Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013-2014 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 30
Ich Dien
Martin waited nervously in the drawing room of Branksome House in Piccadilly. He paced the floor and absently looked about, not really taking in the subtle improvements that had been made under the guidance of the architect Edwin Lutyens and his lieutenants. The salon was still the pale pink-and-cream ‘double cube’ room his mother knew in the 1890s, but much of the clutter had been removed; there were far fewer pictures and plates on the walls- in fact some spaces were left daringly vacant to emphasise the remaining ‘good’ pieces of furniture and the baroque side tables and tapestry chairs suddenly looked fresh in their new setting under the electric lamps.
Stephen came in from the Saville Club; he was already in his evening clothes. “Do stop pacing, Mala,” he said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “It will be perfectly all right; Mr Churchill will see to that.”
Martin stopped and smiled at him. Just then the bell could be heard downstairs and a few moments later Count Osmochescu was shown in by Glass. Martin at once went into character and warmly greeted the sinister figure while Stephen, a little too heartily, wrung his hand. As if dreading a lull in the conversation Martin prattled on with inanities. Stephen feared he might break down and so took control.
“Count Osmochescu, you might be interested in the small nude over here.” He manoeuvred the Count over to a painting in a gilt frame showing a rather pink young girl who matched the pink hues in the room. “I’m told the painter’s name is Pascali and he is a native of Rumania, although he has a long Greek name in reality.” The Count seemed very pleased and peered at the painting, which was in an academic style and quite understandable. It had been pointed out by The Plunger and Stephen was now glad he had remembered it.
“It is a lovely little thing indeed, Mr Knight-Poole— I mean the work, although I’m sure the Rumanian lass was charming too. Our arts are heavily influenced by our connections to France. Recently, however, our artists have looked to Munich. Small nations such as my own are slow to develop their own creativity and must fight for a position in the world—the art world I mean.”
Stephen moved the Count around the room to look at the Boldini portrait of Martin’s mother that hung over the Renaissance fireplace. He looked sideways and Martin was now more composed and was bringing over a glass of sherry for the Count. He had already taken two for himself.
Next to arrive was The Plunger who came up the stairs with Uncle Alfred. Uncle Alfred was introduced and the Count recalled The Plunger’s face from Cannes. Martin could tell by the subtlest of indications from the Count that Archie and his father were not unknown to him and no doubt he also grasped that the baronet was an influential backer of the present government.
The final guests at this all-male dinner were Mr Churchill and a younger man who was introduced as Mr Vansittart, a colleague from exactly where was not made explicit.
It was with some relief that they all went down to the small dining room with its big oval window that looked back into the hall where it framed a similarly shaped portrait of Martin’s grandmother on the opposite wall—Martin had never realised the trick that the architect had played with this new opening until he sat opposite it.
The conversation revolved around the arts with politics barely mentioned; when the Count tried to introduce it, it was steered away again. Mr Churchill had recently taken up painting and he talked to The Plunger about it. The Plunger boldly suggested that Mr Churchill should not be afraid to ‘attack’ his canvasses with a big brush—‘it is a battle of wills.’ Mr Churchill was much taken with what he had said. Mr Vansittart spoke of painting and poetry and asked if anyone had seen the play ‘The Cap and Bells’. The Plunger was the only person who had and said it was very funny. Mr Churchill spoke up and said: “Vansittart is too modest to tell you, but he wrote that play himself. He is a man of hidden talents—like me!”
Churchill went on to describe a painting he’d done of a storm over Cannes and that turned the conversation to travel and international relations as they attacked the superb roasted squab on wilted cress that had risen up from M. Lefeux’s kitchen in the new lift. Still nothing overt was said; it was all merely pleasant conversation.
Over coffee and cigars (the boys declining) the Count spoke of his home and his monarch, King Carol, who had done much to stabilize the nation, even though ‘liberal opinion’ in England thought that the measures taken against the rebellious peasants in 1907 were too severe.
“The reports were greatly exaggerated. Instability is what we fear the most in my land. We need stability before we can think of making reforms. It is hard for you gentlemen here in peaceful England to understand that. It must be experienced, I’m sorry to say.”
Vansittart and Churchill pressed the Count for more and the Count was at first pleased that the conversation was now more likely to be productive. But as it went on and more brandy was consumed, it suddenly dawned on Count Osmochescu that it was he who was being interrogated, rather than the other way around; the fox went from the hunter to the hunted.
Panic set in as he now scrambled to conceal his movements and his associations while admitting to himself that he had failed to learn any British secrets from the First Sea Lord or the mysterious Mr Vansittart. The Count was looking rather rattled and put down his glass of kummel and said that he must be going. The others also followed suit. Vansittart said, “Let me walk you home, Count Osmochescu.”
The Count was putting on his large overcoat with the help of Glass. “No Mr Vansittart that will not be necessary. And I’m sure I’m not going your way.”
“I think I should accompany you, sir. There might be Suffragettes who would target gentlemen in such a splendid overcoat.”
“No, no, Mr Vansittart, thank you but I will be fine. I’m a supporter of their cause,” the Count replied hurriedly, trying to make a break for the door.
“Where are you staying, Count Osmochescu?” asked Churchill, as he firmly grasped the knob while Glass had interposed himself between the inner and outer doors.
“Oh it’s too far out of the way for you to bother, sir.”
“It’s no bother. Where did you say?”
The Count felt trapped and looked alarmed. “Oh at the Langham.”
“Why Robert is just in Regent’s Park!” said Churchill.
“Yes.” said Vansittart, “ and it will be pleasant to continue our chat,” he said taking Count Osmochescu’s arm and practically propelling him into Piccadilly and calling over his shoulder, “Goodnight, Lord Branksome, Mr Knight-Poole.”
