Christmas Caper

by Sullivan Clarke

Chapter One

Chapter 1

Part I

Mary Grace Harper stood before her husband, hands folded and eyes downcast in what she hoped would be interpreted as a display of complete contrition.

“Please, sir, I did not intend to disobey.”

“That’s the problem, Mary Grace. It’s never your intention to disobey.” He paused. “And yet you’re still so good at it. Sometimes I think you’re worse than the children.”

Mary Grace frowned. It was such an unfair comparison, and one they both knew she hated. She was not a child. Far from it; she was the mother of seven, not that people could tell it by looking, for Mary Grace Palmer was not much bigger than her eldest son, who had just turned nine. But then again, Robert was tall like his father. Mary Grace hoped he would grow up to be less stoic.

“Mrs. Brisby is an evil, grumpy woman, Peter,” she said. “She was rude and insulting to our children, and you expect me to just allow her to berate them for the simple sin of allowing the pony to get loose?”

“Mrs. Brisby is the respected widow of a former elder of my church, upset to find her garden trampled and her winter greens eaten!”

“She called our boys rapscallions!” Mary Grace argued. “And they are not! The simply forgot to shut the barn gate. What they did was a mistake, not a sin deserving of such an insult.”

“And you called her a miserable old crow, in full earshot of two other matrons. For a preacher’s wife, that is a sin deserving of something - punishment.” He reached over and pulled her across his knee. “You know full well how I expect those in my household to conduct themselves.” He pulled up her skirt. “With decency, humility --” Mary Grace winced as she felt her undergarments pulled down to the middle of her thighs. “And above all, with restraint!”

He raised his hand and brought it down hard in the center of her bare bottom to emphasize the point. And Mary Grace, who promised herself every time she was spanked that she would not cry- would not act like the child he accused her of being - betrayed herself once again as her husband’s large, firm hand began to punish her bottom in earnest. The Rev. Peter Harper was a thoughtful, thorough man, even when spanking his errant wife. Not a spot on Mary Grace’s shapely, white bottom was missed, from the little dimples at the swell of her cheeks to the sensitive, soft skin just above where they met her thighs.

Sobbing, she rocked back and forth, trying to evade the impending spanks, but her husband only stopped when he was sure he’d reddened her bottom enough to make her compliant. Only then did he haul her to his feet to stare sternly in her pretty, tear-streaked face.

“Now, Mary Grace. You will compose yourself and then go down to the widow’s house, with the boys, and offer an apology for both the damage to her garden and your hasty insult.”

“But she..” she began.

“Do I need to put you back over my knee?”

Mary Grace looked down and shook her head to confirm that he indeed did not.

“It doesn’t matter what she did,” he said more gently. “The Bible teaches that we are to turn the other cheek.”

Turn the other cheek. If Mary Grace’s bottom hadn’t been so sore she would have found the comment almost amusing. But this was no laughing matter. Being a preacher’s wife was hard, and it wore on her sometimes the way her strict husband expected her to just gracefully accept the rudeness of his flock.

She forced herself to assume a contrite look, although inside she was seething with anger. Of course she would apologize. She had no choice. But if her husband thought she was going to let that old hag get away with insulting her children he was wrong. She would have her reckoning, preacher’s wife or not. She’d just have to be careful about how she went about it.

Part II“It wasn’t our fault that Patches got out.” Five-year-old Lilly frowned, looking for the world like a miniature of her mother.

Mary Grace suppressed a smile as she straightened the collar of her youngest daughter’s dress. “No, it’s not. That pony is too smart for his own good. We need to get a better latch for the gate - one that he can’t open” She stood back. “There. You look lovely.”

She turned to the other children, standing all in a row.

“Now, remember. We are to be cordial, even if we don’t want to be,” Mary Grace coached, even though she didn’t really believe what she was telling the children. “Your father believes I set a bad example earlier by…”

“Ahem.”

Mary Grace turned to see her husband standing by the door, fixing her with a warning gaze. Quickly she turned back and corrected herself.

“I set a bad example earlier by insulting the widow Brisby,” she continued. “So I’m going to beg her forgiveness, and you are going to apologize for Patches’ bad behavior.”

