Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 19
The Waste of Onan 

Carlo and William stood waiting until Mr Chilvers had finished balancing the cellar book and looked up.

“Ah, thank you for coming so promptly.  Did you get that extra leaf put in the dining table?”

“Yes Mr Chilvers, James helped us,” said William.

“Good.  We will need that for Christmas.  His young lordship has invited a big party of his school friends for Christmas and Boxing Day—the entire lacrosse team, I believe.”

“What is lacrosse, Mr Chilvers?” asked William.

“I have no idea. The Indians play it, I believe.”

“Like polo and cricket?” asked Carlo.

“No, not those kind of Indians; the ones from America.  It doesn’t matter, Carlo.  The point is that I have asked you here as the result of a conversation I had with his lordship and Mr Knight. In 1912 they will be spending more time in London, especially if Mr Stephen goes to university there.  The young gentlemen will be entering more into the social world and indeed already know the prime minister, for example, and Mr Stephen has even said ‘Thank you’ to Their Majesties you will remember.

We would like you both to move up to Branksome House: you, William, to be on probation as an under butler and paid as such and you as a valet, Carlo. You will not be expected to wait at table—unless it’s an emergency of course—and we will send Paul or James up when we require extra staff.  Your wages will be 50 pounds, Carlo, and yours, 65 pounds, William.”

“Does that mean William will give me orders, Mr Chilvers?” asked Carlo.

“It does.  I’ve had my eye on William and he is steady and discreet.  You Carlo I’ve had my eye on too and I know about you and Dr Markby’s new chauffeur and I’m having serious doubts about you as the young gentlemen’s gentleman.”

“Oh no, Mr Chilvers!  I love our young gentlemen.  We both do, don’t we Bill?  I’ll do my very best to serve them, Mr Chilvers.”

Chilvers raised an eyebrow as he stared at them hard. “William, you will be in charge of the house along with Mrs Smith and you’ll have the power to hire and dismiss, but I’d like you to discuss any big changes with me for the first year or so.  Is that understood?”  William nodded.

 “And Branksome House will not be an easy place to run, William, as you know.  It is not very modern—there is no electric light there and nothing much has been done to the place since her ladyship first became ill.  I’m sure Mr Stephen would appreciate your thoughts on improvements to the management of the house, although don’t go bothering him when he’s studying and come to me for other problems.”

“You, Carlo, will have an easy time of it while the house is empty.  You may like to help your cousin, even though it is not strictly part of your duties.  It is important that his lordship and Mr Knight are turned out right for social engagements.  Carlo, what is the correct wear for a levee with the King?

“Well sir, levees is held in the afternoons and it’s knee breeches, lace cuffs and jabot, sir—and a sword.”

“Very good, Carlo and the coat?”

“Oh a tail coat, sir.”

“And are waistcoats black or white with swallow’s tails?”

“White pique sir and it has to be ironed in a circular fashion.”

“Turn ups?”

“Oh Mr Chilvers, please don’t insult me!  Never on evening clothes.”

“Very good, Carlo.  I don’t want to see our boys disgraced in public.  Mr Knight is particularly vulnerable.  He was not born to it and he doesn’t care too greatly, but it will reflect badly on us all if he is sent out wrongly dressed.”

They were dismissed but as they got to the door Chilvers said, “And Carlo, it is ‘good morning your lordship.’ I don’t want to hear you say, ‘Ahoy there!’ you’re not at sea now.”

*****

Stephen was up in London for an interview regarding enrolling at the University of London, although it was 10 months away.  The Engineering faculty was in a wing of the Imperial Institute just near the Albert Hall and about two miles from Branksome House or three stops on the tube.  The buildings were very impressive and quite new and Stephen was impressed with the library and reading room.  He learnt that many classes could be taken ‘externally’ and that the university was an amalgam of several colleges, all of which admitted women as well as men.

The Dean of the Faculty was not unfriendly and was keen to promote engineering in England, which he said had been sorely neglected.  He said that ‘civil engineering’ which was the branch that most interested Stephen, would soon be a separate discipline.  He was impressed with Stephen’s results in mathematics and thought that German, in addition to Latin, would be useful. Stephen was nearly going to launch into the story of the bathrooms project at Croome, but upon reflection it sounded silly, although he understood its merits himself, and so bit his tongue. 