Churchill lingered and The Plunger looked puzzled. “Vansittart will know what to do with him gentlemen. Please don’t look alarmed Mr Craigth. We just need to keep an eye on this foreign gentleman; we Americans must not be caught napping in world affairs.”
“What shall I do with these, milord?” asked Glass. In his palm were six shells from a revolver. “Count Osmochescu seems to have forgotten them.”
*****
Two weeks later Vansittart joined Stephen for a drink in the Saville Club.
“Nice club you have here, Knight-Poole. Just the sort of place for a young chap like you.”
“What can you tell me about Count Osmochescu, Mr Vansittart?”
“Well, we convinced him that it might be in his best interests if he works for us—although he will be on a very short leash. King Carol favours an alliance with his cousin, the German Emperor, although his people would prefer he was closer to their traditional allies, the French. You heard what the Count said about Rumanian culture. The King is old and his nephew Ferdinand, the heir presumptive, is not of his mind. They also want to borrow five million pounds. As you can see, it is a delicate situation. We would like Rumania to be closer to France. We will not give them a penny if they are in bed with the Germans.”
“Will we be alright?”
“Oh yes, he doesn’t suspect you or Lord Branksome. I think he was hoping to pressure us, but we put the screws on him first. We’ve sent him back to Rumania. You probably won’t see him again. Are you interested in helping your country, Mr Knight-Poole—I mean after you come down from university.”
“Not in that way, Mr Vansittart. I hope to be an engineer or maybe help manage my adopted family’s estate in Dorset.”
Vansittart nodded, but put Stephen down as a cool head in a crisis.
Stephen enjoyed having Charles Fortune and Jack Thayer to the club and for excellent dinners at Branksome House, especially now that, save for the index, Thayer’s thesis was finished and ready for submission.
“Mr Glass,” said Stephen when they were all dining, “You and Carlo were so marvellous in securing M. Lefeaux to cook for us, would you know of any woman who might work for Mr Thayer and Mr Fortune.
“We’re after a cook/housekeeper, Glass. We also have two gentlemen lodgers,” said Fortune.
“I might try asking Higgins, sir. He was speaking of someone just the other day.”
The following evening Higgins approached Stephen when he came in from the Club.
“I know a Mrs Cribb, sir, she’s is a widder woman. Her son was in the navy, sir and was ’er sole support. The police caught him in a trap. Him and a shipmate were with a couple o’ gents in a certain house in the Tottenham Court Road. The police raided it and wanted to ‘rent’ the gents. Do you know wot I mean, Mr Stephen?”
“You mean to blackmail them?”
“That’s right. They needed the sailors to talk like, and said nuffin would happen to ’em if they said what went on there. The sailors refused and the coppers did ’em for importuning; got six months in the ’scrubs they did. His ol’ mum is heartbroken, sir; she’s right down on the police and the courts and that’s the truth.”
“Do you think she would suit Mr Thayer? Would she be…discreet?”
“I’ll go an’ ’ave a word wif her, sir and we’ll see like.”
Thus Mrs Cribb came to live at the little house off the Fulham Road. Her old rooms were sublet so her son would still have somewhere to come back to when he left prison as his Navy career was at an end. With the aid of Higgins and Carlo the chaotic house was put to rights and Mrs Cribb was installed. Stephen then went to see Sir Danvers Smith the prominent KC and asked him if there was any chance of young Cribb being allowed back into the Royal Navy after he had served his sentence.
“It is not my area of expertise, you must understand, Stephen. I will put you on to Brown-Jones who has done some criminal work for the services, but I should imagine it depends on the severity of the sentence. Leave me the details and I’ll pass them on,” he said and Stephen looked forward to telling Mrs Cribb what he had done when he was next at Fortune and Thayer’s home.
*****
The cricket season would be soon upon them and Martin was just talking to The Plunger about the school’s prospects in the annual match against Blandford Forum when his thoughts turned to Stephen. He looked up at the mantelpiece in his bedroom to where a part of Stephen stood in effigy—or rather usually stood—for the space when he looked was conspicuously bare and only the lampshade which had lately crowned it was apparent. “Have you seen ‘Stephen,’ Plunger?
“No I haven’t,” said the Hon. Archie Craigth who also looked up at the mantelpiece in puzzlement. At that moment Spong entered the room with Martin’s boots and his own Latin homework. Two pairs of eyes fastened on to him.
“Spong where’s my…my sculpture?” demanded Martin.
Spong denied any knowledge but looked very guilty.
The Plunger picked him up. He squealed and wriggled. The Plunger turned him upside down and shook him. The dreadful and disgusting contents of Spong’s pockets rained onto the floor. There was a quantity of money. The Plunger shook him like a terrier with a rat and there was a bump; ‘Stephen’ fell from beneath his jacket and landed on the hearthrug.
The Plunger boxed his ears and Spong began to blub. Martin picked up the phallus and examined it.
“Look Plunger the paint is worn off in several places and I think there are teeth marks here. Spong, what have you been up to? Stop that blubbing!”
Spong wouldn’t talk so The Plunger pinched him and made him squeal. He tried to make a run for the door, but Martin tripped him up. Escape was useless.
At last, under brutal cross-examination, the wretch talked: “The boys in my house have been using it. I’m sorry Mr Poole; I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well I do mind. It’s my property and it’s personal, Spong, you little sneak. After all I’ve done for you…” Spong started to cry again. “…and all this money; explain that!”
“There’s… so many… wants… to use it,” he said between sniffs, “that I charge them sixpence a go. I’d have made more if you’d had a second one.”
“This is terrible, Plunger!” said Martin, turning to him, “Stephen has been prostituted out among the first form for sixpence a turn.”
“Yes, he is really worth a bob.”
“That’s not the point, Plunger. Spong, this isn’t meant for small boys. This is for grown-ups.”
