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 20
The Convergence of the Twain
William looked at his reflection in the mirror. He had tried to assume a dignified expression but had only succeeded in making himself titter when there was a polite knock on the door. He was standing in his room in the basement of Branksome House in Piccadilly. The butler’s room was adjacent to the butler’s pantry and the room with the strong cupboards that held the plates. He had made his first decision since his elevation from footman/valet to under-butler—really probationary butler and in charge of the London house. His first decision was to wear soft collars rather than the traditional winged collars that Chilvers wore. Of course he would wear those on very formal occasions, but for the moment there would be few of these and his main job would be to run the empty house and oversee the other servants, which included his cousin Carlo, now a valet.
It was Carlo who was calling and he turned from the mirror and Carlo spoke: “What am I to call you…sir…now that you are my boss? Mr Glassbottom?”
“I think not Carlo, I have decided I would like to be called Mr William by the servants if that doesn’t strike you as too odd. Neither of us likes using our last name, do we?” Carlo reflected that this was true, although in his case it was because he had an unwanted wife searching for him.
“No, that’s not odd Mr William—or may I call you Mr W.?”
“No you may not, Carlo, but you can certainly call me William when we’re alone —but only then mind—and you still have to stand with the other servants when Mrs Smith and I enter for dinner.”
“In ‘pug’s parade’ you mean?”
“Yes, Carlo. And speaking of names, you still don’t mind being called Mr Carlo instead of Mr Sifridi as valets are usually addressed?”
“No Bill, but I do mind that I have to sleep upstairs when it used to be you and me together for some fun.”
“That’s the way it has to be now, Carlo, I’m afraid, although we can still get together for some fun, I’ll just have to figure out a way.”
“Couldn’t I sleep out in the mews flat? That’s unused. No horses, no motors and its going begging.”
“No Carlo, you’re a house servant and a valet. You must be near our masters at all times. I was thinking, Carlo, that you might like to wear a soft collar too. I’m sure neither Mr Stephen nor Lord Martin would mind. Would you like to come up with your own outfit—nothing too outrageous—and let me know?”
Carlo was somewhat mollified and departed, William was now thinking that he’d made two decisions and asserted his authority. The next thing he did was call in Mrs Smith, the housekeeper, for a meeting. They sat rather cosily in his pantry and seemed to get on well. Mrs Smith was a woman in her fifties. She, with her husband coming to act as a sort of caretaker, had run the London house with its skeleton staff for a number of years.
“Mrs Smith, began William, diplomatically, I would very much appreciate your help as I’m rather new to all this. Mr Chilvers can give me advice, of course, but he is a long way away and so I may rather have to rely on your experience.”
“Thank you ‘Mr William’ she said, using his new title for the first time. We will need to work together, but I don’t want to exceed my authority.” William nodded.
“Mrs Smith, Mrs Lamp is a dreadful cook, wherever did we get her?” he opened bluntly.
“Well, Mr William, I’m afraid I have to agree. Since Mrs Hastie passed away we haven’t had a proper cook. She came to us six months ago from an agency. Oh she had good references—they always do—but I’m afraid they were more icing than Chelsea bun. I can’t imagine what that dish was we had for supper.”
“She said it was cottage pie, Mrs Smith.”
“Well, that cottage should be condemned. And she’s deaf and she shouts at poor Marigold,” she said, referring to the tweeny maid.
“Well, I’m going to have to give her notice, but when we’ve found a good cook. Will that be hard in London?”
“Oh, Mr William, you have no idea how hard! Even with a salary of 800 pounds or even more, and the hostesses fight very dirty to steal each other’s cooks. I urge you not to sack Mrs Lamp until you’ve got one lined up.”
When William walked with Mrs Smith in procession that night all the servants stood, including Mr Carlo. Mrs Smith sat next to her husband who had been repairing a pelmet in the drawing room and had been having a frustrating day of it. And then there was the cook, Mrs Lamp, who was annoyingly deaf and would answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘it’s in the cupboard’ seemingly at random to any conversational gambit.
They were being served by Marigold who, apart from her outlandish name, was a seemingly acceptable tweeny, although she looked distressed from having to shout at Mrs Lamp until she was hoarse. There were three other maids, Jenny, Daisy (whose real name was Jenny but had had it arbitrarily changed in service) and Sarah. There was Marie who with the help of Marigold did the washing and mending and there was Boots, a pimply boy of 14.
