“Really, Mr Knight-Poole, it’s simple! Didn’t your drill sergeant teach you to march in the War?  It’s left right, one, two, glide…then two stutter steps…” Stephen stumbled and nearly fell.  He had to put all his weight on the exasperated Miss Vincent and she pulled a face. Martin tittered.

The boys were taking dancing lessons at a private school in Bayswater and Stephen was struggling with the Argentine tango.  Dancing had become all the craze and the boys thought they had best keep up with the latest steps.  When they were up in London there were invitations for dances in hotels and private houses practically every night and Martin and Stephen were popular partners for the young ladies.  Many restaurants had now installed small dance floors onto which patrons were packed like sardines in a tin.  In addition, there was often a dansant in the afternoon where people danced in their day clothes and no alcohol was served.

The changes in London society ‘since the war’ (that catch-all phrase) were quite marked.  Not only did gentlemen not dress for these afternoon dances, but young women went about without chaperones.  “Did you come here alone?” asked Martin a trifle primly of a young girl who was quite drunk at a party given in the studio of one of The Plunger’s friends.

“Oh no, your Lordship, I never go anywhere without Mother.  That’s her over there.”  She pointed through the cigarette smoke to a middle-aged women with a rouged face (and surely that was a wig?) who was sitting on the knee of Upjohn the landscape painter who would have been half her age, screaming with delight as she was being fed champagne by another young man.  The wine spilled from her lips and was combining rather unpleasantly with the powder on her bosom.

Stephen had embraced the new informality.  Here he was taking tango lessons in a Fair Isle pullover and grey flannel trousers.  He was wearing a pair of tan suede shoes and didn’t seem to have brought a hat.  Even so, Stephen was looking hot and bothered and had loosened his tie.  Martin was sure he would prefer to be in just his shirt sleeves—or even less. Martin still wore a suit and carried a rolled umbrella.  He looked down at his own shoes—made by Lobb’s, but conventional.  I must not become too old and stuffy.  I don’t want to become my father.

Their life had at last settled into a very pleasant routine.  They divided their time between London and Dorset, but even when in London, they returned to Croome from Saturday to Monday and there were always a few guests for the weekend, most often The Plunger, Charles and Jack, Sophia Vane-Gillingham and her brother with his wife, Jean, the Plunger’s sister.  The older generation was still represented in Aunt Maude and Lord and Lady Delvees.  Martin and Stephen always made sure to invite one or two new people— ‘just to try them out’ as Martin put it.

In London Stephen and Martin went to their respective clubs for an hour or so of an afternoon.  Stephen got up early and rode Aine in the park and then did his exercises in the mews for an hour while Martin walked their dogs, Vesta and Billy, who had only been puppies at the beginning of the War.  On Thursdays they usually went to The Plunger’s studio where Stephen and The Plunger sparred together and then used the punching bag before going to the pub for lunch and a pint.

M. Lefaux, the chef, was a great attraction at Branksome House and there were guests to luncheon or dinner three or four times a week.  Stephen had resumed his acquaintance with Margot Asquith who sometimes came with her husband.  The Churchill’s came twice.  Miss Foxton, now a borough councillor for Poplar, was another guest from before the War.

“Aunt, I can’t believe it!” hissed Martin.

“Now Martin, don’t be so behind the times,” admonished Aunt Maude with reference to her luncheon partner.  “Mr MacDonald is a very charming gentleman.  He is quite good company at any table and you, Martin, should talk to him about his garden—it is his diversion since his wife died and he lost his seat.  He is sure to be back in the House at the next election.”

Martin thought he could hear his father turning over in his grave as they all went down to the dining room, however Aunt Maude was right; Ramsay MacDonald was by no means the worst guest Martin had ever entertained and, apart from being a little pompous and a fondness for quoting Lady Londonderry, it was possible to forget that he was a member of the Labour Party.  Martin found himself inviting him to Croome the following weekend.

At Croome itself there was much activity after such a long hiatus.  Without any further ado, six more two-room cottages were built in the grounds of the Infirmary for the elderly of the estate.  The motor garage had been finished first and the builders moved seamlessly on to the cottages, keeping the good team together.  Martin actually enjoyed driving his Rolls Royce down to the garage to fill the petrol tank.  Louch—or more usually the village boy who was now his apprentice—worked the handle and the fuel was drawn up from underground into a glass tank with the gallons marked on the side and from there it went into the motorcar via a rubber hose.  As he waited, Martin looked around at the neat building adorned with half barrels containing hydrangeas.  There was a dwelling built for Louch at the rear.  Perhaps some ivy could be planted on those glaring red walls.  Through a door he could see Sir Bernard Bonnington’s motorcar was being repaired.

