{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"a3de14c0-3d4e-4e23-b7c9-0865b7729577","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2024-04-21T15:34:44.364Z","title":"Bonnets and Bondage: The Highwayman Mystery (Chapter 2)","slug":"bonnets-and-bondage-the-highwayman-mystery-chapter-2","shortId":"QZgkdYFb","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":"Not to be reproduced without permission.","type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"A mysterious highwayman strips, binds and gags beautiful young noblewomen in Regency England.","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"82a39667-c7f2-4918-b3e5-02b7bcea07d1","title":null,"summary":"This is a story about damsels in distress in the Regency period. It contains non-consensual bondage ","wordCount":4511,"readTime":23,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"

This is a story about damsels in distress in the Regency period. It contains non-consensual bondage and bad period dialogue; reader discretion is advised. This is Chapter 2. Here is Chapter 1.

1.

Twenty generations of Thornfields lived at the great house, each conscious in their way of being a small link in a large chain, responsible for maintaining their successors’ legacy as much as their forebears’ honour; no sovereign was spent, no timber felled, without due consideration of the decision’s consequences in a century’s time. “I am not the owner of this house,” said Lord Randolph Thornfield, in the time of the good queen Bess, “but merely its caretaker.” If a Thornfield went to his grave with more money in the bank than he started with, he would feel he had done his duty; and if the property had been improved in his lifetime, by way perhaps of a fine new wing or a well-appointed observatory? Why then, he could die positively happy.

Yet the mightiest chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and the richest blood thins to water in the end. The twenty-first Thornfield, whose name has been lost to history but was probably Hugo or Boris, was a poor specimen indeed, and drained in one lifetime a fortune that had taken twenty to collect. The house was sold; the family passed into obscurity; but the land endured.

Readers who have never visited Thornfield are to be pitied, and no description from this humble pen will do justice to that noble building. Suffice it to say there is no finer dwelling place in England, as Mr Fox remarked to Mrs Fitzgerald as they stood at the crest of Thornfield Hill and gazed down at the house with the greatest complaisance. Its antient stones had stood on that spot long before the village existed, and would no doubt be there after it had collapsed into the river or blown away in a storm.

“Lord Bristol,” she replied, referring to the previous occupant, “once remarked to me, that he believed himself so fortunate in his choice of abode that he would not willingly trade places with Kubla Khan, nor the Prince Regent himself.”

It was not unusual for gentlemen to make such extravagant figures of speech when Mrs Fitzgerald was present; there was something about her ambience that appeared to provoke it. She was, for the benefit of readers unhappy enough to miss the first chapter, a pert blonde widow with bewitching eyes and an agreeable complexion, not to mention a still more agreeable manner of dress. On this occasion she was wearing a tight bottle-green jacket which almost concealed the plunging neckline of the ivory-coloured gown beneath, but not quite. Mrs Fitzgerald had the happy knack of inspiring the liveliest regard without appearing to seek it. She was, in short, exactly as respectable as the occasion demanded, and not a whit more.

Mr Fox agreed with the sentiment, and further opined, that Kubla Khan would be lucky to obtain any land in this part of the country, what with prices being so scandalously high. Mr Fox was a fine figure of a man, but if we are to be honest with one another, and we must, his appearance is of less importance than that of his fair companion; indeed the author is privately of the opinion that Mr Fox could be ten foot tall and made of bronze for all it would matter. Suffice it to say that Mr Fox is a poor curate who supplements his tiny ecclesiastical income by acting as a private detective for genteel clients, and that Mrs Fitzgerald is his extremely capable assistant in this vocation.

After an agreeable stroll down the hill and along the fine, curving drive, the pair reached Thornfield’s great door, whereupon they sought and were granted admission by a footman with side whiskers and a knowing glance. Mrs Fitzgerald had developed a nice discrimination when it came to untrustworthy servants and resolved to keep a weather eye on this person’s movements. A similar-looking fellow had once successfully tricked her into trying on a set of antique manacles in a Limehouse bordello. It is difficult to be genteel under such circumstances, but I beg the reader to conceive that Mrs Fitzgerald managed it.

“The master will see you,” said the servant, having returned from an exploratory expedition into the interior spaces of the building, “if you will have the goodness to proceed down yonder passage; and here is a taper to light your honours’ way.”

The footman being called away on urgent and no doubt villainous business, the detectives navigated without additional help to Thornfield’s ballroom, a space ordinarily bathed in natural light during the day and dazzling with candles at night, but swathed to-day in gloom. The shutters, heavy curtains and dust covers remained in place; the servants focused their efforts on bringing in a series of midsize crates and stowing them in random positions about the room. A tall and hawkish gentleman superintended these labours, but looked up when his guests entered and beckoned them over. They were expected.