As William tried to chew his steak and kidney pudding, exchanging glances with Mrs Smith, he contemplated what staffing he thought Branksome house should have. There should be footmen—a matching pair of course. The thought of having a maid serving at dinner was disgraceful. However, this extravagance could hardly be justified with only the intermittent sojourns of Lord Martin and Mr Knight. Was a maid for every upstairs floor enough, he wondered? And how was he going to get a new cook? And a new cook may demand another scullery maid.
After their supper he walked out across the yard to the mews. Room would have to be left for a motor if his lordship ever decided to bring the Daimler to London and one of the upstairs cribs would have to be kept for Jackman, the handsome chauffeur. In the meantime…
He called Carlo. “Carlo, do you think this might be a convenient spot for some fun?”
“Well Bill, I could easy slip down the back stairs. I’m the only servant in the men’s quarters and it’s close to your room. Who’s to see us—especially if I have a key?”
“Ah, a key. And what’s to prevent you bringing back all sorts of hoi polloi to this spot behind my back if I give you a key?”
“Nothing. Give me a key,” challenged Carlo.
William thought about it. He could think of plenty of reasons not to, however he was feeling randy and rather alone in his new position so he said, “Alright, let’s try it tonight.”
It was William’s job to lock the doors at 10:30 when the maids had all gone up to their attic and the cook and Mr and Mrs Smith had retired to their rooms in the basement. Boots slept on a folding bed in the corridor. William determined that he should be given a proper room upstairs for reasons of both compassion and convenience for his getting to the mews unobserved.
It occurred to him as he was climbing the narrow stairs to the room above the stabling, that this arrangement could present problems if he or Carlo was wanted at night. He wondered if the bell could be somehow linked to the mews just in case. He would speak to Carlo about it.
Carlo was already lying on the bed smoking. His shirt was off and his bare arms and shoulders, shown off in his vest, were very handsome, thought William not for the first time.
“You’re dressed for it,” Carlo said to William who was in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
“Well I didn’t know what was the best,” said William. “We can’t stay all night. We should get an alarm clock. Should I have worn my butler’s togs?”
“You look very fine in them, Bill, I mean Mr W, but you look good like this too,” he said extending a foot lazily off the bed and using it to flick William’s dressing gown open. William just stood there and let Carlo massage his groin with his toes.
“Don’t worry Bill, I’ll make sure everything’s alright. You’ll keep your position, I promise. Now get these trousers off me.”
William relaxed and eagerly leaned over and undid Carlo’s trousers while he finished his cigarette. He wasn’t wearing any drawers and his hairy cock was hardening. “See I’ve made my first decision about my new uniform. Mr Stephen will be pleased; he’s not happy unless he knows everyone around him is randy.”
“Carlo, don’t you dare say that. And Mr Knight and his young lordship must never have cause to discover that you are less than fully dressed in their presence.”
“He’s a randy young devil though, ain’t he Bill?”
“Aye he is and a fine sight to behold,” admitted William. “Lord Martin is very fortunate in his choice of a friend.”
William was pleasuring Carlo’s cock with his hands. “Kiss it, Bill, said Carlo softly, I want to feel your lips on it.” William did. “You getting hard Bill?” William replied that he was. “Come here!” Carlo pulled William around, dragging off his pyjamas and had him lay on top of him so they might pleasure each other. They sucked and slurped with pleasure. “Any chance of a pay rise and an extra half-day Mr William, sir?” said Carlo taking a break.
“I was actually thinking of cutting your wages unless you can give good service—at both ends, Carlo,” said William, pulling off the big cock. Carlo went back to work, vowing to write to the Domestic Servants’ Union and William took up his own duties with diligence.
*****
In Blandford Forum Stephen was concentrating very hard on his schoolwork. He had given up the Monday night dancing classes now that Julian Newell had gone up to Oxford and was even spending some weekends at Mrs Leybourne’s rather than going home to Croome. There were already the first signs of spring and that would mean returning to Branksome to play cricket in a month or so and the building of the cottage bathrooms, halted over winter, would begin in late May, but for now he was focussed on his exams.
Tennis lessons with Christopher had also stopped but Christopher still came to him for help with mathematics and Stephen found the tutoring helped his own understanding. Christopher had fallen into the habit of just knocking and opening Stephen’s door, which Stephen fully encouraged, and frequently he found Stephen pleasuring himself on the bed or in the bath, often in unusual and inventive positions which sometimes required Christopher’s help and so Christopher’s question about simultaneous equations often had to wait until the solution to another sort of knotty problem had been elicited—and on one occasion until the pencil could be retrieved.