Thus enthused, Stephen made his way to Foyle’s in Charing Cross Road to look for some books on engineering principles. There was a small crowd gathered inside the shop.  It was not in the educational section, but nevertheless Stephen was curious and pushed his way through.  There he saw a familiar figure sitting at a table and signing books. “Hullo Stephen,” said Douglas Owens, his face as impassive as ever.

“Hello Doug. You’re busy.”

“Yes, t’must t’sit until it be 4:00.”  He didn’t look happy.  He was dressed quite differently from how Stephen was used to seeing him in the village, especially in the Women’s Institute Hall.  He was wearing a very elegant suit with an orchid in his lapel and had been clean shaved, except for a small moustache.  His hair had been expensively cut and washed.

“Do you want to come for a drink then, Doug?  I’m here in London alone.  Where are you staying by the way?”

“I bin’t a t’Ritz Hotel near t’park. Thart’s where I be lodged.”

“Why don’t you come and stay at Branksome House with me?  There’s no one there and we can walk there.”

“Thart t’would be right nice, Stephen but I dursn’t.  T’publishers is very p’ticular and sez thart t’authors should stay at t’Ritz- or t’Claridges if bint in t’second edition.”

A woman in a large hat elbowed her way past Stephen and crossly thrust out her volume of ‘A Sty of t’one’s Own’ for Douglas to sign.  Stephen called out as he backed away, “I’ll come back at 4:00!”

Stephen kept his appointment in the Middle Temple with Sir Danvers Smith and with Daniel Sachs in the City. Sir Danvers approved of Stephen’s prospective course and he wished him well for his last two terms at school.  There were some papers to sign with regard to his property in Antibes and a small increase in his allowance from his guardian, Lord Branksome.

In Leadenhall Street, Daniel Sachs reported briskly and favourably on the estate’s investments and on Stephen’s small holding of shares in Tatchell’s.  It was his opinion that the naval build up that was underway would only lead to greater profit for those companies manufacturing naval parts, but feared that war could be a curse or a blessing to the investor.  He certainly thought the army would be requiring horses.

“And how is my kinsman, Mr Moss?” he asked as he propelled Stephen politely but firmly towards the door.

“I fear he will leave us too soon, Mr Sachs.  His uncle would like him to come back to Australia and work for him.  Apparently he is doing very well building concrete bridges there, but much of his time is taken up with his military duties.”

“Well make sure you get your projects well underway.  You never know what the international situation will bring either, Mr Knight.”

Stephen took a bus back to Foyle’s and found Douglas packing up.  He was introduced to Mr Forbes the publisher who seemed more like his gaoler but Stephen managed to get Douglas away to a nearby pub.

“Are thee going bark t’village Stephen?” he asked longingly.

“No Doug.  I must go back to school tomorrow.  Why don’t you go back yourself?”

“I’d like to Stephen. I’ve had enough o’Lundon, b’aint right though.  I mus t’go t’prime minister’s house on t’morrow.  T’missus Asquith wants me t’read t’poems.  T’poet laureate—do you know him Stephen?  He be t’King’s poet—wants to meet me,” he said gloomily.

“How did this all happen Douglas?”

“It be our Reuben’s fault, Stephen.  He started to write down whart I said when I was just working like, and then got me t’write t’poems about t’village like.  He baint meant no harm, but he sent t’poems to Lundon and…well…here I be.”

They had another pint and Stephen fell to talking about the boxing he’d seen at the National Sporting Club, which brightened up the poet.  The chair bodger’s son then excused himself having remembered that he was due to speak at the Garrick Club and asked Stephen if it was far to Covent Garden before his lumbering form disappeared through the bar doors into the maelstrom of modern London.

*****

“I blame my husband a good deal, Mr Carter, he’s far too soft.”  These words were spoken by a large woman of armour plated elegance.  She sat in the little upstairs sitting room she naughtily referred to as her boudoir in the house which was considered universally to be the finest and most costly in the provincial town of Wareham.  From the window, through the bare trees in the avenue, could be glimpsed the four tall chimneys of her husband’s foundry, the font of much of the comfort of the room.

“I would not blame him too harshly,” replied the clergyman, “Lord Martin came well-armed with arguments from several educational experts and he did manage to have the vote deferred to give us all time to think.”

“There’s nothing to think about, Mr Carter.  It’s absurd that they should reject the idea of a domestic arts school for girls.  It’s all these Suffragettes; they’re turning the world on its head. When I think of my own mother and what a wonderful housekeeper she was; we had one of the most enviable houses in Edgbaston—and I can hear my father saying when he came home from business, ‘Matilda, that dinner was very tasty—better than the all the hotels in Birmingham put together.’ Mother would smile and say, ‘I’ll tell cook.’ And the house was always spotless and every piece of furniture shone like a mirror and my mother used to put on a white glove to test for dust.