“Mrs Fitzgerald, I presume?”

The gentleman kissed her hand in the French manner, but his accent told a different story: Greece, perhaps? One of the Italian isles?

“And you will be the Parson Fox. My name is Malamar and I bid you welcome to my humble home.”

So this was the Count, the new resident of Thornfield and a gentleman of legendary wealth. Yet he did not seem quite respectable.

“Thank you for seeing us, Your Excellency,” said Mr Fox, smiling at his companion’s uncharacteristic silence. “I trust the house is to your liking?”

The Count said it was smaller than he was used to, “but indeed a most convenient foothold in England, a nation he had long wished to invade. Ah, but I beg pardon,” he added; “my English is most deficient.”

“Not at all,” Fox replied, with more gallantry than truth. “It is better, upon my word, than that of most English peers I could name.”

Malamar’s attention was drawn by the gestures of an underling, who gave it to be known that he wished to open one of the crates but did not desire the responsibility of having chosen to do so. The Count nodded eagerly, and the nails were removed one by one; the boards were levered up; and a draped form was lifted from the sandalwood-scented interior. The cloth wrappings were peeled away to reveal–

“What in heaven’s name is that?” wondered Mrs Fitzgerald out loud. The statue, for such it must be, was unlike any she had seen in a life of considerable travel and extensive study. It formed the figure of a young woman in Italian marble; but the figure’s arms were bound behind its back, its head was thrust back by a tall stock about the throat, and its face was covered by a separate mask of black leather, attached to the marble with straps.

“The name of this piece, young lady, is Pleasure,” the Count purred, “although it has always been a matter of debate: whose pleasure does it depict? If we could look beneath her mask, perhaps we should know; but the artist required me to swear on pain of death never to look.”

“An early Soprano, I make no doubt,” said Mr Fox, “and one of his best. An unmistakable talent. I congratulate you, Excellency, on a remarkable acquisition.”

“Since you assure me that the sculptor is a man,” Mrs Fitzgerald observed, “I believe we can view the matter as settled; for all male art is exclusively concerned with male pleasure.”

The Count was delighted by this epigram. “Ha ha ha! Very true, my dear, very true. And so much male pleasure depends on female suffering. Perhaps you may enjoy this piece?” And he instructed the servants to unveil a second sculpture, this time depicting a chained damsel on her knees. Again, a black leather mask prevented a view of the subject’s expression, and it was therefore open to interpretation whether or not she found the situation to her liking.

“What is this called?” Mrs Fitzgerald wondered. “Capital Fun?”

The unpacking continued, and it quickly became apparent that every crate in the room contained a depiction of stringent feminine bondage in Italian marble and black leather. The positions and binding methods varied considerably, yet the female forms were essentially the same in every piece: young, slender, long-haired and astonishingly flexible. Count Malamar knew what he liked.

It was not easy to approach the subject that had brought them to Thornfield, but Mrs Fitzgerald felt it best to plunge in without further loss of time.

“Have you met Mr Catchpenny, your Excellency? And are you familiar with his daughter’s recent misfortune?”

The misfortune, described in the previous chapter, involved the young lady in question being waylaid, stripped, bound and gagged by a mysterious highwayman: an occurrence Mr Fox and Mrs Fitzgerald were currently investigating.

“No,” said the count, “and yes. I have not had that pleasure, but I did hear of the occurrence to which you allude. A sad situation indeed; it would appear the villain knew his trade, if reports of his technique are accurate.”

“May I ask, sir, what you mean by his technique?”

“I will say only that I have heard the details. The young lady was quite helpless, I understand. This was no ordinary thief.”

“It would appear not.”

“Answer me this,” said the count, warming to his subject. “Why were the male servants allowed to flee, but the young lady was captured? Why was she naked? Why was she moved from a spot where she was hidden to one where she was on display? I shall tell you. The highwayman’s aim was not to rob her; it was to humiliate her, and to take pleasure in her humiliation. You are looking, in short, for someone who shares my taste in art.”

Well; there was no answer to that.

“I understand that you must suspect me, Mr Fox. And I confess to enjoying the sight of a helplessly bound and humiliated maiden as much as your highwayman. But you must understand that I am rich, and young, and handsome. I do not need to force my attentions on young women. You should be seeking a gentleman who does.”

2.