“Pshaw!” said Spong. “You should see some of ‘em sit on it—specially when it’s greased up with Spong’s Soothing Salve (1/6 in the larger size. Available everywhere). Right up ’em and cryin’ out for more—especially Fothering-Thomas minor.”
“You mean Crumble’s little brother?” said The Plunger aghast.
“That’s the chap,” said Spong boldly, now fully recovered. “We have to be careful we don’t leave a chair turned upside down or else he’ll sit on it.”
“Get out Spong! You can do your own homework tonight. And leave me five shillings; I’ll have to get it repaired in Soho, Plunger,” said Martin.
*****
It was just before Easter that a series of letters resulted in Mrs Chadwick’s appearance on the steps of Branksome House. Martin had pressed her to come with a combination of inducements including the final one of a ticket on the Calais-Méditerranée Express.
She was quite overcome by the magnificence of Branksome House, Stephen realising that she had, in her mind’s eye, always associated him and Martin with the little house in Antibes with its sparse furnishing and absence of servants; Branksome House was in many ways the reverse.
Mrs Chadwick spent several days sight-seeing, never tiring of remarking how much London had changed—nearly always to its detriment—as she went about with Uncle Alfred and Stephen himself when he could spare the time. Stephen introduced her to Aunt Maud and this gave Mrs Chadwick a welcome entrée into the feminine world of ‘morning calls’— always in the afternoon—and invitations to luncheons and teas rained upon her.
When Martin came up from school, the three of them went to King’s Bench Walk to see Sir Danvers Smith. “I think the trust should be set up in England and the investments and dividends should be in sterling,” said Sir Danvers from across his impressive desk. “I believe that the franc is an inherently less stable currency. The dividends will of course vary and tax will have to be paid unless we can register as a charity, which I am working on.” He put on a pair of pince-nez and read from some papers before him. “There must be an annual meeting of trustees and proper accounts must be kept. There is a firm of British accountants working in Nice; do you think that would be convenient for you and Mr Podberry, Mrs Chadwick?” She did. “And sums of less than 20 pounds will not have to have the prior approval of the full board. It will not be necessary to spend the income in every year—you may make a ‘nest egg’ as they say, Mrs Chadwick. The other directors will be his lordship, Mr Knight-Poole and myself—but only three signatures will be required in most circumstances.”
Mrs Chadwick was calm and collected. Charitable works were not new to her and Martin was impressed as she took notes as Sir Danvers spoke. She asked sensible questions as she sipped from the small glass of sherry that Sir Danvers had poured for her. Thus the ‘Croome Trust Fund for the Betterment of Antibes’ was launched and Mrs Chadwick was a happy woman.
As they were leaving, Sir Danvers took Stephen aside and said: “I think I can get young able seaman Cribb out of prison. The two policemen have been caught out in another blackmail attempt and they have admitted that they have entrapped Cribbs. Don’t tell his mother until I’m certain.”
*****
In the estate office Martin poured over a roll of plans with Blake, his assistant Treeby and Mr Stone the building contractor. “We will just start off with one pair off cottages as we did with the bathrooms,” said Martin.
“I think we could build them for less than three hundred pounds for the pair—and probably a lot less were we to do half a dozen,” said Stone.
“Mr Hepworth has made the front doors somewhat wider than usual and both cottages can share this little front porch with its pair of seats built between the posts, do you see?”
“I see they are to be built on a concrete floor your lordship,” said Treeby.
“Yes, and no steps or stairs; old people can’t cope with them.”
The plans were for tiny cottages for the aged on the estate. They were to be built on the grounds of the infirmary in Pendleton and the general architectural style was in harmony with the parent institution with its grey pebble dash walls and steep pan-tiled gables. Each dwelling was to have only two rooms: a small bedroom and a larger kitchen. There was a bathroom arrangement along ‘Croome’ lines at the rear.
“I’ve already decided who will be the first residents: Mr and Mrs Rogers said their existing cottage was getting too much for them and they had nowhere to go since their married daughter has gone to Australia. Then there’s old Cribbins who is struggling in his cottage since his wife died. If these cottages are a success then we can build some more in 1915 perhaps.”
“Your lordship,” said Blake, “I have been getting many inquiries from outsiders as to the availability of cottages to let on the estate. I even had a request for the leasehold on land for building new villas. We’ll have no trouble finding new tenants.”
“Why is that, Blake? Why do people want to live here all of a sudden?
“Well, one inquiry was from a well-to-do couple from Birmingham who wanted a weekend retreat in the country—they keep a motor car—but the others came from people who work in Wareham and could find no accommodation there. They had heard that the ’bus would run after Easter’.”
Mrs Chadwick didn’t know how to begin to describe her own feelings upon seeing Croome, as she put pen to paper for the benefit of Mr Podberry, the vicar of the English church in Nice, however she did manage to spend two pleasant days exploring the house and its park. As there was no lady’s maid in the house, Prims, the seamstress, had been pressed into service and Mrs Chadwick enjoyed having a captive audience—so to speak—upon whom to lecture on the mysteries of household management.
Martin took her on a tour of a new room—a large bed sitting room not far from his own bedroom. Here Martin had all the previous furnishings and the paper removed. The walls were now a shade of ivory and on the walls were hung in simple frames a large selection of his late brother’s paintings—the ones done in the happier moments—with the others stored away in a press for Martin to look at in private. The vivid colours—in particular the blues and greens that William had favoured—made a striking assemblage. Martin himself liked to sit here alone and think of William now and then.
Mrs Chadwick was having afternoon tea in the red drawing room with Martin, surreptitiously turning over her saucer so that she might divine the potter (it was Royal Worcester) when she spoke: “I was down in the village today and this funny little women—grey hair and rather mannish-looking spoke to me as bold as brass and asked me if I’d come inside. She’d just thrust her head out of a tumble down cottage like a rabbit. Who knows what a place like that might be like on inside—probably quite unsanitary. I’d never seen her before and didn’t know her from Adam so naturally I said I couldn’t. Who was she, your lordship?”
