than a week Maisie's hands were healed.  In her simple way, she was disappointed, because it brought an end to Gavin Hamilton's daily inspection of her injuries.  She'd liked the way he'd called her each morning to look at her palms and change the dressing.  Though he seldom said anything much, she'd grown to look forward to those few minutes when he'd hold her hands in his, apply the ointment, and re-bandage her.  Also during that week, he'd sometimes helped her with her chores ... carrying the heavy feed buckets or lifting pots from the stove when he saw her struggling.

All these little attentions had warmed her ... but now there was no need for them, and her life returned to its normal routine. The work was hard but not unfairly so, the food was good and wholesome, and Hamilton, though gruff and stern, was not unkind.  Mrs. Hamilton was a sweet lady, easy to please and grateful for the attentions Maisie bestowed on her.

The highlight of the week, however, was a Saturday afternoon.  Work finished, Maisie would walk the mile to her home clutching the envelope Hamilton had given her.  In it were the shillings she had earned and she felt proud as she handed it to her Mammy.  Then, with one or more of the bairns in tow, she'd set off to the village with her own sixpence in her hand.  But she never spent a farthing on herself. Sweeties for the weans, a bit of ribbon for her Mammy, tobacco for Faither ... the tanner was soon gone, and Maisie would return to the Hamilton's empty handed but contented.

Then one day she went to the village alone.  Her wee sister had the measles, and Mammy was keeping them all inside for fear of spreading the illness.  For the first time ever, she was free to wander by herself.  Without the little ones clamoring for treats, she found it hard to know what to spend her money on ... until she came to stall with the jewellery.

Mere trinkets of cheap metal and coloured glass, to her they were the Crown Jewels.  Entranced, she ran her work-roughened hands over chains and brooches and earrings.  She held up a necklace of bright, crudely cut beads.  "How much?" she whispered, almost frightened to hear the answer.

The dark tinker-girl behind the stall glanced over. "Fourpence, lass," she replied carelessly.

With trembling fingers Maisie held out her sixpenny piece.  "Is this enough?"

The girl nodded, took the money and wrapped the necklace in a piece of torn newspaper.  Clutching her purchase, Maisie scurried as fast as she could back to the Farm.  Once in the privacy of her room, she unwrapped the precious parcel, and fastened the beads around her neck.

Tentatively she approached the little mirror.  The necklace lay against the rough brown wool of her sweater.  And in her mind she was transformed.  She was every princess of every story she had ever heard: she was Queen of the May:  she was lovely.  She didn't see the crookedness of her teeth any more, or the cast in her eye, or the redness of her complexion ... that simple piece of worthless glass wiped out these imperfections and made her beautiful.

She gazed at her reflection for a long time.  Then ...

"Maisie!"  Gavin Hamilton's bellow roused her from her daydreams.  She started to her feet and looked around her.  The light had gone ... it was late evening.  And she hadn't even started the dinner!  Hurriedly, she pushed the necklace inside her sweater and stumbled out to face the Master's anger.

He stood frowning down at her.  "Well?  Is the dinner no' ready?  Has the mistress been looked efter?"  He shook her roughly by the shoulders.  "Have ye lost yer tongue, lassie?  Whit've ye been up to?"

"Maister ... I ... I didnae know the time ... I was dreamin' in my room, an' ..."

"Dreamin' again, eh?  An' yer poor mistress lyin' up they stairs waitin' to be tended.  By God, lassie, ye've earned some leatherin' for this!"

Maisie backed away.  "Aye, Maister ... I'm sorry. D'ye want I should fetch the strap, Maister?"  She stumbled towards the corner where a broad piece of leather harness hung on the wall.

"Not yet," rumbled Hamilton.  "Ye'll tend to yer chores first ... the Mistress needs seein' to and there's a meal to be made, girl.  Ye'll be dealt with then.  Now go."  He gave her backside a hard smack to send her on her way.

It took hours to finish everything up.  Mrs. Hamilton's dinner had to be prepared separately and taken up to her.  There were potatoes to peel, vegetables to be got from the kitchen garden, and meat to cook.  After that, Maisie had to clear and wash the dishes, settle the mistress for the night, and clean the kitchen.  It was nigh on ten o'clock at night before she was done.

Timidly, she approached Hamilton  as he sat reading the paper by the fireside.  "Is it time, Maister?"

He looked up at her.  What a poor, plain thing she was, he thought.  But she was a worker.  All he had to do was cure her daydreaming ... and that he was sure he could do.  He gave a nod.

Maisie knew she'd been bad, and she knew how to take a leathering.   Her own Faither had taught her that.   Obediently, she took down the strap from its hook on the wall, and placed it on the scrubbed kitchen table.

Then ... as Hamilton watched her in surprise ... she matter-of-factly began to strip off her clothes.

Part 4

The over-sized, shapeless woolen jumper came off first.  Maisie pulled it over her head and folded it neatly as she'd been taught.  Her fingers then found the fastenings of her coarse skirt, and in a moment it had fallen to the floor.  She bent to retrieve it, then stood for a moment, clad now in just her liberty bodice, grey flannel bloomers and heavy working boots.

Hamilton watched her.  He was not a cruel man, and would never have expected the girl to strip.  His own wife ... yes.  In the early days of their marriage when he'd been obliged to teach her obedience he'd often required her to be naked when he punished her.  But he'd not wanted this from the farm lass.  He stood up and was about to speak ... to tell her she didn't have to do this, when his breath caught in his throat.