“I never expected, Mr Fox,” said Mrs Fitzgerald, as they compared impressions in Thornfield’s great drive, “to hear a gentleman of rank and good breeding speak so openly of taking pleasure in binding and gagging young ladies. I know from bitter experience it is an occupation that certain men enjoy, but I did not expect to hear it confessed with so little shame.”

“His rank is what allows him the luxury of honesty,” he replied; “and as for his good breeding, please bear in mind that he is foreign, and all things are relative. Do you think he committed the crime?”

“I do not.”

“And how confident are you, in that surmise?”

“Exceedingly. If he had been poor, he should very likely have become a monster; but his station in life allows him to practise his deviancy without danger to himself or others. He has nothing to gain from preying on the unwilling, in short, and a great deal to lose.”

“Well; I cannot say I share your confidence, but I hope you are right, and see the logic of your reasoning. I wonder!—It occurs to me that there is a stratagem we could use to test his character, if you are as sure of your man as you say. It should answer the situation admirably; although I fear that you will like it very little indeed.”

“Why is it, Mr Fox, that I cannot help suspecting that I will soon be obliged to submit to similar treatment to those statues in there?”

Mr Fox only laughed.

3.

With her large eyes and dark plaited hair, Alice Jenkinson was a vast deal too pretty to be a lady’s maid: beautiful and accommodating, she was an irresistible temptation to the young men and male servants of the Catchpenny household and a constant worry for its short-tempered housekeeper, Mrs Thrash. That esteemed lady would have paid good money to find a plainer replacement, but this had proved impossible.—Catchpenny Lodge appeared to stand at the epicentre of an explosion of feminine beauty, and you could not throw a stone without hitting a milkmaid with a heavenly décolletage or a wainwright’s daughter with the countenance of a goddess. There was something in the water, locals said.

With no alternatives having become available, the undesirably desirable Alice had retained her employment for another week; in which capacity she was required to comb Miss Georgiana’s hair, listen to her complaints and, as on the present occasion, ride beside her in the carriage when she was to be from home for a night or more. This latter duty was a pleasant change from her usual work and had not yet grown stale from repetition: indeed she still thought, poor sheltered girl, that riding in the Landau was the greatest thrill in the world.

Miss Georgiana—who the author is happy to remind forgetful readers is the second of the Catchpenny girls, distinguished from her equally lovely sisters by the possession of inky dark tresses like liquid midnight, like a raven’s dream of itself, the sort of hair that reminds a man of sorceresses in Irish folk tales and drives him mad with the very sight of it; but I digress—Miss Georgiana was quite as bored as her maid was excited, not to mention discontented and melancholy. She was a middle child, and like all middle children was inclined to believe herself less cherished than her siblings at all moments when not currently being given positive proof to the contrary; and she was wholly dissatisfied on that score by her father’s aghast reaction to Eliza’s misadventure. Eliza was plainly the favourite; she was neglected and unloved.

Georgiana was plucked from these gloomy thoughts, however, by an indistinct call outside the carriage and the vehicle subsequently being brought to a sudden crashing halt. The young lady and her maid were jostled together disagreeably.

“What was that?” cried Georgiana furiously, pulling back the curtain and peering out of the window. “Alice, kindly present my compliments to Thorpe;”—by which she meant the driver Thwaites, whose name she always struggled to remember;—“and ask him what he is about, for heaven’s sake.”

Alice said she “should do so directly, Miss Georgiana,” and placed her hand on the door handle; but before she could comply further with her instructions, a face appeared at the window—one obscured by a large black mask and a larger black hood.

“Good evening to you, ladies,” said the figure in a commanding baritone that brooked no dissent. “I fear I must beg your patience for a moment, and desire you to have the goodness to get out of this carriage, and remain silent while so doing; and trust that this loaded pistol will plead your indulgence in a manner that my humble address cannot.” The muzzle of a colossal firearm poked through the window, and Alice squeaked with alarm. The two dark-haired women left the carriage with the utmost alacrity; the highwayman stept back and kept the gun trained upon them.

“I am obliged to inform you,” said he, “that the two gentlemen lately operating this conveyance were called away upon urgent business somewhere beyond those trees over there; they departed with the greatest speed; yet I fear that their decision was influenced by a disinclination to enjoy my further society.—It is my observation, that business waxes and wanes in urgency depending on whether a gentleman wishes to partake in the coinciding event, or to have a pretext for avoiding it. Perhaps it was something I said.”

The highwayman smiled, but Alice found she was not comforted. Nor did Miss Georgiana feel inclined towards merriment.

“You shall hang for this,” she cried, “and I shall watch.”

