And On The Seventh Day

by Pil Lee

The Count leaned in towards her as she placed the dish in front of him.

“In seven days I will touch your neck,” he murmured.

She glanced down at him in shock, but he was delicately dipping his spoon in the soup as if he had never spoken. She backed away uncertainly, and then hurried to the kitchen where the cook regarded her curiously.

“What is it, girl?” she asked, and Clarissa answered, flustered, “The Count spoke to me.”

“Hmm, well it was bound to happen,” said the cook, eyeing her for a moment, then she turned back to the stew.

Clarissa looked at the woman’s large red neck and then reached her hands up nervously to touch her own slim throat. She had been uneasy coming to the manor at first, so different to her mother’s small farm, but had gradually come to know the rest of the staff and was just starting to feel relaxed after her first year. Now all the early fear came back and she shook slightly as she carried the main meal into the dining room.

This time the Count made no sound as she laid it down, and she backed away quickly, but his whisper caught her just as she slipped through the door.

“In seven days I will tie your arms behind your back.”

That night Clarissa lay wide awake in terror, her eyes jerking to the door whenever she heard a creak in the huge old house. All she wanted was to run home to her mother, but it was too far for a girl too poor to afford a carriage. She wondered if there was someone else here she could talk to, and decided to go to the housekeeper in the morning.

She rose earlier than usual and found Marie in the main drawing room, dusting the furniture.

“What are you doing in here, girl,” she said sternly as Clarissa slipped into the room.

Clarissa started to explain her fright of the day before, but the older woman eyed her without sympathy and shooed her from the room. “That’s nothing to do with me, child.” She looked Clarissa directly in the face. “There are some things better left unsaid,” she said as she firmly closed the door.

Clarissa was even more frightened as she served breakfast in the conservatory. She stood by the teapot as the Count slowly ate fruit and cold boar, her eyes fixed on the scarlet rug beneath her feet.

“Tea please,” said the Count and she poured a cup and took it to him. “Sugar please,” he added and she handed him the silver bowl.

He stirred the hot liquid and looked at her, pale and still. “In six days I will tear your shirt open and lick your breasts.”

Clarissa’s cheeks went white and nausea started to rise in her throat. She backed out as quickly as she could and spent the whole day praying for her mother to miraculously come and rescue her. At lunch a footman served the meal but at dinner she was bidden to the Count’s side again.

“In six days I will rub my hand down your stomach until you tell me to stop,” he told her with no expression.

The next morning she swapped laundry duty with a grateful tweeny maid and stayed by the copper all day. In the evening she ran back to the servant’s quarters, but as she rounded the last corner a voice spoke from the shadows. “In five days I will bite your left nipple until you scream.”

Clarissa thought she was going to faint. She had never even heard the word ‘nipple’ spoken out loud before. She barricaded the door of her tiny room and knelt beside the bed, promising to God that if he would deliver her she would become a nun and live in a convent for the rest of her life.

She took laundry duty again the next day and scurried to her room at night without event, but the next morning she was greeted by an angry housekeeper. “How dare you let a tweeny serve the Count!”

Clarissa started to gasp out a desperate explanation, but the other woman turned her back. “Breakfast, now!” she ordered.

Clarissa stood rigid beside the Count as he ate his meal. She was determined not to panic today, and to treat his words as if she didn’t hear them. After all, she told herself, they are only words. She searched inside herself for strength. They are only words, she repeated in her mind.

As if hearing her thoughts, the Count swivelled around to face her. He gazed at her unsmiling, then slowly rolled one of his sleeves up to the elbow. She stared at the muscled arm, the skin golden and taut, then he rolled his sleeve back down again. “In three days, I will hold your head underwater with this arm for ten seconds.” She gaped at him. Then he smiled. “And I will stand behind you and rip your skirt and enter you with the force of an ox while I am doing it.”

Clarissa fled. She ran from the house, through the rose garden and into the north field, her hand over her mouth, until she fell down by the stream, fighting for air. She finally got the breath back in her body and lowered her hands into the cool running water. Then she drew back in horror, realising that this was probably the water he had meant. She felt delirious as she imagined what it would be like to have her head submerged while he was behind her. She started to shake, desperately trying to empty her mind but the awful scene just kept replaying and replaying until it was almost as if she could feel it happening. She lay on the ground and started to sob, not caring if she was in trouble for leaving the house, until finally she fell asleep, exhausted.