Maisie had sat on the floor to unlace her boots, and had tugged them off along with her thick hand-knitted socks.  She rose, and lowered her knickers, kicking them off before folding them and adding them to the little pile of clothing on the chair.  Mesmerized, Hamilton looked on as she fiddled with the tiny buttons of her bodice, then shrugged out of it.

My God!  Slow of mind and plain of face she might be ... but she had the most glorious body he had ever seen or imagined. Smooth white shoulders, pert rounded breasts ... the pink nipples already hardening in the chill night air ... a waist so slender he might have encircled it with his hands, swelling to luscious hips which tapered into long slender legs.  Hamilton's protest died in his throat as he beheld this vision of alabaster perfection.  He felt himself harden uncomfortably.

Maisie, quite unaware of the effect she was having, stood as she had been schooled to do, back straight and hands folded in front of her covering the parts her Faither had told her must not be shown.  She kept her eyes on the floor.

Recovering himself somewhat, Hamilton moved over to the table and lifted the strap.  At that, Maisie .. without prompting ... bent herself over and lay quietly awaiting the lash.  He forced his mind away from the raging lust the sight of her aroused in him, and raised the leather high above his shoulder.

With a vicious crack the strap whipped across her behind.  She let out a strangled cry but didn't move even as a broad welt marred the pure flawlessness of her skin.  She took the second equally stoically, then on the third she moaned and clenched her buttocks involuntarily against the dreadful pain.

That slight movement was almost Hamilton's undoing. His own body responded in a way he had never thought possible to this homely lass.  Positioned as she was, one arm reaching over the table, the other bent so that she could rest her forehead on it, she presented a picture of such perfect feminine beauty, it was all he could do to continue with her punishment.  He forced his mind away from the passion rising in him, and once again lashed the broad leather across her backside.  The force of that blow pushed her forward onto her toes, and made her lose the tight control with which she was keeping her thighs firmly clamped together.  Her cry mingled with Hamilton's gasp as he glimpsed the forbidden secrets there.  As much to subdue himself as to chastise her, he continued to lay on stroke after stroke of pure fire until her skin was welted and bruised, and her yelps of distress became keening wails.  He dropped the strap and turned away towards the fireplace.  His hands were shaking.

Maisie lay over the table, sobbing.  It was several minutes before she could pull herself into a standing position, for every movement hurt her poor leathered behind.  But she knew what to do next. Painfully she assumed her original stance, standing straight with hands in front of her.

Hamilton glanced over at her.  "Off wi' ye, girl. There's no more to be done this night."

She didn't move.

"I said, be off!" he snapped, though his anger was not directed at her, but at his own treacherous body.

She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her tear-stained face.  "Are ye no' ... am I no' to be forgiven, Maister?" she whispered.  For that too, she had learned from her Faither, and all her life she had known the right sequence of events.  Wrong-doing, punishment, penitence, forgiveness.  "I ... I'm right sorry, Maister."

Fighting his own inner battle, Hamilton moved towards her, and laid his callused hands on those wondrously white shoulders. "Aye, lass ... ye're forgiven."

Her tears started afresh, and she threw herself against his broad chest.  His arms went round her ... he kissed the top of her head, and felt again those dangerous stirrings of forbidden lust.  His breathing quickened, and he lifted her chin to look down into her face.  And somehow ... somehow she didn't look so plain to him now.  For the first time he saw past the physical imperfections and looked into her soul and her pure, selfless heart.

She gazed up and him.  What was happening to her? She'd never felt like this when Faither had cuddled her after a strapping. There was a tingling between her legs, in that place she'd been told was secret and shameful ... and the feel of his arms round her was much more than just comforting.  Her senses were awakened.  She pressed herself into him. Her lips parted ... and he bent his head towards her mouth ...

"No!"  The word exploded from his lips.  Roughly he pushed her way.  "Get yer things an' go to yer room!"

Bewildered and frightened, Maisie gathered her clothes and hurried to do as he'd said.  She crawled into her bed, her mind and body consumed with new sensations.  Her hands touched the swollen skin of her sore bottom, then moved to the front of her body to stroke down her belly.  She found herself wet and slippery.  Her fingers delved a little deeper, and she bit back a moan of sheer pleasure.  Mammy had always said she shouldn't touch herself there ... but how could this be sinful like she'd said?  How could it bemwrong?  Guilt warred with desire, and desire won ...

In the kitchen, Gavin Hamilton was fighting his own war.  The lass was simple ... he could have taken her right there on the floor and she'd not have put up a fight.  In fact, she'd have welcomed it.  He took a step towards her door.  Then stopped.  Upstairs lay his sick wife.  He'd always been faithful to her, and besides, he could not bring himself to take advantage of a girl who might not really understand. Perhaps ... when the Mistress had gone ... if the lassie came to him ... if she really knew what was happening ... then perhaps ...

And in Maisie's own home,  her parents thought about her and wondered.  They wondered if Gavin Hamilton had discovered what lay beneath their daughter's homely exterior.  Not just the beauty of her body ... but the innocence of her loving spirit.  They wondered if some day, their Maisie might no longer be just the Farmer's Girl ... but The Maister's Wife.

THE END

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