“Perhaps you will; but I shall take my pleasures first. Young lady“—this directed to Alice—“you may depart; I shall not molest you in any way. I ask only that you leave at once, in silence, and without making any attempt to interfere with my purpose.”

Alice plucked up her courage, which was considerable, and spoke up.

“Sir, I decline.”

“Forgive me: what is it that you decline?”

“I decline to depart.”

“No, my dear, you decidedly do not.—Think carefully, consider what it is you propose, and then leave us.”

“Sir, I decline,” said Alice, glancing at her mistress, “and shall not be dissuaded.”

The highwayman was silent for a moment.

“It would grieve me exceedingly to be obliged to use this;”—nodding at the oversized gold-inlaid Wogdon duelling pistol in his hand—“but I inform you with the utmost candour that I would rather shoot ten thousand obstinate lady’s maids than be deflected from my intention.”

“I do not doubt it, sir, but I assure you that such an action will not be required. I do not propose to fight you.”

“I see.—Then I will tell you now that I mean to bind your mistress most tightly and stringently, and that as I cannot allow you to free her, you must be bound in the like manner.”

“I understand, sir. But I would rather be bound ten thousand times than abandon my mistress.”

Alice looked so utterly beguiling as she said this, so appealingly obedient, loyal and innocent, that it would have taken a heart of stone to be unmoved. But the highwayman appeared to be the happy possessor of just such an organ;—exhibiting neither qualms of conscience nor symptoms of enjoyment at the prospect of binding the lovely and pliant maiden. He merely expressed the fervent wish that he had brought more rope.

But first, he pointed out, it was necessary for Miss Georgiana to shed her clothing. She was required and directed to remove first of all her hat, gloves, and spencer travelling jacket, which she did with tolerable good grace; her leather half-boots, with a few semi-audible muttered complaints; her ivory cambric carriage dress and petticoat, with mutinous grumblings; and then finally her stockings, corset and shift, whereupon the lady’s expressions and countenance varied from outraged disbelief to tearful humiliation. The clothes were piled in a neat heap next to their pale and shivering former possessor, who endeavoured to cover her intimate places and regretted extremely the fact that she had only two hands.

“You can make yourself useful,” the highwayman said to Alice, handing her a coil of stout cord. “Help me to bind her.–And see that you do it well. I give warning, that for every bond I find it necessary to tighten, I shall lay a riding crop on both of your bodies. You will do your mistress no kindness in tying her loosely.”

Alice nodded, and reflected that for once it was fortunate that she had two older brothers who had inducted her into the experience and practice of bondage from an early age. She had been trussed and tied upon many occasions, as a child and as a young woman under the care of Mrs Thrash; and while she had little confidence in her own powers of binding, she was familiar enough with the efficient application of rope from the receiving side to hope that it would come naturally.

“Madam, may I beg you to have the goodness to place your wrists together behind your back?—I see no alternative at the present time.”

Miss Georgiana gave her maid a look of the most venomous disapprobation, and desired her to hold her tongue; but submitted nonetheless, and soon found her hands bound tightly and helplessly at the small of her back. Alice feared the deprecations of the highwayman’s riding crop, and took pains to ensure it should not be required: the rope was pulled as tight as she could possibly manage, and carefully and thoroughly cinched.

The highwayman examined Alice’s work minutely.—Perceiving that his directions had been closely followed, he grunted what sounded like an expression of satisfaction. The victim of all this, meanwhile, blushed deeply in mortification at her inability to hide any part of her nakedness. With her arms neatly secured behind her back, she was entirely defenceless.—Any passing ruffian could gaze freely at her most intimate parts with the greatest complaisance, or even grasp and enjoy them at will, without Georgiana being able to do the slightest thing about it.

But the lady’s ordeal was only beginning. Gaining in confidence as she recalled the methods used by her brothers, Alice proceeded to bind Georgiana’s elbows together; to wrap rope about her chest, above and below her bosom; to thoroughly truss her legs, at ancle, knee and thigh; and finally to link ancles and wrists with a short length of cord, forcing the dark-haired beauty into a painful bowed shape, rendering her utterly immobile and scarcely able to move a muscle.

“I trust, madam,” said the maid, “that this meets with your approbation.”

Miss Georgiana was a contrariety of the most violent emotions. She retained a great measure of the pride and anger with which the encounter had begun, and advised Alice in the most unladylike terms to stow her approbation where it might do much good; but she was also worn down by the exertion of being bound so comprehensively, by the fear and discomfort of her situation, and by a powerful mortification at her own naked and helpless vulnerability, at being trussed up like a damsel in distress in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels. She felt defeated, in short, and no more inclined than able to put up further resistance. When Alice presented a stout piece of cloth torn from her gown, accordingly, she opened her mouth obediently and allowed her maid to gag her, the cloth filling her mouth and silencing her effectively.