“Father would complement my mother when they went out into society saying that she made him proud to be her husband in that expensive dress and with her hair done up like so.  She’d kiss him and say that her maid would be thrilled to hear that when she undressed her.  Mother always made sure he was turned out nicely too and he was quite the swell with a fresh orchid in his lapel. ‘Your orchids are beautiful, Matilda,’ he’d say as he looked in the hall mirror.’ ‘I’ll tell Hodge,’ I can hear her answer.  So you see Mr Carter, I know the value of domestic arts training for girls.

“It’s getting cold in here,” she said and touched the bell.

“My father knew the value of work, Mr Carter,” she continued, “I’m not sure that Lord Martin or Lord Branksome would have a clue.  He started off as not much more than a clerk, you know.  When the Midland Railway offered him a handsome sum for his father’s house and land, he took up the offer and invested the money wisely in a small brass foundry—doing their books—and he built it up, although he knew nothing about metals himself.  When his partner died he took in the man who became my husband,” she said, blushing. This was interrupted by the arrival of the maid.

“Madam?”

“Put some more coal on the fire, Janet.” Janet walked between their chairs and bending down put two shovelfuls into the grate before retreating to the basement.

“I think Lord Martin and the Branksome lot will be angling for a school over there.  A co-educational one I’ll bet,” said the Rev. William Carter.

Mrs Tatchell pulled a face. “Co-education is a grave mistake.  What sort of wives and mothers will typists and bluestockings make?” she asked rhetorically.  The clergyman nodded in agreement.  “It is such a shame that you are an unclaimed treasure, Mr Carter.  You’ve never felt the need to marry?”

“Well, Mrs Tatchell, he said, squirming and turning red, “It would be convenient to have a wife on one level, but then I am so taken up with my work for the Rechabites and the Temperance Union and then there is my poor mother.”

“Ah yes, your mother.  She lingers still?”

“Yes she does, Mrs Tatchell, although her appetite is good.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.  What do we know about this Lord Martin?”

“Well, he is not yet finished school and he is representing his brother, the Marquess of Branksome.  Lord Branksome is only young himself, Mrs Tatchell, but he is confined to some sort of asylum, I believe.” He lowered his voice. “It is said that he has a certain disease—one that comes from immoral habits.”

“No!” Mrs Tatchell.

“Yes!” said the Rev. William Carter.  This titbit was savoured in silence for a minute.

“And the boy?”

“Well, he’s a nice-looking young man.  I can’t see any sign of the disease in him.  He does have a friend, it is said; a lad from the village who is now the ward of the invalid.”

“Perhaps we should find out more.  Do you think you could make inquiries?”

“Well, our next meeting is very soon and then I have to go on a speaking tour of Wales: ‘Imbibition and Self-Abuse.’ Do you think that too racy a title?  I was hoping to speak to an audience of youths.

“Not at all.  The Welsh are an abandoned race.  But you will look into the other matter before Easter?”

Mr Carter said he would and took his leave, saying he had to call into the Methodist Youth Club on his way home.

*****

Never had there been such a Christmas at Croome; even Charles Dickens’ pen would have found itself wanting in the description of the snow, the decorations, the food and the jollities. As well as the usual family and friends, there were the nine others of the lacrosse team and three of them had invited their sisters, acting as rather doubtful chaperones.  On Christmas Eve the Daimler was busy all day ferrying the arrivals over the snowy road from the station and the hall was filled with cases, hatboxes and Archie Craigth’s large trunk.  There were also bags containing lacrosse gear that everyone kept tripping over.  The four footmen, James, Paul, Carlo and William, were kept busy unpacking and tending to the guests.

The kitchen, usually comparatively quiet for such a great house, was as busy as in times of yore, and six enormous geese where being cooked for the guests and three more would be cooked for the servant’s own dinner to which Gertie and the other visiting servants were to be invited.

On Christmas Eve, when they came away from having a long chat with William who had been given a leave-pass to come home again, Martin gave Stephen his present.  Again it was an envelope.

“It’s not another house is it Mala?” said Stephen jokingly.  He opened it.  Inside there was a medallion and a card.  Upon closer inspection it proved to be the membership for a London club.  Stephen was speechless.