It was late on a Friday night in the second week of term that Christopher quietly knocked and entered Stephen’s room. Christopher was wearing just a pair of blue silk pyjama bottoms. These had been a much appreciated 18th birthday present from Stephen, for Christopher had extravagantly admired the lemon-coloured pair that Stephen wore in place of a dressing gown when he walked to the bathroom or when sitting at his desk in his room.
Christopher hadn’t been the only admirer of the work of the industrious silkworms for Stephen often had to pass Mrs Leybourne in the passage and the sight of Stephen with his hair fallen over his sleepy eyes and his big, bare chest with his nipples prominent in the cold air caused Mrs Leybourne’s heart to miss a beat. She often found herself awkwardly positioned by a jardinière stand that held a large pottery ewer made by the Luba people of the Congo. This valuable curio, apparently needed frequent inspection by Mrs Leybourne at the hour that Stephen went to take his bath and the narrow pathway necessitated that Stephen should turn sideways to pass her, causing, if she were lucky, Stephen’s half-erect cock, in its mockery of concealment beneath the lovely lemon silk, to brush her side. Always she would say “But aren’t you cold Mr Knight?” to which Stephen would say, “No,” and she would feel the goose flesh of his naked chest for confirmation.
Christopher now stood by Stephen’s bed in the blue silk bottoms; low down on his hips, resting on his half-hard cock and with an inch of soft brown hair showing above the waist, as Stephen instructed him to wear them. Stephen had lightly trimmed his bush and had said, “Let people see what you’ve got, Chris, don’t be ashamed.”
Stephen hadn’t woken right away and Christopher shook him. Stephen sleepily lifted the covers and Christopher obediently dropped the pyjama bottoms and climbed into his bed.
“Are you hard Stephen?” he said, feeling under the covers. “Of course you are. When are you ever not hard?” he said almost laughing. Stephen flung out his right arm and Christopher snuggled next to Stephen.
“Have you spilled today, Chris?” asked Stephen quietly, with his eyes closed.
“Uh huh,” said Chris, “Before I got up this morning.”
“Good boy. Was it a lot?”
“I don’t know. Quite a lot I suppose.”
“I like to know if it’s a lot Chris. You should take note. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes, I thought about being the captive of native girls.”
“Oh yes, I know that one,” said Stephen drowsily.
“Will you tell me a story, Stephen? You do it so well and I don’t want to go to sleep.”
“I’m tired Chris; I’ve been working hard. Why don’t you just go to sleep here?”
“Oh I don’t think I can, Stephen, I feel too randy. It wouldn’t be good for me.”
“Oh, then if it’s a question of your health that’s a different matter,” said Stephen, still sleepy.
“Can I lick you Stephen?”
“You want to lick my cock?”
“No, yes. I mean I want to lick you down there, you know.”
“You want to do that?” said Stephen opening his eyes. You don’t have to, Chris, I’ll tell you a story.” But Chris said he wanted to and before he knew it, Chris had Stephen’s muscular legs pulled up and had his face in Stephen’s clean, soapy crack.
Stephen moaned. “Oh that’s it Chris, just like that!” he cried as Chris tongued away, seemingly not requiring to come up for air.
“Now my cock Chris, please my cock!” Christopher moved up and took the head of Stephen’s uncut cock in his mouth and sucked all the sweet clear juices that were freely flowing.
Just as Stephen was getting all worked up, Christopher stopped. Stephen looked down alarm. “I want you to hold it Stephen and then we can spend together.”
“Well, I see I am getting some of my own medicine back. You’d better stop me from touching myself. Come up here and I’ll tell you a story.”
Chris lay in the crook of Stephen’s arm once again. “There were these two young French school teachers…”
“No Stephen. Please, no French girls.”
“Oh I’m sorry Chris, I should have thought. You’re still very upset aren’t you?” Stephen thought he could see a tear in the dim light. “She was very beautiful, Chris. One of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes she was,” responded Christopher with a little pride, but his voice caught just the same.
“There was this girl, just 16,” began Stephen again, “and she sang in the village choir. It was a small stone church in a village in a northern county. She had blonde hair, which she tied up with blue ribbons. She wore a lots of white dresses—the sort that look like sailors uniforms—and she tied her big straw hat on with a blue ribbon when she ran—she did a lot of running with her dogs.”