She woke at midday, hot and feverish in the sun, and steeled herself to return to the house. She was expecting remonstrations and punishment, but the doorman let her in silently and the housekeeper only pursed her lips as she passed. She made her way to the kitchen, but the cook shook her head. “You’re on dusting this afternoon, girl,” she said. “Top hallway, and mind you do all the paintings.”

Clarissa climbed the stairs gratefully, and started her dusting, still overwhelmed by the morning’s distress. But after a while dusting she almost wished she was back serving meals. Here she was alone and her mind dragged her helplessly through all the things the Count had said to her the last few days. For the first time she began to wonder how all those things would feel, and she found herself wondering what he would promise tomorrow. Then she stopped, appalled at her thought. What he would ‘promise’ tomorrow? She lowered her head into her hands, her face burning with mortification, and she prayed that she would be on dusting for the rest of the week.

But the next morning she was back on breakfast duty and she was sent out into the Great Hall. “Lord knows why he wants to eat in there all by himself,” grumbled the cook. “The boys have been up for hours cleaning it, and I’ve had no help at all.”

Clarissa had never been in the Great Hall before and she didn’t know what to expect. The size and splendour of it took her breath away and she almost forgot about the dread of this morning’s words.

A warm breath brushed her ear. “In two days I will...” and then the Count stepped around her and took his place on the one chair at the end of the 30 foot table.

Clarissa stood still, waiting, but he only arranged his serviette carefully on his lap and looked expectantly at the tray she held.

She walked forward hesitantly and placed it carefully down in front of him.

He started to eat and she stood, her mind racing, next to his chair.

He turned to her after a moment and his eyebrow lifted quizzically. “Yes, was there something you wanted?” he said.

She stood tongue tied, her cheeks flaming, not knowing what to say.

He smiled very lightly. “Perhaps you would like me to finish my sentence?” he asked.

She swallowed and nodded, hating herself as she did so.

He beckoned her closer to him and whispered in her ear. “In two days I will bend you backwards over a chair, spread your naked legs wide and pour the finest champagne between them.”

Clarissa counted the minutes until lunch but when she arrived at the kitchen the cook sent her away again. “He’s eating in the town with someone today,” she said, and Clarissa hovered in a kind of agony until he returned that night and she placed his dinner in front of him.

He ate it with gusto, drinking wine and indulging in dessert for once, but he never said a word and Clarissa returned to her bed that night aching with the desire to hear what else he would do.

The next morning as she woke she whispered to herself “tomorrow, it will be tomorrow” and she thought that she would die with the waiting.

She hurried into the breakfast room as soon as the Count was seated and served him with indecent haste. She positioned herself by the teapot, trying to keep her poise, but when he put down his fork and turned towards her knees shook and she held onto the buffet.

He stood and walked to a nearby cupboard. Pulling out a small riding crop, he said “In one day I will hang you from the chandelier in the great hall. I will whip you between the legs until you are hoarse from screaming and then I will rape you where you hang.” He put the whip back in the cupboard. “Then I will whip you and rape you again until you beg me to stop. If you beg me to stop, that is.”

He sat down and speared a piece of melon. “Then in another seven days I will do it again.”

That night Clarissa couldn’t sleep. She burned and ached all over and she thought she would go mad with desire. When the sun rose she got dressed quickly, then heard the sound of a carriage below her window and the Count’s voice.

“To London with all speed, my good man,” he said.

The carriage raced away and Clarissa hurried down the stairs to the cook. “Where has the Count gone,” she asked.

The cook looked at her in disdain. “As if that’s any business of yours,” she sniffed. But then, eager to show she knew more than the maid, she said “He’s been called away on urgent business. They say he’ll be gone at least a week.”

Clarissa hid herself in the empty dining room, her hands clenched tightly in the skirts of her dress, sick with frustration. Then she spied a small cream note, tucked half under the cushion on the Count’s usual chair and she rushed to read it. ‘Clarissa’ it said on the front and she tore it open, in an agonized frenzy to know when he would return.

Her breathing stopped and she sank to the floor.

There was only one word.

“Whore”.