Martin looked very annoyed and could have slapped her. “That lady is Miss Tadrew, Mrs Chadwick,” he said tartly. “She is the lady who helped raise Mr Stephen and he had especially asked her to be nice to you as you were a visitor who had no friends in England.”
“Oh,” replied Mrs Chadwick. She went red and then started to cry. “Oh, your lordship. That was terrible of me. Please forgive me and please don’t tell Mr Stephen. She must be a remarkable woman in that case.”
“It’s hardly for me to forgive your rudeness, Mrs Chadwick.”
“You’re right, of course, your lordship.” She rose and headed out into the picking garden in order to take some flowers to Miss Tadrew, all the while composing a little speech of contrition in the hope that Miss Tadrew had a forgiving nature, which she did.
The ill-odour with in which Mrs Chadwick was held by Martin lingered over Easter when she was denied the pleasure of poking the fire in the little grate at the end of the Poole’s family pew, but by Tuesday she was rehabilitated and was actually invited to cut the ribbon which launched the motor omnibus service.
A small crowd had gathered by The Feathers where the scant timetable was displayed in a frame. The omnibus was made in Glasgow and a lorry chassis had been given a body that contained a series of rather utilitarian benches under a canvas top for inclement weather, which was held down by struts. The wheels, with their hard rubber tyres, were painted red while the body was green picked out with gold details. In large letters on the sides it read: ‘Branksome-Wareham’ and in smaller letters beneath the Poole coronet: ‘The Branksome-le-Bourne Motor Omnibus Co. Pty Ltd.’
Martin stood on an empty whiskey box and adapted his usual speech to the occasion and explained that the vehicle would run hourly between the two destinations via Pendleton and that there was every prospect that a second would be purchased which would enable a half hourly service, except on Sundays when the second omnibus would be available for hire for excursions.
The ribbon was cut to polite applause and Martin climbed aboard and waved the driver aside and took the wheel himself. Stephen turned the crank and the machine shuddered to life. The gears and clutch were somewhat mysterious to Martin as they were nothing like the four on his Rolls Royce, but he didn’t want to let the side down so he selected one that felt promising and promptly the ’bus reversed into the wall of The Feathers with a nasty sound made by crumpling metal. Fortunately there was little damage done to the vital parts of the ’bus and Mr Destrombe’s cut leg wasn’t bleeding too profusely. Martin selected another gear and, fortunate in his choice, the bus leapt forward crushing the box that Martin had lately adapted as a dais. It was not worth stopping again for this, as the timetable had to be adhered to, and so the ’bus loaded with dignitaries and women with shopping baskets set off and rumbled slowly down the rural road in the direction of Pendleton.
“I think we should have stopped for Dr Markby, your lordship,” said the unemployed driver, “He was waving.”
“Oh is that why. I thought he was just pleased to see me. Oh well, we’ll pick him up on the way back. I say, does this ’bus go any faster?”
The sedate pace of the conveyance soon became boring and Martin made an unscheduled halt and handed control back to the driver. He joined the passengers on the benches behind- the gentlemen standing when he came on-board—and the girl who had been sitting next to Stephen stood so that his lordship might have a seat.
“Isn’t this splendid, Derby?” shouted Martin over the noise. “I asked Mrs McGrath in the village shop if she thought that the ’bus would take customers away from her but she said that patronage might increase—especially when the school is built. She is going to have the ’bus bring her supplies over from Wareham. I hadn’t thought of freight.”
Stephen smiled at him, enjoying his excitement, and would have liked to have held his hand. They finally pulled into Wareham where there was a reception party headed by Mr Tatchell. They posed together for the newspaper photographer. The ’bus waited ten minutes and then set off on the return voyage which was accomplished without incident.
Easter slipped away and Martin returned for his last term at school. Stephen went back to London and to his studies. Mrs Chadwick reluctantly went back to Antibes and to her charitable trust, saying she hoped to see the boys in August.
Martin’s life seemed to be full of lasts. It was his last season at lacrosse; he would miss the physical contact on and off the field and already Blenkinsop of the Upper Fourth, who would replace him as captain, had personally bonded with his new team who Martin thought had been selected for their virility and big cocks, often at the expense of any knowledge of the game. Still, Martin reflected, it was not his concern any more. The Plunger came to his room most nights and Spong enjoyed tormenting him, on one occasion The Plunger finding with horror Spong in the bed next to him when he woke up. He boxed his ears when Spong facetiously asked if The Plunger was going to give him a morning kiss and make his breakfast.
Martin ploughed on with his studies but took two days off to go up to Cambridge where he saw Donald Selby-Keam in his set of rooms in Ivy Court. He was terribly excited and thought that Pembroke College and Cambridge itself were dream-like in their calm beauty. Donald took him to the Backs where punts bearing languid young men glided by. The rowing club proved livelier and Martin was practically convinced that this sport could replace lacrosse in his affection; especially after he had been introduced to some of the fellows in sleeveless vests who were marching to the water with a shell held high over their heads as their cocks bulged attractively in their canvas trousers.
Donald showed him the statue of Pitt the Younger and Martin reflected that while he was just 18, Pitt was not much older when he was Prime Minister of the whole nation and engaged in a great war. He found this hard to imagine.
His interview with the Master went well and he spoke of his interest in Philosophy, but he thought afterwards being the Marquess of Branksome was probably no great hindrance in his application to come up to Pembroke.