“Very well,” said the highwayman. “I am satisfied that this one will not escape. What a pretty little package she is.”

Evidently inspired by this image, the highwayman removed a number of ribbons from Georgiana’s bonnet and other personal effects and used them to decorate and further restrict her helpless body. He tied brightly coloured ribbons about her throat, her wrists, and her ancles, each secured with pretty bows, with several larger loops of ribbon around her chest that gave her the appearance of a Christmas present.

“A pleasant gift for whoever finds her! Now help me to lift her.”

The bound and ribbon-adorned damsel was placed on the driver’s seat of the Landau and secured there with further cords. With her pale skin and bewitching figure, not to mention her wriggling and muffled moaning, she was exceedingly conspicuous; no one within 100 yards could fail to spot her.

Satisfied that one lady was thoroughly secured, the highwayman turned to the other with a most provoking look; and wondered if Alice “might not now find it convenient to depart, or if she continued to believe it necessary to remain.”–He smiled as he spoke, certain that the visible example of her unfortunate mistress would render the prospect of similar treatment less pleasing than ever.

But Alice’s courage did not desert her. She indicated, on the contrary, that she was most ready to receive her own ropes; indeed she welcomed them; and presented to the highwayman her wrists crossed behind her back ready to be secured at his leisure.

The gentleman sighed; and informed Alice wearily that she could keep her hands in front for the time being. He led her to a tall poplar close to the water and instructed her to stand against it.

“We have little rope remaining, my dear,” said he, “and we will need to make efficient use of what we have. Kindly raise your hands above your head.”

Alice did as she was bid. The highwayman bound rope tightly around her wrists, and then around the tree, making sure to secure the cord above a stout branch to prevent the damsel from lowering her hands.

“That will have to do; and so I ask for your word of honour, young lady, that you will refrain from escaping until daybreak.—It will not be more than an hour from now, I assure you, so the sacrifice will not be too objectionable.”

Alice looked doubtfully at her bonds, wiggled her hands experimentally, and reflected that she was unlikely to be free any sooner than that, word of honour or not.

“There is no one hereabouts to aid you,” said he, “and therefore no benefit to crying out. But I sense that you are about to demand to be silenced nevertheless.”

“I do not seek special treatment, sir. My mistress was gagged, and accordingly I must be gagged also. I should also be stripped naked as she was, and you should also bind my chest and lllmmmmppphh!”

The highwayman quickly stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth, and tied it in place with a second.

“I am prepared to gag you, but that is all.—Upon my honour, what a strange creature you are. And now I must leave.”

As Alice squirmed and strained and moaned into her gag, the gentleman climbed into the driver’s seat beside the helpless Georgiana and whipped the horses into motion. The maid watched him turn the carriage about and depart, conscious as it left of the most curious and unaccountable sensations in her inner being. She was profoundly distracted. Her agitation grew the more she thought about her mistress’s suffering and mortification—the highwayman’s voice of command—the ropes binding both young women—the gags silencing and humiliating them—the thought of being rescued, untied (when the time was right) by a strong and handsome gentleman with good connexions; indeed it was some time after the break of dawn that Alice recovered sufficient composure of mind to seriously attempt escape, and by then it was far too late to have any influence on our story.

It is sad to relate, meanwhile, but neither Georgiana nor the highwayman gave Alice a second thought as the carriage left her far behind. It headed quickly back towards the main road, approaching it after around ten minutes and at that point slowing down considerably; the gentleman seemed anxious and looked about, but was evidently satisfied upon seeing that no persons or vehicles were within sight, and brought the Catchpennies’ Landau to a halt at the junction. For a short while he sat companionably next to the helpless and wriggling maiden, to all appearances delighted by her society; before finally speaking.

“I regret, madam,” said he, “that it is time for me to leave you. But company of another sort will be with you before long. The stage coach will come along that road in a little over half an hour; you will see them long before they see you; and have more time to reflect on what they will see, what they will say, and what they will think when the meeting takes place, than ability to do ought to prevent it. I wonder what shall be your reputation after to-day. And now I must go.—Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

The highwayman jumped down from the Landau. He began to unfasten the horses, setting them loose one by one and encouraging them to gallop away at their earliest convenience, until only a single animal remained, which he took as his own mount. He looked back one last time at Georgiana’s humiliating plight; satisfied himself that his victory was total and his victim’s degradation complete; then spurred his horse into a gallop and departed.

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