“You’re a gentleman now Derbs, you should have a club to go to.  Now before you say anything, I’ve picked this one carefully.  It’s not as grand as Boodles and it’s not for Tories like the Carlton or for Liberals like the Reform.  The Saville is for interesting people of all sorts—a lot of authors, which you’ll love—and it’s only a few doors from Branksome House in Piccadilly.”

Stephen thanked him fulsomely and tried to imagine himself walking in and sitting down, ordering a drink from the steward. “But I won’t know anyone, Mala!” he said in sudden distress.

“Yes you will, Derbs; Lord Delvees is a member and so is Erskine Childers the author. Mr Churchill and I both wrote to him praising ‘The Riddle of the Sands’ and I’ve asked him to welcome you personally.”

“I’m a clubman,” said Stephen, almost to himself.  “Will you be a member too, Mala?”

“No, I will be expected to follow my father and brother into Boodles and the Carlton, but I’d like to be your guest.  They all sit at a long table to eat.  Very friendly.  You will be the most popular young member within six months, I’ll warrant.”

There was dancing but no chariot race this year.  Instead some of the furniture was cleared from the Long Gallery and a game of lacrosse was played with modified rules, including having mixed teams, for the girls played at their schools too, and a tennis ball was substituted for the usual hard rubber one.  Apart from a small diamond pane being broken in a window—and this was easily stopped up with cardboard—and a tiny rent in a portrait, there was, again, very little damage when weighed against the fun had by all.  Chilvers was overheard saying to Mrs Capstick that he was glad the young gentlemen did not play polo.

At night there was much gigglesome to-ing and fro-ing down the long corridors of Croome.  The sisters of the boys quite possibly found consolation in the masculine arms of some of the lacrosse team who, under Martin’s captaincy, were noted as being a particularly vigorous and randy lot, and the remainder almost certainly found consolation in the arms and loins of each other.

On Boxing Day the servants received their presents and had a feast of their own.  Then there were visits to be made to the cottages, including to Titus Knight’s where Stephen spent most of the day.  Many of the guests departed, save for those who were staying on for the hunt.

Stephen and Martin accompanied by Herman Moss and Blake the estate manager walked up through the snow to the Tidpit’s dairy farm.  Mrs Tidpit welcomed them and took them through to the new milking shed.  As Tidpit was outside bringing the cows across from their winter quarters in the barn, it was Mrs Tidpit who explained the workings of the new machinery, with some of the technical aspects expanded on by Moss.

“The important thing is hygiene, your lordship.  We have a big boiler here for washing the cups and the lines,” she said proudly.

“They squeeze the milk out mechanically,” said Moss, demonstrating with his hands.

“No sir, they don’t.  These new ones use pulsator vacuum pumping,” interrupted Mrs Tidpit, and then she pointed out the path the milk took along the network of pipes to the tank were it was held before it went into churns.

“This system centralises collection and there is no danger of the cow kicking over a bucket. We can milk 20 cows in an hour and there is a capacity to extend that milord,” said Moss.

They next inspected the little petrol engine that operated the pumps. “Mr Jackman has been a great help, but I can start it and change the sparkplug now, said Mrs Tidpit. “The machine can also be used to drive a mechanical cream separator.”

Just then her husband arrived with the first of the cows who stood patiently with their full udders. “Good afternoon your lordship,” he said, taking off his cap.  He then explained the necessity of buying cows that were used to the machinery and predicted that a herd of 80 cows could be handled with only one other man or woman.  The engine was turned over and mechanical milking was demonstrated to their astonishment.  Stephen wondered to himself if such a machine could be adapted to milking cocks—the whole lacrosse team could perhaps be done at once, but he was snapped out of this reverie when he found that he had trodden in a large, steaming turd.

“We’ve spent nearly a thousand pounds, your lordship, when you take into account the new dairy and 25 new cows.  It will take us some years to recoup our money and we still have to find a market before we buy any more.  The average number of milkers per farm in this county is only 5, so we are taking a big gamble,” said Moss.

“That’s true sir,” said Blake, “but there is some interest from the Boscombe Dairy in Bournemouth which has a population of over 100,000 and would be a good market if we could get a milk train put on.  The distance is further, but they would only have to deal with one major supplier.” 

“Could you talk to O’Brien about the horse stud, Blake?” said Stephen.  “Put the business proposition to him again, in general terms—don’t promise anything—and get his views on raising the type of horses that the Army or the railways might buy in large numbers.”