*****
His last exam was over and Martin came away from school for the last time. Almost at once he was busy with the simultaneous visits of the Prince of Wales and the Maharaja of Rajpipla. Stephen joined him for a planning conference with Chilvers. “The Maharaja is coming on the 14h of June and is staying until he goes to Ascot where his horse is racing—that is on the 18th. The Prince of Wales is coming on the 16th and will be leaving on the 18th as well,” said Martin.
“I propose that the Maharaja be asked to turn the first sod of the new gymnasium before the Prince arrives and, of course the Prince will lay the foundation stone of the school. They’ve already finished the foundations and have several rows of bricks lain.”
“We will need to settle on the date sir. The monumental mason in Wareham needs to add it to the stone he has prepared,” said Chilvers looking over their shoulders at the piece of paper with the dates on them.
“We’ll have a shoot on the morning of the 17th and do the school in the afternoon. Then there will be a ball in the evening. I want it to be a big affair, Chilvers—equal to the one we had when his parents came in 1897. Should we get a firm of caterers in?”
“Oh please your lordship!” said Chilvers, terribly wounded. “We can handle a royal visit quite satisfactorily ourselves—especially if we bring down extra staff from London.”
“I’m sorry Chilvers. I forgot myself. I have every confidence in you. Which rooms to you propose for out distinguished visitors?”
“Well, your lordship,” said Chilvers taking out a plan with pencilled annotations. “I thought the Prince could have the Chinese Room and his equerry could have the room next to that. There will also be his valet, his secretary and a detective who could have the two green bedroom rooms beyond the bathroom. The Maharaja could have the Waterloo room, unless you want that for Mr Thayer and Mr Fortune sir who I propose to put in your father’s room. He will also bring a valet and his own cook. Mr Tennant and Mr Selby-Keam might like to have Mr Stephen’s room. Your family will occupy their usual rooms. We could open the rooms in the south wing if we had to, but the rooms there have no electric light and are rather shabby sir.”
“That sounds marvellous, Chilvers, do you envisage any problems with so many cooks as I understand M. Lefaux will also come down.”
“We will wait and see what our broth is like, your lordship.”
The Maharaja arrived with Uncle Alfred and was brought up to the house in the Rolls Royce. His Indian valet, cook and a pile of luggage followed in the trap. The reception party was waiting on the steps and the footmen bowed and the maids bobbed. Stephen and Martin both bowed and shook hands. “How do you do, your Royal Highness? Welcome to Croome,” said Martin, thinking he sounded just like his father.
The Maharaja said something and gave a shy smile. While Stephen was disappointed that he was dressed in an ordinary if well cut suit and not in oriental splendour, the ruler of Rajpipla nevertheless presented an exotic sight. He was quite short and his body was terribly thin. Martin had always imagined these princes were fat like the illustrations in his children’s book ‘Ali Baba.’ His skin was smooth and rather pale for an Indian and his square face was bisected by a large straight nose that looked as if it belonged on another, altogether larger person. His lips were pursed in a slightly haughty way, but this impression was undercut by his black eyes, rimmed with kohl, which were almond-shaped and spoke of shyness. Despite his efforts in the moustache department, his hands and features were decidedly feminine.
As Martin had predicted to himself, afternoon tea saw the visitor relax. Uncle Alfred did most of the talking with his Highness saying at one point, “Lord Alfred knows more about my state than I do myself, Lord Branksome. I spent most of my childhood at school here in England.”
“I believe you have a house and racing stables near Windsor.”
“Yes, that is so. I would very much like you to come and visit,” he said and Uncle Alfred prompted him to tell the story of his horse’s victory in the Derby.
The Prince spoke up more when sport was mentioned. Although not athletic himself, he was very keen on sportsmanship—something he saw as a gift from Britain to her Indian Empire. More and more he spoke to Stephen about cricket and he asked lots of questions about his new mare, Aine.
After tea the three of them walked down to the village with the dogs. The Prince took an interest in the cottage improvements and was shocked at how little feudal power Martin enjoyed and that he was not able to construct his own prison or compel the villagers to labour on repairing the road.
They inspected the school site where the old workhouse once stood. They next went to the vacant strip of land where the gymnasium would one day rise. Stephen promised to show him the plans and talked about the boxing ring.
“Do you box Mr Knight-Poole?” Stephen said he did and demonstrated a few moves with Martin, causing the Maharaja to laugh for the first time.
Stephen bounded off at one point to wrestle with the dogs. The Maharaja used his absence to speak confidentially to Martin. “Excuse me for asking, Lord Branksome, but would it be a fair thing to be asking if Mr Knight-Poole is your husband?”
Martin was shocked. “Why do you ask that your Highness?”
“It is just that you are seeming to be very close and I can tell from your eyes. Please forgive me if I have been making an impertinence.” Despite this disclaimer, the prince had an amused look in his own eyes and his voice betrayed his excitement. He continued: “Perhaps your uncle has told you that I must marry. Already my family has found me a second cousin to be my bride, although she is only 12 at this point. I do not want a wife, but I must have one. Perhaps were are two people in the same boat?”
Martin did not reply to that but said, “Yes, he is my lover.” It felt good to admit it.
“Then you are one lucky fellow.”
They returned to the house, still talking about sport. Martin went to his room and brought down the photograph taken in the studio in Bournemouth showing Stephen dressed as a boxer. The Maharaja was impressed and invited Martin to call him Vijay.
That night a splendid dinner was held in the Gothic dining room. There were a dozen guests from the neighbourhood. The Maharaja’s chef had prepared an Indian banquet of many courses, none of which contained meat. The surprise at the end was a large spotted dick.
“But English puddings are hardly traditional Indian fare, your Highness,” said Martin.
“Ah, but I became fond of English food when I was at my school and my chef has skilfully substituted gee for suet. This is the sort of pudding that has built our British Empire, Lord Branksome.”
That night Martin was not particularly surprised when a knock at the door revealed Vijay in a very British checked dressing gown. Stephen was a little shocked, however, and Martin told him that Vijay was troubled.