She stood. “So let’s get this out of the way. If nothing else it will make things less awkward tomorrow night when we have to stand next to the widow Brisby while we’re caroling.”

“I’m not standing next to her,” muttered David. “She smells like sour milk.”

Mary Grace looked back, worried that her husband had heard the six-year-old’s comment. But he’d left the room already, obviously satisfied that his wife was going to do the right thing.

The houses along the quiet street of were festively decorated with evergreen wreaths and bright red ribbons. But there was only a single wreath on the door of the parsonage, because Peter Harper had insisted on it. Mary Grace had protested; the children had been looking forward to festooning the front porch with garland and decorating the tree in the yard with cookies and seed balls for the birds. But her husband had argued that a minister’s family should be modest, and set the example for the season by concentrating on the Christmas message and not decorations. It was yet another disappointment for Mary Grace.

“Perhaps I’m not cut out to be a preacher’s wife,” she mused as she considered his decision as they passed yet another beautifully decorated house and drew closer to the Brisby home, dread in every step. But it was a bit too late for regrets, what with five children trailing behind her like ducks. And Mary Grace did love her husband, very much. He was attentive in his own way, quite protective and a good provider. And she could hardly claim that his strictness had taken her by surprise. She’d had hints of Peter’s belief that even wives should be subject to a firm hand when they were courting.

His own father-in-law, also a preacher, was the undisputed and highly revered patriarch of his own family, and Mary Grace’s mother-in-law, Sarah, obeyed him completely and without question. Her own parents were very traditional as well, but she’d never met so submissive a woman as Sarah. And it was clear that Peter held up his mother as the example of all a wife should be.

“A wife is to be obedient,” he told Mary Grace when they were courting. “You’d best look to my mother as a model. She can tell you that to submit to a good husband will bring the highest joy, and to disobey will bring the most serious of consequences.”

Mary Beth had wondered what those consequences were, but hadn’t asked As it turned out, she found out first hand that her husband’s philosophy wasn’t talk just two weeks before the wedding. She was going over the guest list when she spied the name Ingrid Blake, a woman who fancied the dashing young reverend and had treated her spitefully in the past, even to the point of suggesting to Sarah Harper that Mary Grace would be unsuitable partner for Peter.

“No,” she said to her future husband, a look of disbelief on her face. The two were alone at the time in the parlor of the Harper home; the rest of the family was outside enjoying the warm May afternoon.

“No what?” he asked.

Mary Grace pointed to the list. “No to this guest,” she said. “I did not approve Ingrid Blake’s being invited.”

Her betrothed had grunted. “No,” he said. “But my mother did. She and Ingrid’s mother are very good friends. My mother thought it would be awkward to invite the mother without inviting the daughter, so she asked your mother to put her on the list.”

“Well, I want her removed,” said Mary Grace.

“No.” Peter had looked at her, his face stern and resolute. “When we are married, Mary Grace, you will be a preacher’s wife and will encounter on a daily basis parishioners you don’t care for. You will be expected to put on a smile and be gracious towards them, for the sake of decorum. You‘d best get used to it.”

“Well we aren’t married yet,” said Mary Grace hotly. “And I don’t answer to you yet!”

Peter had looked up at her from where he sat, a look of incredulity on his face. “I beg to disagree,” he said with deceptive calmness. “When your father gave me your hand in marriage, he advised me that you’d always needed a strong hand. ‘She’s a high-spirited girl,’ he said, and he told me that you’d likely be a challenge. I promised to meet that challenge from that moment on.”

“And where is my say?” asked Mary Grace, raising her voice. “Am I chattel now, that I have no voice in my own wedding?”

“Your voice will say, ‘I do,’” he said. “Let that silly Ingrid attend. Show her you are the better woman.”

“No,” said Mary Grace, stamping her foot now. “She can be damned, and so can you if you insist on trying to change my mind.”

She did not remember his rising to his feet, or being thrown over his lap. She only knew that the next moment she was facing the floor, her bottom up in the air, her body supported over his broad thighs.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Something I hoped I would not have to,” he said, bringing his hand down hard on her bottom.