“What sort of dogs?”
“Cocker spaniels,” said Stephen.
“Oh,” said Christopher, a little deflated.
“No, they were those black and white ones,”
“Border Collies?” asked Christopher hopefully.
“Yes, that’s them. Well, when she wasn’t running over the moors with the dogs, she was playing tennis on the courts built in the vicarage garden. Her father was the vicar. Did I say that? Well he was. And she was playing tennis with another girl…”
“What does the other girl look like?” interrupted Christopher.
“Rather fat, but jolly. She panted a lot trying to return drop shots.”
“Anyway the doctor’s son had been away at school and he hadn’t seen this girl since she was 11 and back then he didn’t think anything of her and couldn’t even remember her name. Now when he saw her laughing and her attractive breasts moving under her white blouse his heart missed a beat and he crashed his bicycle into a tree. The girls laughed and he went red. He was a tall boy—rather like you Chris—and he had soft, straight brown hair and the girl—or both of them—could see he had honest brown eyes—slightly sad under long lashes.
“He talked easily to the pretty girl—the other one went home because it was tea time—and offered to show her how to do a proper backhand stroke.”
“I’m awfully good at those, aren’t I?” said Christopher.
“You are Chris, but who said this boy is you? Anyway, he was holding her close and she could feel how comforting his manly chest was and how strong were his brown arms, all the while he was smelling her hair which smelt of Pear’s soap. Then he boldly asked her if she was going to the ball at Lady Dogood’s (which was raising money for sports equipment for the Anglican mission in Nyasaland) and she, admiring his boldness, replied she was going, but without a dancing partner as she had to help her father, the vicar, with the tombola and things like that. The boy…”
“Chris?”
“Yes that was his name…well Chris said he would love to help as he was very interested in the welfare of the Pacific Islanders and if he could be of any use to her at all he would be delighted, especially if it involved lifting heavy things for her, and perhaps they would find a spare moment for a dance as he’d been taking lessons with his good friends at school and would love to show her the grizzly bear and bunny hug. She said that would be lovely, but her father must not see them doing those sort of dances as he’d disapprove until she’d talked him round to it—which she often did. Then she told him her name.”
“What was her name, Stephen?”
“I don’t know Chris. She never told me.”
Christopher was quiet for a long time; then he said, “Will that be my life, Stephen? Will I find a girl like that on my own doorstep?”
“It’s likely Chris. A girl like that will love you. You’ll be a doctor and be kind and the people will love you too.”
“Will I be happy?”
“Close your eyes and think about it and tell me.”
There was another long pause. When Stephen looked Christopher was fast asleep. He sighed, thinking of his excitingly wet crack and his unsatisfied cock and would make sure that Christopher finished what he started in the morning.
When Mrs Leybourne was dusting the Luba ewer the next day she was inconvenienced by two very attractive bare-chest boys in low-slung silk pyjama bottoms and, had she not been so intent on the pottery, she might have noticed they emerged from the same bedroom door.
***
The weekly rendezvous in the mews apartment seemed to be working satisfactorily. With the excuse that it was needed for the chauffeur, a firm had extended a wire in a conduit across the yard and the bell would now alert them should they be required during their late night trysts. An alarm clock and a key for Carlo were obtained and Boots was delighted to be lodged in a room of his own in the attic.
“Carlo,” said William as they laid in the narrow bed, not asleep, how can I get a new cook; I want Branksome House to be the finest house in the West End and now tramps at the kitchen door turn up their noses at Mrs Lamp’s muck and ask the way to the Salvation Army.”
“Have you tried an agency?”
“Yes, every blinking agency in London. I’ve walked my feet off. I’ve even put out feelers to see if I can poach Lady Vane-Gillingham’s.”
“Well,” began Carlo slowly, “I just might happen to know of a very good cook, but you won’t like it?”
“Why not? What’s her name?”
“It’s not a she, it’s a he. He’s a first class chef.”
“Well there’s no objection to that. Was he on a boat?”
“Yes, with P & O.”
“Well why isn’t he with them now or why hasn’t some house or hotel snapped him up?”
“Well that the rub, Bill. He’s been in prison.”
“Good God Carlo, do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’ll allow a murderer or thief to work here? I’d sooner eat Mrs Lamp’s trifle.”
“Wait on Bill, he’s none of those things. He’s been inside for three months for bigamy.”