Vijay sat on their bed and talked about how he was not attracted to women and of his passionate embraces with some of the boys at his school. He spoke of an uncle who was really the head of the Gohil family and how he had hoped that he could adopt a son rather than marry, but his uncle was furious and said it would be the end of the dynasty. “We go back to the sixth century, Stephen. I cannot do that to my family. I will dishonour them.”
Stephen admitted it was a problem, but added that he thought by being a good ruler to his people he was bringing honour to his line. “No, in India that counts for little. Life in this sphere is not as important as the next life. You have lived before, Stephen. I can tell.”
Stephen went red and didn’t know how to respond.
“Martin, may I uncover your lover? I would like to see for myself what he is like.”
“I can tell you what he’s like: he’s very nice indeed, Vijay. Do you mind Stephen?” Stephen was surprised that anyone would think he’d mind and Vijay gently pulled back the blankets to disclose Stephen’s manly form and hardening cock. He did the same to Martin.
Using his lips and hands and various parts of his body, including his toes, he slowly pleasured Stephen, bringing him to the edge many times and then transferring his ministrations to obscure places like Stephen’s temples, the small of his back, his fingertips, his meaty buttocks and the soles of his feet. When some hours had passed and Stephen was begging for release he was at last permitted and there was a great outpouring of his seed, like the Ganges in flood. Martin and Vijay scooped it up and fed it to Stephen.
“That was incredible, Vijay. I suppose you learnt that from those famous Hindu texts—what are they called?” said Stephen.
“Oh no, not at all. I learnt them from the prefects at my boarding school in Berkshire,” replied the Maharaja of Rajpipla.
The next day was spent riding. Vijay liked to spend hours in the stables and he got on well with Blake. “Blake is in partnership with me, Vijay, breeding horses for sale. I use his skills and labour. He uses my land and capital. We have already sold some to the Great Western Railway,” explained Martin.
Soon it was time for the commencement of the new gymnasium. A small crowd had gathered. A reporter from the local newspaper was there with a photographer. Stephen’s plans, knocked into shape by Hepworth the architect, were for a hall modelled on a tithe barn with an office for a manager, storerooms, lockers and showers. There was to be a mezzanine with room for a billiard table and from where visitors could watch boxing matches when a ring was assembled down below. The climbing ropes and roman rings could be raised to the oak trusses in the ceiling and the lower portion of the walls were of face brickwork and would thus be impervious to damage. “The Boys Scouts already asked if they could use it,” said Stephen, “and The YMCA in Birmingham is looking for more places where American basketball can be played.
The Maharaja was very enthusiastic and spoke at length about the British love of sport, all the time looking at Stephen. Then, just before he plunged the silver-plated spade into the soil, he announced that he would be providing all the equipment for the new gymnasium. There was an enthusiastic round of applause and the shovel was emphatically driven in.
That night Martin and Stephen expressed their gratitude to Vijay. Stephen asked him if he could pleasure Martin the same way as he had been. Vijay did so as Stephen assisted with his eyes shining as he watched Martin in paroxysms of enjoyment. It was important to get some sleep as the Prince of Wales was coming the next day, so Vijay returned to his room when he saw that Martin had regained consciousness.
The Prince and his party arrived in the afternoon. Martin and Stephen had already been to the kitchens and had addressed the servants on the importance of the occasion, which was hardly necessary, and Stephen added how pleased the Maharaja had been during his stay and thanked them all. Chilvers must have been nervous, but he didn’t show it and went about solving problems and putting out spot fires.
The Prince looked much younger than in his photographs. He was 19, nearly 20, but looked only about 15 years of age when compared to Martin and Stephen who were no older. However he wasn’t shy and had a winning smile on his wan, thin face and he set out to make himself agreeable, which pleased Martin. At tea he commented on how magnificent the countryside was in Dorset and ventured that he might like to ride over it as it would still be light for many hours. The Maharaja enthusiastically agreed as did The Plunger who had arrived just before his Royal Highness and was anxious to wear his riding clothes.
Martin stayed behind to welcome those guests who were coming for tomorrow’s shoot and for the great dinner and ball to follow. He was pleased to see Christopher and Donald. Fortune and Thayer arrived on the same train as Aunt Maud’s family. Sir Danvers Smith KC and Lady Smith arrived with Mr and Mrs Sachs on a later one.
He went down into the kitchens again. The Maharaja’s chef was preparing a vegetarian dinner for his master while M. Lefaux was shouting at the cook about how to make a proper roux. It did not seem a major incident. He then went to find Blake to see that they had sufficient beaters for the heath land where the shoot was to take place.
The dinner went off very well with its 11 courses being served by Chilvers and the six footmen and all was crowned by Roast Sirloin of Beef Forestière. The Prince was a good conversationalist and by no means talked only about himself, but he did mention that he was happiest at Dartmouth Naval College and least happy at Oxford. There was billiards, music and cards after dinner and people seemed to go off to their own bedrooms, except for The Plunger, Donald and Christopher who climbed into bed with Martin and Stephen to hold a post mortem on the evening before they too removed to their own quarters.
*****
The shoot the next day was only moderately successful—the date being several weeks too early—however there was a respectable bag of red grouse and the hunt luncheon that was brought out to them was excellent. Martin was pleased that no one was shot.
“Sir, I am proposing that his lordship create a golf links up on that land,” said Stephen, “with a hotel for visitors. As you play, may I ask if you think it would be suitable?”
“Indeed Mr Knight-Poole,” replied the Prince of Wales. “It will be a splendid spot with a view of the sea as well. I hope you will invite me sir, when it is created. I find that I’m quite addicted to golf but it is the most bloody frustrating of games as I’m sure you’ve heard before. Good luck with that old chap.”