It would be after the wedding that she got her first bare bottom spanking, but this one - even over her voluminous skirts - would always stand out as the most humiliating since it had taken her so by surprise. He was punishing her like a child, in his parents’ house, completely aware that at any moment they could be interrupted. Mary Grace was livid and outraged and deeply embarrassed, partially because she had always realized he was capable of this but also because she knew that if her future in-laws did come in they likely wouldn’t even bat an eye. She was quite sure Peter’s father dealt with his mother like this, which would only mean one thing: if she married this man she could expect years of the same treatment each time she disobeyed.

But she loved him, and endured the spanking tearfully and with much remorse for her behavior. Peter was right. Even though Ingrid had wanted to marry him, he had chosen her and he told her this again as he cradled her in his lap until her ragged sobs had receded into pitiful little sniffles.

Three weeks later, they were married and Mary Grace had made a beautiful bride. But a shred of defiance remained, and she couldn’t help but poke her tongue out at Ingrid afterwards when she was sure Peter wasn’t looking.

She’d battled her defiant streak, battled it long and hard, but still she could not rid herself of it, not even after five children and assuming a schedule that would have left many women sedate simply by exhaustion.

“Maybe she won’t be home.” Four-year-old Lucy kicked a rock on the side of the road as they approached the Brisby house, its trampled garden in plain view now.

“No she’s home,” said Mary Grace. “See, there she is by the garden gate, talking to Mrs. Frederickson.”

Mary Grace plastered a smile on her face. She was sure the two women were gossiping, most likely about her. Ushering the children through the gate, she put the thought out of her mind and walked towards Mrs. Brisby.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

The older woman looked down her nose at Mary Grace and the children. “And what business do you have here? Back to finish destroying my winter greens?”

“No,” said Mary Grace. “We’re back to offer apologies, both for the pony’s escape and for my hasty words this afternoon.

Mrs. Brisby shot her companion a smirk. “As well you should,” she said. “You and your children are as ill-mannered as that wretched little pony. I find myself feeling quite sorry for your poor husband.”

Mary Grace felt her face grow warm. “The pony’s escape was an accident,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “And I came here in hopes of soothing angers, not stirring them further with insults. Perhaps we can put harsh feelings behind us for the sake of neighborliness in this Christmas season.”

“Ha!” the older woman said. “Laziness is more likely the cause, both of the pony’s behavior and the children’s.” She looked at Mrs. Frederickson. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all. As the mother does, so will the child. Tis a shame that poor Rev. Harper didn’t look for more than a pretty face when he decided to take a wife. Why, Ingrid Blake, while plain, was more than willing to wed him and is of good, sound manners. A far better fit that would have been…” The two women looked at Mary Grace with disapproval and she turned away.

She could not believe even a bitter old hag like Mrs. Brisby would say such a thing in front of her children, although it didn’t surprise her since she also was friends with Ingrid’s mother.

“Alright, children, let’s go,” she said. “We’ve done all we can here.”

Tears of anger pricked her eyes as she walked home. Mary Grace wanted to go to her husband, to tell him how unfair and demeaning the old crone had been. But she felt she could not. As a preacher serving not just a family but a parish, his loyalties were split. But she was sick of it. Just sick of it. She was a good wife, and she suspected that part of the animosity leveled at her was because the older, matronly women of the community who had dreamed of marrying their plain daughters off to the handsome preacher were still nursing anger over having lost out. They were determined to make her existence as a preacher’s wife miserable, negatively scrutinizing every move she made.

“Mama, what was she talking about?” asked Lilly. “Why did Mrs. Brisby say someone else should have married Daddy?”

Mary Grace started to say it was because Mrs. Brisby was a miserable old cow, but thought the better of it.

“She’s still angry that the pony got in her garden,” she said.

“Did Daddy want to marry you?” Lilly asked.

Mary Grace stopped and knelt down in front of her daughter, studying the little worried face.

“Of course he did,” she said. “If he hadn’t then he would have married someone else.” The child nodded but still looked concern and it was then that Mary Grace decided she had finally had enough. How dare that old bat say such a thing! It was high time she turned the tables on those old harpies. But she had to find a way to do it that would leave her blameless and able to sit down for Christmas dinner.

That wouldn’t be easy with such a watchful husband, but Mary Grace decided to find a way. And she knew exactly how; she’d get an ally to help her and when it was all over, she would have the last laugh. As with that thought, she began to plot her plan for a bit of Christmas mischief.