*****

“What have we got planned for the rest of the holiday?” said Stephen as he paused from kissing Martin’s warm, rosy buttocks in bed.

“Well I have the meeting of the L.E.A on Wednesday.  Will you come with me Derby, I could use some moral support?”

“Of course, Mala.  And after that?”

“Well there’s the hunt on New Year’s Day.  Did you want to go to London?”

“No, but why don’t we go to Antibes?  We could have nearly a week there before school resumes—just you and me.  It won’t be freezing there.  Can we afford it?”  He asked as an afterthought.

“Of course, Derbs, it’s not much more than the train fares.  Did you want to go second?”

“Er, no,” said Stephen, “I’ve rather got used to first—and we’ve got to uphold England’s prestige in front of the French too.”

*****

Martin was quite nervous at the meeting and he would have liked to have held Stephen’s hand for strength and comfort.  He did notice that the Rev. William Carter was looking very hard at Stephen and then at him.  Martin seated himself between the two Liberal members so that the table arrangement would not look too confrontational, however controversy soon raised its head.  Martin moved that the proposal for the domestic arts school for girls be set aside and his new proposal for a higher elementary school to be built at Branksome-le-Bourne be considered. Tatchell was reluctant to allow this and he was firmly supported by Mr Carter.

“My wife—I mean I am of the mind that a domestic arts school is all that is required at this time.  I doubt there will be the numbers for a larger school,” he said. 

Martin responded with some figures and was backed up by Mr Morden the principal.  Next Martin quoted expert opinion on the need for academic education for the nation’s young in general and for girls in particular—Miss Foxton having helped him write this part.

The two Liberal politicians began to waver in their resistance when it became known that Mr McKenna had supported it and he was now elevated to the Exchequer.

“But the cost of a higher elementary will be much greater, Lord Martin, and that will mean increased rates,” retaliated Tatchell.

“Not really, Mr Tatchell.  The land at Branksome-le-Bourne will cost the ratepayers nothing. There is a site that used to be parish workhouse, unused since the new infirmary in Pendleton was built.  I will donate another four acres.  How much will the proposed site in Wareham cost and who is the vendor?”

Mr Tatchell went red and said he wasn’t quite sure—although his answer was rather mumbled, so those mightn’t have been his exact words.  He changed tack.  “How will the pupils get over to Branksome?”

“There is the train from the north,” replied Martin, “and a motor omnibus will operate from Wareham.”  Tatchell felt that he might be losing the advantage despite being sceptical about the promise of a motorbus and moved that the discussion be held over to their meeting at the end of April.  This was agreed to and the meeting was suddenly over. 

Stephen kept a straight face but when the Branksome party were out in the snowy street there were hearty congratulations and Stephen thumped Martin on the back.  Martin shyly grinned. “That was played beautifully, Mala!” declared Stephen. 

*****

The warmth of the Riviera was wonderful after the snows of England.  Martin was so excited when they climbed the stairs to the bedroom, thinking they would never get away for the enthusiastic greeting of the patron and Mm e de Blazon, that he stripped of his clothes and went out onto Stephen’s balcony to sun himself behind the geraniums. “Stephen,” he said when he walked back in and put his arms around his neck, “I need you inside of me right now.” He lowered his voice, “I want your big cock deep inside me and I want to feel you.”

Steven didn’t need to be asked twice and rubbed the length of his cock through his trousers against Martin’s naked thigh. Martin pulled Stephen’s shirt over his head and plunged his face into his armpits and then slid his face over his chest until he reached his nipples where he teased the silky black hair that curled attractively about them.  Stephen let his trousers drop and stood with his strong legs apart.  Martin bent Stephen’s hard cock downward with difficulty and put it between his legs where it teased his crack, his own cock rubbing and moistening the trail of soft black hair that led down from Stephen’s navel.

Stephen reached for the bottle of oil. “No Derby,” said Martin, “I really want to feel you.  Put it in without oil.” 

“No Mala, I will hurt you.  I love you and don’t want to.”

“But I want to feel you stretch me, Derby. I need it.  Make me take you.”

“Mala, you’re only saying this because you’re randy.  I might tear you and make you bleed.  I’d hate myself.”

Martin bit his earlobe.