At three o’clock the Rolls Royce took the official party down to the school site where they were joined by the Tatchells and the local members of Parliament who were on the LEA board. The Prince, wearing a formal frockcoat and stiff collar, said a few words, few noticing that he referred to ‘the hospital’ rather than to ‘the school’ and some flourishes with the trowel completed his duties. However there was a very large crowd assembled to glimpse their prince and it took some minutes to move to the Women’s Institute hall which had been suitably decorated for the occasion. The Prince refused tea and he quickly became bored and departed in the motor for Croome. Martin felt that he must remain to uphold the notion of noblesse oblige and so he moved about the room and chatted on to the Destrombes, Miss Tadrew, the Tatchells and the other humble people from his estate, explaining that the Prince was tired after the early morning shooting.
*****
The ball was the most spectacular that anyone could remember ever having been held at Croome. The whole elm drive was lined with Chinese lanterns in the trees, some of which would occasionally catch fire and fall to earth like meteors. Flaming torches supplemented the electric lamps flanking the front door where a red carpet had been unrolled.
By 10 o’clock the drive was jammed with carriages and motors while some came on foot. All the dignitaries of the county were invited, including Martin’s neighbours Sir Bernard Bonnington, Mr Hore-Grimsby and Viscount Delvees and their wives and daughters.
The ballroom was already filled to capacity when the official party made their entry. The crowd parted. The Prince enjoyed precedence and Martin, as host, followed him and introduced him to the ladies and gentlemen who curtseyed and bowed to the boyish figure. Next came Vijay, the Maharaja of Rajpipla and Knight Commander of the Star of India in the most splendid gold silk tunic with a scarlet turban with a while plume and a red-and-gold stole. Although he was a prince, he ranked lower than a Marquess in a normal tailcoat. He was escorted by Stephen and was introduced to those people who had missed out on the Prince of Wales. Next came Aunt Maud and Uncle Alfred who nobody was anxious to meet at all and the tail of the official party merged into the general throng as the Red Sea closed over. The orchestra struck up the National Anthem and everybody froze. Then they swung into a waltz and everybody relaxed again. The Prince asked Sophia Vane-Gillingham for the first dance and Prudence Plainsong was thrust in the direction of Vijay. Martin partnered his Aunt. Presently others joined in and Stephen was seen carefully waltzing with Miss Tadrew. The ball had begun.
Prudence Plainsong, unimpressed with Indian royalty, had made sure that she had secured Stephen for two dances. The first one was crucially before supper was served and thus Stephen took her in and provided her with refreshments. Suddenly there was an explosion, however the guests quickly realised that it was only fireworks and not a political outrage. They surged out through the French doors onto the terrace where they oohed and aahed as the plumes of pure phosphorescent colours were followed a split second later by the deep booms of the explosions. There was a round of applause when the last rocket fell to earth.
Just as they were about to return inside there was a loud hiss and a design in Roman candles began to form on a trellis somewhere out in the blackness of the garden. It proved to be the Prince of Wales’ ostrich feathers and the words, Ich dien. There was more applause and Stephen looked over to where the Prince was standing with Martin. Martin was talking to him and the Prince was smiling, transfixed eerily by the white light.
The dancing resumed and as he was moving about the very crowded floor, Stephen kept glimpsing a buxom young lady with an elaborate tonsorial creation on her head, topped with a comb and a Spanish mantilla. She had a fine figure and her dress was a slender creation in panels of dark blue silk under net with a short train. She smiled at Stephen and he began to think he must have met her in London, but then he saw her on the arm of Bolden, a yeoman farmer whose property was not far from Croome. She was then conspicuous because she was dancing with the young Prince who was no taller than she was, but seemed to be very intent on charming her. She was perhaps not a very elegant dancer in comparison with the Prince, but the floor was so crowded it was unfair to judge, and in any case the Prince did not seem to mind any awkwardness on her part. Miss Plainsong, annoyed at Stephen’s un-gentlemanly lack of attention in her direction said she believed that she was Bolden’s married sister and that she had a similar dress herself—only nicer.
Stephen then thought he had better talk to Vijay who had shyly danced with two ladies but did not seem very keen and was now alone by a column. He thought cricket would be a safe topic to fall back on. However he had only just begun on the possible weakness of the Australian side if Trumper was not playing in the next Test when a voice behind him said “Hello Stephen.”
Stephen excused himself and turned. It was the dark-haired beauty that had been dancing with his Royal Highness. Stephen smiled brilliantly then it rapidly faded and was replaced by a look of incredulity.
“Elsie, is that you?”
“Yes it is,” whispered Elsie. “It’s a wig.”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Now don’t be cross Stephen. I wanted so much to come and Bolden promised to take me as his ‘sister.’”
“But you’re dancing with the Prince of Wales!”
“Well I can’t help it if he likes married ladies and I can’t help it if he can’t take his eyes off these,” she hissed, giving her ample bosoms a shake.”
“Elsie!”
“Don’t fuss Stephen. Do you think I look nice?”
“More than nice. You’re the most beautiful woman here. Did Bolden buy you that dress?”
“Well I couldn’t afford it on a barmaid’s pay, but no, it’s stolen— or rather borrowed. His niece is Prudence Plainsong’s maid; she nicked it, but it will be back in the morning—she’ll make some excuse if needed. I’m having such a lovely time I don’t want to think about tomorrow. Will you dance with me?”
Stephen was still in shock but asked her to dance after he introduced her to the Maharaja who looked as if he’d shrink into the ground when confronted with Elsie’s aggressive breasts at eye level.
They made an attractive couple, although Stephen’s dancing was much the better than her more energetic gyrations but Elsie was able to do theatrical things with her train looped over her wrist and she also had a large fan to swish as a distraction. “Don’t you think his hair looks like his lordship’s,” she whispered to Stephen as they swept past the Prince. It did, Stephen thought, but Martin was altogether more handsome, even though he might have shared the prince’s German heritage.