Martin returned to the house and found Stephen who was working on his Engineering thesis. “Have you time to come out to the Home Farm, Derby?”  Stephen put down his slide rule. They drove the short distance to the farm— the same farm where Stephen had increased productivity by draining a fen when he was just a schoolboy.  They pulled up in the yard and Harkness and his wife bustled out.  He touched his cap and his wife bobbed. “I’m ready whenever you are your lordship,” he said.

They waked to a field that was awaiting the plough.  There stood a new Ford motor tractor with the plough hitched to it.  They wandered around the machine and inspected it.  “Would you care to do the honours, your lordship?” asked Harkness indicating the starting handle.

“I think it should be Mr Stephen.  It was his idea after all.”

Stephen stepped up and threw the crank and the tractor spluttered into life.  Harkness climbed into the seat and moved off.  Martin and Stephen retreated to the five barr’d gate where they leaned and watched the tractor eat up the field.  They were joined by several other farmers who touched their caps and leaned on the gate alongside them.  The rich brown loam curled behind the blade and the tractor made swift turns at the end of each row—far neater than the old team of horses ever could.  It only seemed minutes before half the field was ploughed up.  Harkness turned off the machine and walked back to the others.  “Time for my tea,” he explained.  “Tis bloody marvellous! —pardon my language, your lordship. I’d bin need two men in t’old days and  t’would take all day by t’time we got t’team together.”  Here the gathered group remembered that one of those absent labourers would have been Harkness’s own son who was killed in France.  “I t’reckon my o’woman could plough t’field an’ I could go down t’Feathers!”

Stephen and Martin declined a cup of tea and motored back to the house.  “I want to encourage the larger farmers to mechanise, Mala.  I think we should advance them the money for motor tractors on easy repayments.  Although grain prices have fallen, labour prices have risen.  We won’t need the same number of men as we did before the War— we couldn’t afford them anyway.”  Martin agreed but was also worried about unemployment on the estate.  Tatchell’s had laid off a whole shift and several of the men and more than 20 of the women on the estate had worked there.

The next weekend was set aside for the dedication of the War Memorial.  Almost everyone on the estate gathered in the road in front of the Church.  The men bared their heads.  Mr Destrombe led them in the Lord’s Prayer.  Martin made a very good speech— not his usual one— in which he stressed that all Britons had served in the conflict in their own way and all had been touched by it, but he was careful not to slight those families who had lost loved ones —‘the most grievous loss of all’.  He spoke of the futility of war, but again was careful not to give them impression that any life was utterly wasted, for he knew many grieving families actually did derive comfort from their belief that their son or husband died for something—a view which Martin felt he could no longer hold.  It was almost ludicrous, he said privately to Stephen.

A second tennis court had been laid down and Stephen had sketched a design for a generous loggia and changing room to be built alongside.  “We could use some of the materials from the ruined south wing,” he said.  They both walked over to it.  A whole wing of the house had been destroyed in a big storm in 1916 (or was it 1917?) Martin could no longer remember clearly).  It had been a Victorian addition to accommodate the overflow of houseguests from that era.  It had never been beautiful, and it now was just a pile of brick, slate and stone, with timber beams stacked neatly to one side.

“That wall needs to be rebuilt,” said Stephen, pointing to the patched wall in the original house.  This wing dated from the early eighteenth century and had been partially opened when the addition had been constructed.  “That will be expensive, of course.  I think a big new window in there would improve that wide corridor behind it— it could become a ‘solarium’ as the estate agents say now.  What do you think?” Martin nodded.  He hadn’t thought of that and tried to imagine himself sitting there behind the glass reading.

Martin looked down at the ruined site.  “Could this area become a sunken flower garden, Derby, like the one at Fayette that Lady Eudora had Miss Jekyll design?”

“I don’t see why not.  It’s already level and there are plenty of materials lying about.  It’s sunny, but sheltered.  Are you interested in gardening, Mala?”

“I might be.  I think I’d like one of my own.  I would at least have something to talk to Mr MacDonald about,” he said bitterly.  “Miss Jekyll must be near 80, but I read that she has just designed a miniature garden for the Queen’s Dolls’ House.  This wouldn’t be all that much larger.  I’ll try drawing some sketches myself.  I’d like a hidden garden, I think.”

Stephen smiled.  He liked Martin to have a project and he was amused because it was usually he who was enthusiastically doing sketches.

“You don’t think it’s wrong to build a garden, Derby?  I mean the money could be spent on another cottage for the elderly or repairs to the church porch.”  He looked beseechingly at Stephen.

“No Mala,” he said in a kindly voice, putting his arm over his shoulder.  “A garden would be a good thing—something literally fertile in these rather barren times.  Besides, it will create work.”  Yes, gardens were good things.