Thus convinced Stephen laid Martin on his back and squatted over him so Martin could suck his cock and make it slick.  He then tongued Martin’s crack and spat repeatedly into his hole which Martin was able to make gape.  He widened it with his wetted index finger and added another. He went back to licking and spitting again and then Martin, impatient, grabbed a fist full of Stephen’s shaggy locks and pulled him up.

“Stick it in Derby!”

“Push out Mala,” cautioned Stephen, “and try to open yourself.”

He pressed the head of his cock to the opening and it went in a little way. The tightness felt amazing. Martin moaned and whimpered. He went a little further and stopped when Martin yelled.

“Do you want me to pull out Mala?”

“Yes, would you?”

“No, I don’t think I can.”

“Oh well, you’d better keep going then, but slowly and it will help a lot if you can kiss me.”

Stephen did these things and was soon all the way in.  He halted. Martin looked satisfied.  Then Stephen slowly pulled out completely, Martin’s look changing to despair.  “I’m using the oil Mala.  I don’t know about you, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to have my cock rubbed raw.

“Mala,” he continued, “You don’t have to hurt yourself to prove that you love me. I love you even when we’re not fucking and if we didn’t fuck at all I’d still be in love with you.

“It’s in here where love is,” he said tapping his head,  “It’s not in here,” he said putting his hand on his heart, “although the poets might say otherwise—and it’s not in my cock either.  You don’t just love me because of my big cock do you Mala?”

“No, I just love you.  I’m not sure where it resides but it does concentrate the mind wonderfully all the same,” he said with a sly grin.

Martin was secretly grateful that Stephen had been cautious and considerate but still craved him inside dreadfully.  When Stephen slid in with comparative oily ease Martin squirmed with delight. Stephen began to pound him hard. At a certain juncture Martin said,  “Are you nearly there, Derby?”

“I’m so close, Mala, it’s unbearable.”

“Stand up.”

Stephen, with Martin’s arms about his neck, lifted him on his cock into the upright position. Martin pulled himself up and down a few times and Stephen thrust with his hips.  When Martin saw a certain light in Stephen eyes he said, “Now hold completely still.” He used his own weight to press down making sure every last inch of Stephen was deep I him and he could feel Stephen’s bush and balls on his buttocks.

He then leaned into Stephen’s right ear and nibbled the lobe and whispered dirty things that he wanted Stephen to do, which Stephen had no intention of doing even if he did know the French words and could get the farmyard animals.  They were still for half a minute with Martin whispering and trying to manipulate his stretched muscles around Stephen’s cock.

Then Martin saw a look on Stephen’s face that told him he was spilling.  It seemed to last for a long time, but was probably only half a minute.  When Martin was sure that Stephen was drained he allowed himself to but put down and Stephen pulled out leaving Martin feeling empty and abandoned.

“I liked that Mala.  See, it is all in the head; I spilled just thinking about it.”

“I’ve never had you so deep and I now know I can make my man spill. That proves that I love you,” said Martin.

“You don’t need to prove it, Mala, I told you, but you took it like a man all the same.”  He looked down. “Mala, he said, do you think my cock could still be growing?  I mean I’m not quite 18 yet.”

“Oh I very much hope so,” said Martin, laughing and squirming with delight again.  “I feel so randy.  Do you think it’s the water here in France?”  Stephen had no mind for water for he was presently emulating Mrs Tidpit’s milking machine and was trying to extract a quart from Martin’s thick cock.

They dressed again and went around to Mrs Chadwick’s where they presented her with a hamper of delicacies from Fortnum’s, redolent of the England she would never see again.  Martin excused himself for not sitting down saying he had strained his back, a polite lie to cover the fact that his hole was tender and liable to discharge Stephen’s copious load of seed onto her furniture. 

Mrs Chadwick then launched into the local news concentrating on the trickle of new residents who were building expensive villas in Juan-les-Pins and putting up the price of tradesmen. “Monsieur le Maire and the council are even thinking of building municipal tennis courts to cater for the tourists and new arrivals,” she said. “Won’t that be dreadful, Lord Martin; all those undesirable Russians and Germans hogging them all day.”

“Why, would you like to use them, Mrs Chadwick?” asked Martin.

“Of course not, your lordship. I was just thinking about the tone and how it will spoil my…I mean, our lovely old town.”

“Oh I don’t know, I rather like the Russians,” said Stephen, thinking of the young Russian sailors he’d seen in Cannes.

“And I’m part German, Mrs Chadwick,” admonished Martin.

“Well the Americans then,” she said in exasperation.