“Bigamy!”
“Yes, seems he married a lass in Liverpool when the one he left in Palermo was still legally his. It’s more carelessness than crime, don’t you think?”
“Well, I’m hardly surprised that you think so. And he’s Italian I suppose.”
“Italian mother, Swiss-French father.”
“Well, I suppose we could see him? Is he in London?”
“Reading. He’s not due for release until Friday.”
*****
William took the train down to Croome to talk to Mr Chilvers. Chilvers noted the soft collar but let it go, thinking that William was of a younger generation with its own ideas. He thought that putting in the telephone would be a good move and indeed may have even saved William a trip. He agreed, now a convert, that the house needed electricity, but said that this idea should be put to his lordship and that it would doubtlessly be very costly.
William also put some other worries to him. He suspected the maid Jenny had been stealing small sums of money, but had no proof. He then turned to the question of the new chef.
Chilver’s reaction was much as his own. Then William found himself defending M. Defaux and pointing out that marriage irregularity might not necessarily be an impediment to being a satisfactory chef. He praised his skills and quoted examples of the fare that he was said to routinely produce in Swiss hotels and then on board great liners, until his recent disgrace.
Chilver’s said: “I’d like to meet M. Dufaux and I think you should tell his lordship—both of them and Mr Knight too—of your decision. Don’t ask them what you should do, but tell them what you recommend they adopt. Do you understand what I mean?”
William nodded and Mr Chilvers made arrangements himself to travel back to London with William.
The interview with the ex-prisoner was conducted at his sister’s place in Camden Town well away from Mrs Lamp, for while her hearing was poor, her other senses were keen enough to know her days were numbered. Dufaux was a large man in his early thirties and it was not difficult to see that women would find him attractive, even if not one at a time. He seemed humbled by his recent experiences but flashes of arrogance, particularly with regard to his trade and his reputation came through now and then and Chilvers found this oddly reassuring, as he believed good chefs needed to have more than plain cook personalities and a reputation for slight temperament would enhance the lustre of Branksome House in the eyes of London society.
“Will you excuse us for a minute M. Defaux?” Asked Chilvers, the chef moved out into the hall and left William and Chilvers in conference.
“What do you think, Mr Chilvers?” asked William when they were alone.
“What do you think William is more to the point.”
William knew this was a test. “Well, sir, I think Defaux is an honest man, generally speaking. He got himself entangled with the law as a result of passion—and of course that may happen again—but that need not affect his cooking or the reputation of our family, unless it’s something truly shocking next time. It perhaps was his hard luck that the divorce from the original Mme Defaux was not forthcoming, but there is no divorce possible in Sicily, I should imagine. His cooking seems to be first class if working at those hotels and on the liners is to be believed. He may be a little hard to work with in the kitchen. However, my biggest fear is that he will complain that there is no one to cook for, and of course the other problem is that employing an ex-convict is slightly irregular.”
“Yes, that is true William. On your first point, however, I might have some news. Lord Alfred, I believe is coming back to England—possibly permanently—and has asked if he might live in London. That would mean there would be Lord Alfred, Mr Stephen when he starts university and Lord Martin on occasion. It is not a big household to be sure, but I have a feeling that the young gentlemen may want to venture into society a bit more.”
“Should we try him on a three months approval then Mr Chilvers, if the family agrees of course?”
“Perhaps six months and you’ll need to dismiss your present cook.”
So it was arranged. Martin and Stephen did not seem to mind the previous residence of M. Defaux and Lord Branksome merely shrugged, possibly knowing that he would never see the London house again. William was nervous, but simply called (loudly) for Mrs Lamp to see him.
“It’s in the cupboard Mr Wilbourne,” she replied, but was steered into his pantry by Marigold.
“Mrs Lamp, I’m afraid I am giving you three weeks’ notice. Your cooking has not been up to the standard that your references indicated.”
“What?” she said, with her floury hand to her ear.
William took a piece of paper and wrote; ‘You’re sacked—three weeks’ and handed it to her.
She read it and simply shrugged. “I’ve had an offer at Lady Troubridge’s. I’ll pack my box. You can send me my money.”
William breathed a sigh. He had come through a difficult trial.