Martin called Chilvers and asked for Stephen’s camera, and a long tape measure. Soon he had recorded the site and he spent the rest of the afternoon drawing plans, making sketches and writing a letter to Miss Jekyll in Surrey imploring her to consider his project.

They were back in London by Monday night.  “Shall we go to the theatre tomorrow night, Mala?  Custard came to the club and said he would like to see us.”

“Can we put him off until Wednesday?  I’d like an evening in with just you.”

After dinner with Uncle Alfred, they retired to their room.  The strains of a Latin orchestra could be heard coming through the door; behind it Martin and Stephen were practicing their dance steps.  Martin strictly insisted that they take turns in leading and following.  “I baint no lass, Stephen,” said Martin in an accent that recalled their late friend, Douglas Owens from the village.

Soon they were sitting up in bed, Stephen reading The Mysterious Affair at Styles and being interrupted at regular intervals by Martin who was surrounded by his plans for the sunken garden.  He closed his book rang the bell and Carlo appeared.  “Carlo, take his lordship’s papers away, he will now take gaucho cock.  Play with my bolas, Mala!”

“Those tango lesson were worthwhile at twice the price, Derbs,” said Martin squirming with delight.

“If your lordship is too busy I could…” began Carlo with a twinkle in his eye.

“No thank you Carlo, I think I can manage on the pampas tonight,” said Martin.  “I’m going to start off with number 15,” said Martin referring to the book that he and the valet had compiled on their long trip to retrieve Stephen from Australia. “And I’ve put cushions on the dressing room floor.”

Carlo looked puzzled.

“I know you and Glass will be watching through the keyhole.”

“Oh, sir, we will do no such thing!  But thank you for the cushions; Glass has a touch of rheumatism in his left knee.” 

***** 

It was later in the same week when Stephen and Martin were invited to a party held in Berkeley Square.  “I feel naked, Derby.  I don’t know if I can do it.”  Martin took a sip from his sherry glass.  Stephen thought he already looked a bit flushed.

“Of course you can, Mala, you look fine and that suit fits you like a glove.”

Martin wasn’t so sure as he looked at himself in the glass.  The sherry was drained and he poured a second one for himself.  Stephen shook his head when Martin tilted the decanter in his direction.

“It looks very up-to-date, your lordship,” said Carlo as he brushed invisible threads of lint from the shoulders of the new dinner jacket.  Martin was now following Stephen in the fashion for wearing a black tie and dinner jacket in place of a white tie, waistcoat and cutaway with tails.  They had gone to John Black, Martin’s tailor in Hanover Square, where he had taken Stephen on his very first trip to London so long ago.  Now, as then, Mr Gibbon, the cutter, made a terrible fuss over Stephen and delighted in a pair of shoulders that flattered his tailoring and a broad chest and flat stomach that required no trickery to conceal.  Stephen, in return, paid him the compliment of wearing a pair of silk drawers so that Mr Gibbon’s blushes could be spared.  Now Martin had been persuaded to have a new set of evening clothes made and had even gone so far as to replace his black waistcoat with a midnight blue cummerbund made of pleated watered silk.  

They had already been to a cocktail party—another social innovation— at six o’clock at Custard Featherstonehaugh’s new flat in Half Moon Street.  Custard had set himself up in a very smart service flat on the fourth floor.  There was a lift and he kept a manservant, Keable, who could mix the most marvellous drinks in a silver shaker.  “Keable can make his own ice.  We have a refrigerator in the kitchen,” explained Custard.

“Could I have beer?” asked Stephen.  “I find cocktails go straight to my head.”  Custard was a good host and beer was found while Martin gulped down one glass of something made of gin and Cointreau and before he knew it, he found that Keable had refilled his glass.

“What are you doing now, Custard?” he asked as he ate an olive from a little wooden stick.

“I’ve landed a job with Lord Northcliffe, Poole.  I’m an assistant to Arthur Mee at the moment—you know, writing stuff about British country life and children’s books.”  Custard seemed pleased and happy and the boys were glad.  “But I’d like to do political stuff one day.  Northcliffe is determined to keep the Bolsheviks at bay.”  The boys nodded.  “Are we dining at Kettner’s before Biffo’s party?”

They were and at 7:00 Martin and Stephen returned to Branksome House to dress in the new dinner jackets about which Martin held such grave reservations.

Biffo was an old school chum, but it was some time before they actually found him as the guests were pleasantly left to their own devices in the big house, but there was a steady flow of champagne served by an army of footmen, which seemed to keep the throng quite happy. The chief attraction, however, was a new orchestra, lately come from America for an engagement at the Savoy Hotel.  They were called the New York Havana Band and they played the most marvellous music—a combination of ‘hot’ jazz and Latin dance numbers.  Biffo had them set up among tropical-looking palm trees at one end of his mother’s ballroom.