“They are pretty terrible, Mrs Chadwick, but my father was born in America,” said Stephen.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean you, of course,” she said. “I was really thinking of the French trippers. They would be terrible.”

“Yes they would,” agreed Martin so he would not distress Mrs Chadwick any further by requiring her to produce an atlas to trawl through for more undesirable nations, although he did think that it was rather hard luck that Frenchmen would be denied the pleasure of playing tennis in their own country.

Mrs Chadwick then changed the subject to the absolute necessity for a properly furnished house to have curtains—lace and several other kinds.  Stephen listened, but was determined not to give in.  At last they took their leave, promising to call when they returned later in the year.

*****

“Is it too cold to bathe?” Stephen asked Martin.

“It might be, but I’d like to try.  Fancy bathing in January!”

They rode their bicycles down to the cove near Cap-Eden Roc and threw off their clothes.  The water was cold and Martin thought his cock would shrivel to nothing.

“It’s disappeared Derby, I’ll never be able to fuck you.”

“Come here and I’ll warm you.” Martin waded across and drew some heat from Stephen’s big body. “I know another way to warm you,” said Stephen slyly, but Martin was awake to him and slipped away before he could be pissed on.

They dried themselves on the beach and went for a little walk.  Around a bend they saw a figure hauling a small boat into the water.  When they got closer it proved to be Joni.  Joyous greetings and kisses were exchanged and Joni made sure he grabbed their cocks in doing so.

“Voulez-vous naviguer avec moi?”

They would very much like to go with him

“Est-ce le tien?”

“Bien sur”.  It was certainly his boat.

They went to retrieve their clothes but the captain made it clear that no one was to dress on the first night out and so the clothes were secreted near the bicycles and the now three nude boys climbed in.

Joni rowed a short way then stowed the oars and put up a little sail.  The craft took off in the breeze, scudding over the waves. Joni operated the tiller and gave some simple instructions, such as when to duck (“Baissez la tête!”) as the boom swung across.  He sailed them thrillingly out and around the point.  There were some people on the terrace of the hotel who could clearly see them and so they waved.  One lady waved back until her friend slapped her hand down. They sailed around to Juan-les- Pins and then Joni thought they should return.  Sailing into the wind was slower and it required all Joni’s skill at tacking.  At last the craft skidded to a halt on the sand not far from where they had embarked and Joni quickly lowered the sail and the boys jumped out and pulled the boat high up on the sand, beyond the reach of the tide.

Stephen and Martin had thought it was wonderful, although they were now cold.  It felt lovely to pull on their warm clothes.  They went back to the bistro, Stephen taking Joni on his handlebars, and drank coffee and Joni had cognac.  Martin now knew what Stephen’s 18^th birthday present would be.

In the little house it was quiet following their return from their evening meal, but neither boy could help but think that it was wonderful to be here alone. The kitchen stove was lit to provide some warmth and they sat in their respective basket chairs and read until it was time to go up to bed.  Martin was already in bed and the lamp was extinguished when Stephen shed his clothes and stood silhouetted against the tall window that opened onto the balcony.  He was looking up at the night sky.  Martin traced the outline of his lover: the noble head and strong neck; the broad shoulders and the v-shaped torso that went down to the narrow hips and muscular buttocks.  These were supported on a pair of strong, manly legs that were planted wide allowing a glimpse of cock and balls.  How could anyone be so beautiful, he thought.  As Martin had no artist’s brush, he simply said to Stephen to come to bed because he was cold and wanted a cuddle.

The next day Stephen fetched the elderly Italian who polished marble.  He looked at Stephen’s table top in the cellar and said that he would try to put a surface on it and went home to fetch his tools.  It took him a full day and the finished product, while not perfect, would make a very robust and weatherproof outdoor table where Stephen anticipated most of their meals would be taken.  Hélias and Joni were called and with the aid of M. de Blazon and the marbrier they managed to carry the weighty table out onto the terrace where it was placed on the sewing machine frames and bolted down.  It was pronounced a great success and christened with wine, olives and cheese.

That night Stephen sat in his basket chair and took stock of his house, which he still didn’t believe was all his.  It had something of the joy of a tree house or ship’s cabin, he thought, although it would not appeal to everyone’s taste he reflected, thinking of Mrs Chadwick.  The living room now had two large rag rugs which added some warmth and colour to the bare boards. There were two large pieces of furniture: the table from the convent and the counter from the chemist’s.  There were the ten Provencal chairs and the basket chairs they were sitting in.  There was the new bathroom and the larder.  There were the bare bedrooms with rows of pegs instead of the usual furniture.  There was the new table on the terrace with its folding park chairs now hanging on hooks out of the rain.  There were William’s pictures above the counter.