*****
It was with relief that Stephen and Martin returned to Croome for the Easter holidays. Stephen was waiting at the station in the Daimler and drove soberly up the road to the house. Martin was bouncing with impatience and wanted Stephen to open the throttle more, but Stephen was adamant. Then he undid Stephen’s flies and was pleasuring him, making Stephen swerve and nearly collide with Miss Plainsong who was carrying a basket of old clothes for the needy to the vicarage. “Stop it Mala; it’s dangerous,” said Stephen crossing his legs.
They arrived safely however and the motor was returned to Jackman without dilapidations, although he did notice that Mr Knight’s fly buttons were torn. The boys’ reunion was a passionate one and even before Chilvers had closed the door Martin had his face buried in Stephen’s fragrant armpits. Stephen had refrained from bathing and pleasuring himself for two days so that his Mala might enjoy him all the more and soon Stephen had sown two loads of seed deep into his willing lover. Martin had himself spent on the floor, after barely touching his cock, as they had been too engrossed to even make it to the comfort of the great eighteenth century bed. Such was the noise that they made in their congress that Chilvers could clearly hear Martin being thoroughly fucked through the dressing room door, as he hung up Lord Martin’s clothes and it was only with the greatest restraint that he stopped himself from having a very protracted view of the proceedings through the keyhole, from which he had thoughtfully removed the key prior to his egress.
There was still time after tea to visit the Women’s Institute Hall as it was the Owens half-day, although Stephen wondered if Douglas would be there. As they rode their bicycles down, Stephen told Martin of the remarkable change in circumstances of Douglas Owens and ‘Nancy Nott’, the poetess.
However both brothers were there. “I bin sent back t’village to work on t’next book by Mr Forbes, your lor’ship. It be about t’both o’ us grow’n up like in’t village, c’ept Mr Forbes wants t’set it in t’wild west.”
“Why is that Douglas?” asked Martin
“So he can t’sell book t’moving pictures, your lor’ship. Tis big money in t’moving pictures he says.”
“But you’ve never been to America, Doug,” said Stephen.
“Aye thart’s very true, Stephen, but Reuben bin ahelpin’ me by reading Mr Zane Grey, hasn’t thee, Reuben?”
Reuben put down the dumbbells and said it was true. “Alus had to do is alter t’words some and make Pendleton into Dodge City and t’like, Stephen.”
Stephen was very keen to organise a boxing match and Reuben said that farmer Yates’ teenage son, Albert, would be interested and perhaps it could be arranged as soon as Easter Monday.
Sparring practice and weight lifting having finished, Stephen’s muscles were felt and admired and soon the four boys were naked and the aching muscles of their cocks were being stroked.
“Stephen, I don’t think you will be able to spill. You’ve done it twice this afternoon,” said Martin. The three boys closely examined his lordship arse where the evidence was thrillingly visible.
“If I watch you three I’m sure I can,” said Stephen. And so he did; when Martin had spilled along Douglas’s bristly crack and Douglas and Reuben had pleasured each other. Stephen was hard again and his eyes were shining. They invited him over and with their combined efforts the village stud was made to orgasm again and he drenched them all with a big smirk on his face.
The four lads were not the only ones intent on physical activity for the footman William had made his afternoon walk in the direction of the Women’s Institute Hall where he first saw Job and Stephen’s dogs and then Mr Stephen’s and Lord Martin’s bicycles abandoned by the lych gate. Having found the doors locked he went around to a side window which was high but a brief glimpse could be obtained by jumping. Several bounds disclosed to William the unusual sight of four naked boys, with swinging balls and cocks packing up the boxing equipment and the Indian clubs. He found this very curious and determined to put this into the letter he was composing for the Reverend William Carter who was due back just after Easter, having decided to extend his successful tour of the Welsh valleys.
William also followed the bicycles down to the swimming place where he spied his masters swimming naked in the brook and jumping from the rope that hung from the tree. Certainly Mr Stephen was an impressive sight, but it was hardly his fault that God had blessed him so. When the boys lay on the bank on towels William got closer to hear what was being said.
“We beseech thee to behold this thy family,” he heard Mr Stephen saying. He looked around for any sign of the families of either of the naked boys until he realised that it was a prayer being rehearsed—Stephen was to read the collect at Easter. He thought that this piousness would impress Mr Carter, despite their nakedness, although they were all boys together and the sensibilities of no young girls could be offended.
It was not until late on Easter Tuesday that William was able to see the Reverend William Carter. When the maid opened the door it was clear that the house was in turmoil. “You’ve just caught Mr Carter, William,” said the maid who recognised him and indicated the trunk and bags waiting in the hall. “He’s rushing to get the late train.”