The dance came to an end and Elsie excused herself as she found she was engaged for the next dance with his Royal Highness. The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of colour and music. At about half past three the Prince and his entourage departed for their rooms and the rest of the guests now felt free to leave as carriage after carriage rolled up to the front door and the footmen scurried about trying to match up conveyances with their owners. The orchestra was just packing up when Stephen and Martin returned from the hall and surveyed the debris of streamers, broken glass and spilled food. “Look!” cried Martin, as he picked up a lady’s silk dancing slipper. “Was Cinderella here?” Yes she was, thought Stephen. He put his arm around Martin’s shoulder and guided him wearily up the stairs to their room. Carlo came in and helped them undress. “It was a splendid night wasn’t it Carlo?” said Stephen.
“Yes indeed sir. I will never forget this night as long as I live,” he replied as he turned down the big bed.
Martin was nearly dead on his feet with exhaustion. Stephen picked him up and carried him to the bed and slid him under the blankets. He leant down and kissed him and said, without turning around, “Thank you for all your efforts, Carlo. Sleep late. I will come down with his lordship in the morning to thank the servants.”
The next afternoon saw most of the visitors depart, the Maharaja for Ascot and the Prince for the Duchy of Cornwall. While the others went riding, Stephen made a visit to The Feathers. There was Elsie in her accustomed position behind the bar, pulling pints and giving cheek to the customers when she thought they deserved it. She saw Stephen walk in and gave a shy smile. “Take over from me for a bit, Ted,” she said to the publican’s son. “I need to go out for some fresh air. I’m feeling faint.”
Stephen joined her in the road and they walked towards a wood. “You’re alright this morning Elsie?”
“Right as rain.”
“And the dress went back?”
“Yes, Stephen. No damage done. She won’t have missed it.”
“And you had a good time?”
“Just the most wonderful night of me life, that’s all.”
“And the Prince liked you?”
Elsie gave a certain smile.
“No! Else, you didn’t…”
“Yes! I did. That Chinese room’s bloomin’ nice, ain’t it?”
“Elsie, I hope you were careful.”
“Of course I was careful. Look Stephen I know folks think of me as the village slut—just like they call you the village stud. Me mother was a slut a’fore me. I don’t rightly know who my father was—now don’t look like that; it weren’t Lord Branksome or anyone—it’s just that mum had a sailor and a railway guard on the go—she had a thing for men in uniforms—and she couldn’t rightly remember which it was as she’d had a few—drinks I mean. Anyway, she taught me when it’s safe to do it and when it’s not. We’ve done it and I never got knocked up, have I? But all the same,” she continued in cooing voice, “it would be fair lovely to have your baby, Stephen. It would be the most beautiful bairn I reckon. I’d love a little one of my own…” They were silent for a minute, Stephen thinking that it would be an unfortunate development, despite what Elsie had predicted.
“But with the Prince, Elsie, I just can’t get over it.”
“Believe you me, it was a lot of work for very little reward. Royalty must be so used to having everybody doing stuff for ’em that they’re practically useless. It was actually very disappointing. I’d much rather have five minutes with you than five weeks with ‘sir’. Have you still got a girl up in London, Stephen?”
“Yes, Elsie.”
“Oh,” she replied hollowly. She started to cry.
“Come on Else. Buck up. You’ve slept with the heir to the throne.”
“But I don’t want the bloomin’ heir; I want you, Stephen,” she wailed as she threw herself on Stephen, sobbing on his shoulder.
“Come on Elsie,” said Stephen, kindly, for he was the most kindly of fellows it was universally acknowledged. He led her to a secluded spot where there was soft dry grass-or was it Elsie who had led him to this spot? He struggled to remember. He kissed her and wiped away her tears. He kissed each of her white breasts, which Elsie aided by removing her blouse. Stephen responded by removing his shirt and Elsie ran her hands over his torso.
When Stephen entered her she exhaled a moan of gratitude. “Oh Stephen, I’ve missed this.
You’re still the best one I’ve ever had. Take it out. I want to kiss it.” Stephen did. “Compared to that little thing last night…” said Elsie with her lips all over Stephen’s manhood.
“Don’t say that, Elsie. It’s unkind.”
“Sorry Stephen. A lady shouldn’t tell or is that a gent?”
“I don’t know, Elsie. I’m not a gentleman.”
“No, you’re all man and I don’t want you to be gentle. Now make me forget about last night.”
Stephen did and Elsie might have struggled to say if it was Wednesday afternoon or Pancake Tuesday and that she was being fucked in a wood in Dorset.
“I’d forgotten how much you spilled, Stephen. Can I borrow your handkerchief? Mine’s soaked. I must get myself fixed up before I go back. Thank you for that, it was wonderful and your sweetheart is the luckiest thing. Tell me, Stephen are you going to marry her?”
“I can’t Elsie. I’d very much like to.”
“Oh,” said Elsie looking up and seeing a tear in his eye. “It’s like that, is it?
I’m sorry, Stephen.” She kissed away the tear and then said brightly, “Now you buck up, Stephen.”
They walked out of the wood and into the gold of the late afternoon sun. Across the tops of the trees its fiery, slanting rays were just catching the diamond panes of the Long Gallery. It was Croome at its most magnificent. Yes I’d better buck up and I’ll have to explain to Mala about this emergency.
End of book two.
Dear readers,
The first two installments book three of Noblesse Oblige The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling will be posted beginning next week. Henry and I hope you continue to enjoy our story; we would love to hear from you, email us at pbruno@tickiestories.us and please put NOB Tickie in the subject line.
Thanks,
Pete & Henry
Posted: 01/17/14