“Does the house need anything else, Mala?” he asked.

Martin put down ‘The Secret Agent’ by Joseph Conrad and looked around. “I don’t think so, Derbs.  It’s a relief not to have all the furniture that we have at Croome.  I like it just the way it is.  A shelf for books, maybe?”

Stephen agreed.  “We should keep more things here so we don’t have to bring so much luggage. We’ve got that spare room upstairs with all the shelves.  He began to mentally make a list then paused. “You know Mala, I am so grateful for this house.  Have I told you that?”

“Yes, many times, Derbs.  Any place where you’re sitting next to me is the best place in the world.  Can I sit on your lap and finish my book?”

Martin crossed the room and climbed onto Stephen’s knee.  The basket chair let out a complaint but held up.  Martin put his head back in the book while Stephen sat with his arms around Martin’s waist to prevent him from sliding off and pressed his lips to the very attractive back of Martin’s neck.  Tomorrow, he thought, should be a day when Martin must wear no trousers. Yes, he hadn’t had one of those for some time. 

*****

The Rev. William Carter pulled the footman James aside. “You sang very well, James, I could hear the sincerity in your tenor voice in ‘Help us feel for drunken man stretch’d on a heap of straw his bed.’

“Thank you Mr Carter, it has a fine swing to the tune I think,” said James.

“James, I hear that you have been passed over for promotion.  It must grieve you that ungodly types have been raised up by your master while your merits were scorned?”

“Well, not really, sir.  It is true that William and Carlo don’t go to chapel, but I like them and William is older than me and so it was only proper that he should try for under butler.”

Carter saw that this approach was not working so he changed tack. “Do you know the hymn, ‘Better spend my seed in the belly of a whore than like Onan spill upon the floor’?”

“No I don’t sir, is it one of Charles Wesley’s?

“Er… no, if I may be so immodest, it is one I wrote myself in younger days.  My point is, James, have you been practicing the vice of Onanism?”

“I don’t think so Mr Carter, I only get Wednesday afternoons off.  What is Onanism?”

“I will show you later, James.  A young man like you, James—a vigorous healthy young man- is often pray to impure thoughts.  Are you still wearing the gloves?”

“Oh yes sir, every night.”

“Good.  Have you been troubled again by lewd fancies?”

“Well, sir, sometimes when I must go to the butchers and speak to Mrs Hardcastle—she’s the butcher’s wife…”

“And you’ve been having impure thoughts about her?”

“Well she does look at me funny when she wraps up the tripe—for the servants’ dinner—and she is a very big women sir…”

“But no such thought for others—boys for example?”

“Oh no sir!” replied James hotly.

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the clergyman, disappointed.  And you haven’t been into that public house again and seen that Maisie?”

“It’s Elsie and no sir, not since the last time.”

“You know, James, it is the company we keep and the path that we choose that grieves our Lord so.  Are the people at Croome upright company?”

“Well Mr Chilvers and Mrs Capstick are the two most God-fearing people I know, sir.”

“And your master, Lord Martin, and his friend?”

“Mr Knight?  Oh sir they are fine young men, thick as thieves they are—oh, I don’t mean they’re thieves, it was just an expression; they’re very close, although they don’t go to the same school.”

“How close?”

“Well, they’re mostly together when they’re at home and they eat together and go out cycling together.”

“It is nice to see such loving friendships.  It must be rewarding to serve them.”

“Well sir, it’s mainly Mr Chilvers who waits upon them—he takes their meals up to them when there’s no company.”

“In the same room?”

“Well Mr Stephen sleeps in the dressing room next to his lordship, I believe, sir.”

“Well, James, it is very heartening to hear of two young pilgrims with such a close friendship.  I would like to hold them up as a shining example.  Do you think you could find out how they express their friendship—God’s love—for each other?  Find out where they go on their bicycles?  What good books they read?  How they keep each other company?  All these things will be an uplifting antidote to all those young people sunk in vice who ruin their lives drinking, dancing and gambling.”

“And practicing Onanism?”

“Yes, especially that.”

“Oh yes, sir, it would be a pleasure.  If more people were like my master and Mr Stephen, the world would be a better place.”

To be continued... 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.

Posted: 11/22/13