“That’s right,” said the clergyman himself as he came down the stairs putting on his overcoat and picking up his stick, “I have received a sudden invitation to address the Women’s Christian Temperance Union in New Jersey and I sail for the United States on the 10th. I’ll be back on the 29th William, I’ll speak to you then.”
“Good luck sir. What is your talk about?”
“Self Abuse and Unearned Capital; I’m widening my scope into political economy, William and I’m anxious to hear an American speaker on the place of dietary roughage and onanism—what did you have for breakfast?”
William found it hard to remember.
“Never mind. Is that envelope for me?” Carter took the envelope and put it in his pocket as the trap arrived to take him to the station. “Goodbye,” he called, “and I’ll see you soon.”
*****
The boxing match was held in the Women’s Institute Hall and there were to be three matches. The Owens boys were to be in one each against Sedge the thatcher’s twin sons and Stephen versus Yates’ son Albert. Douglas and Reuben had won their matches fairly convincingly and Martin was in a place of honour among the appreciative audience who kept coming and going to The Feathers for refreshment and to put on wagers with the publican’s wife.
Stephen came bouncing out in his silk trunks, his jockey’s strap holding him more firmly than on previous occasions, but Martin still got a thrill to see him. Martin was frequently reminded of the photographic portrait he had had made two years ago. Stephen had been rubbed with oil and glistened in the lamplight. The match commenced and Stephen’s physical prowess gave him the edge in the first round. Martin actually found the deep thump and the physical contact when a blow connected with Stephen’s body oddly arousing. Stephen was all virility and aggression and had the better of his opponent in the second.
In the third round Stephen bounced out on his toes, glistening with sweat, his hair falling down over his left eye. Albert collected Stephen with a powerful right hook to the eye. This seemed to spur Stephen on and three blows in succession sent Albert to the floor and the match was over.
Martin noticed that he was hard as a rock in his trousers and covered himself with his overcoat when he went over to Stephen. Reuben and Douglas were treating the cut over Stephen’s eye, which was already swelling up. He was congratulated by all and even Albert came up to see if he was alright. The panting boys touched gloves in a friendly fashion.
Martin threw his coat over Stephen’s damp shoulders and hurried him out to the Daimler where Jackman was waiting to take them up to the house. Stephen attempted to dry himself with a towel when Martin said. “No don’t. I want you sweaty and in your boxing trunks. You’ve made me terribly randy.
“Hurry up Jackman!” He called, “I want to get Mr Knight’s injury seen to.”
Apart from a hurried kiss, Stephen’s black eye was sorely neglected and he was thrown onto the bed where his sweat-soaked body quickly saturated the sheet. Martin didn’t even take off his own clothes at first but attacked Stephen’s body with his tongue and licked the sweat off every part, paying particular attention to his bruised chest and armpits. He plunged his face into the silk trunks where Stephen’s cock was restrained under the strap. Soon the spit soaked trunks were torn off and the jockey’s strap was removed, with Martin inhaling into the pouch deeply.
“Derby, I want you to do to me with your cock what you did to Albert Yates”
With a few drops of oil applied Martin lowered himself onto Stephen’s pole and then Stephen took control and fucked him without mercy, neither of them conscious of how many times they spilled before morning.
When Chilvers brought their morning tea he was aghast at the destruction of the room and the disarray of the baroque bed upon which he saw the naked form of the boxer, blood drying on his forehead, snuggled against Lord Martin, quite possibly with his hard cock still inserted cosily inside his contented lordship.
*****
A large dinner had been arranged up in London to welcome Uncle Alfred back from Rajpipla and to test the skills and suitability of M. Defaux the new chef and late guest of His Majesty. Aunt Maud and Sophia and Antony were to be joined by Lord and Lady Delvees, Miss Foxon, The Plunger and Mr Erskine Childers the author and his American wife, Molly.
William had lain awake at night planning the smooth running of things, constantly reflecting on what Mr Chilvers would do. Lord Alfred had sent word that he would be bringing with him is own servant and the household went into shock at the thought of a Hindu or Sikh batman about the house. “Are we allowed to drink alcohol and eat meat in front of them?” Marigold had asked.
“Will he be able to charm snakes and sleep on a bed of nails” asked Jenny who had not been sacked for lack of evidence.
“Perhaps he’s a Parsee,” ventured M. Defaux.
When Uncle Alfred arrived with his valet they stared. “Where are you from?” asked William, almost rudely.
“Why I’m from ’ammersmith, Mr William. The name’s ’iggins. Halbert ’iggins.” Less like an Indian could not be imagined and Higgins proved to be a bright and cheeky sparrow who seemed fond of his elderly master. With all thoughts of beds of nails and juggernauts banished Higgins was found a bedroom in the attic and Lord Alfred was given a large bedroom that connected to a dressing room. William was going to suggest that a doorway be made to an adjoining bedroom that would make an attractive sitting room or study for his lordship, if his stay was of be of any duration.
Mr Craigth and Miss Foxton were assigned bedrooms. Gertie, Mr Craigth’s man, was placed in a room next to Carlo on the top floor. Lord Martin and Mr Knight would have their usual rooms and the rest of the guests would be returning to their own homes, the Childers living in Chelsea, convenient to the Houses of Parliament where Mr Childers apparently worked.
M. Defaux was prone to being rather irritable when he was in full flight. “I must have silence so I can create!” he declared as he glared at Marigold who was chattering to Higgins. The kitchen stared at him as he clutched his hair with both hands and closed his eyes and then made a series of exclamations. He then threw himself into action.
The menu was a great success. The original idea of Indian dishes was abandoned and instead Soupe Impératrice was followed by Soufflé à la Reine. There was a turbot and a hot paté of quail. Duckling à la Rouennaise was the main course and an iced bombe completed the dinner.
The guests were stunned by the meal and even the English practice of not commenting on the food was ignored. “Where did you get this marvellous chef? Martin,” asked Aunt Maud.
“He was last in the service of His Majesty, I believe, Aunt,” said Martin cryptically.
“Shall we go to the Saville Club tomorrow, Mr Knight, said Mr Childers, having been guided away from talking about Irish Home Rule. Lord Delvees also volunteered to look in a 5 o’clock. Stephen wondered what his reception would be for his face was slightly bruised and his black eye was covered romantically by a black eye patch.
At the other end of the table Mrs Childers was saying how much she and her husband enjoyed their racing yacht, Asgard, and Martin thought of the little second hand skiff that he’d had Joni and Hélias buy for Stephen and what a surprise he hoped it would be.
The party went on to the theatre afterwards. The play was called ‘Pygmalion’ by Mr Shaw. Stephen enjoyed the play but was very subdued afterwards. They were lying in bed when Stephen spoke. “Mala, was that play about me? Am I the squashed cabbage leaf that you have made a gentleman of for your amusement? Will I disgrace myself at the Saville Club tomorrow?
“Stephen that is a dreadful thing to say. I have never laughed at you or had cause to. The point of the play is not Eliza’s humiliation but her love for the professor, isn’t it? Will she go to him or with Freddie who loves her? It’s about the power of love.”
“Yes you’re right, sorry Mala, but it was quite unnerving.”
*****
The bell rang in the mews. “What’s that,” said Gertie?
“It’s your master, Gertie, what does he want at this time of night?” said Carlo.
“She probably wants her shirt links shampooed or something,” said Gertie, crossly, putting on his trousers.
“You’d better hurry across to the house,” said William. “Don’t slam the door and hurry back or Carlo and I might have to start without you.”
*****
The Reverend William Carter was leaning on the life preserver attached to the taffrail in the chilly air of the North Atlantic. He had been listening with approval to a fellow passenger who stood with his 16-year old son and was expounding on the dedicated band of women, with the help of men of good will, who had closed all the saloons in a number of states in the American Republic and what a better place it would be for his young Cyrus to grow up in—“clean of mind and limb.”
Mr Carter looked at the boy and then remembered the letter in his pocket and fished it out. Excusing himself with a pat to the boy’s rump, he read with delight about the naked frolic in the Women’s Institute Hall and the nude bathing and the blasphemy of the rehearsal of the Easter reading. Of the literature being read he could make little: ‘Riders of the Purple Sage’ by Zane Grey and a book of poems by Nancy Nott—yes he’d heard of her and she was a most respectable poetess, he believed, but it was instructive that William had found both books beside the bed in Lord Martin’s chamber and nothing in Mr Knight’s adjacent room.
“Excuse me sir, this deck is reserved for first class passengers,” said a steward. Mr Carter looked up and tried to muster his dignity but the crewmember was unmoved and the clergyman slid away from the rail towards the second-class companionway revealing the life preserver bearing in large black letter the name of the luxury liner.
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