Martin was anxious to dance and kept putting his glass down and marching purposefully up to any spare young woman and confidently asking her ‘for the next one’ — dance cards now being considered old fashioned.

“I think you’re supposed to lead, Lord Branksome,” said one very pretty American girl.

“Oh yes,” giggled Martin, “So I am, I’m sorry I was thinking of my practicing —I was learning this dance with my friend and I sometimes had to be the girl.”

“Well you’re swell,” she said pleasantly as Martin stumbled and trod on her silver slippers. “Your friend wouldn’t be Mr Knight-Poole, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Martin, taken aback.  There were several swooping steps to be executed and it was a minute before Martin could resume.  “That’s him over there— the one with the black hair surrounded by all those young ladies.”

“I know.  I’ve made your acquaintance before.”

“You have Miss-?”

“Polk-Stewart, Constance Polk-Stewart.  It was back home, just after we joined in the War. You came to Denver on Mr Gould’s private railroad car and spoke to a big crowd.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you Miss Polk-Stewart.  You must have been in the party with Mr Gunter, the governor.”

“Yes I was, but I don’t expect you to have remembered.”  They had moved off the floor and were talking by the French doors where there was a little fresh air and the noise wasn’t quite so deafening.  “You know, you were both so impressive that I wanted to enlist myself.  My mother and I put up a flagpole on our front porch the very next day.”

“Well, they were rather stirring times, I suppose,” Martin said and took two glasses of champagne that were passing, giving one to Miss Polk-Stewart.

“You were very handsome in your Colonel’s uniform— like a blond Viking and Mr Knight-Poole was all we girls could talk about for a week.”

“Well, I always felt that I was a big fraud, Miss Polk-Stewart; my rank came with my title— I didn’t earn it. And if the American army was composed of young ladies, Mr Knight-Poole would have won us the war a lot sooner.”

“My mother tells me we’re distantly related, your lordship.  I’ve read a lot about the Poole family and about Croome.”

Martin looked surprised. “Are we?  How extraordinary!  And that we should just meet on Biffo’s dance floor.”

“I believe we have the same great, great-grandfather, but not grandmother— forgive me if I have that all screwy.  Half third cousins mother says.”

“Well, we’ll have to tell Stephen.  Oh I see he’s dancing.  Would you care for this one— it’s a foxtrot?”

Martin had two more dances with Miss Polk-Stewart and four more glasses of champagne. By the time he dragged her over to Stephen, he could hardly stand, but she manfully supported his lordship and helped him to supper.

Martin said something and Stephen translated.  “He said are you free for luncheon tomorrow?”

She replied and Stephen bent his head down into Martin’s face. “She said she’d be glad to come to lunch, Mala?”

“I’m not deaf, Derby.  I heard what she said.  It’s just that I’m having trouble wetting my wordzout.  Zormotharintn?”

“His lordship asked:  Is your mother in London too?”

“She sure is.  We’re stopping at the Ritz.  We’re just across the road.  We’d both love to come.  It’s swell of you, Lord Branksome.”

“Zmypleshah, Mish Polk and with that he lunged forward and preventing himself from falling by kissing her on the lips.”

She blushed and said goodbye.

“Mala, I’m awfully tired and my leg hurts,” said Stephen diplomatically.  “Do you mind helping me home?  I’m sorry to be a dampener.”

“Pro’bly for the besht, Derbs.  You’ve had a lot o’ champagne.  Shall we find Biffo?”

“I don’t think we’ll bother him.  I’ll send Glass round with a note in the morning.”

A taxi was found and presently Martin found himself in bed with Stephen.

“Oh Derby, don’t let go of me.  Everything is spinning.”

“Don’t close your eyes Mala.  You know, you looked very handsome in your dinner jacket tonight.”

“I didn’t look like a cad?”

“Not at all.  Miss Polk-Stewart certainly liked you.”

“Yes she did.  Very forward these American girls; she kissed me, Derby.”

“Why, the brazen hussy!” said Stephen smiling to himself.  “She certainly is pretty.  Mala,” he asked mischievously, “you’re not going off me and taking up ladies are you?”

“No Derby.  She’d not as beautiful as you are and she gets her feet all under mine when we’re dancing.  Still she is pretty.” He turned to Stephen and said with some earnestness: “Besides, Derby, she is my cousin.  She said so.” Stephen looked surprised.

“Derby.”

“Yes, Mala.”

“Would you help me to the lavatory?  I think I want to be sick.” 

***** 

At luncheon the next day Constance and her mother were joined by Uncle Alfred, Aunt Maude and Jean Vane-Gillingham.

Constance looked very pretty in a pale blue suit edged in black and trimmed with black lace. There was a broad-brimmed hat to match.  She was only about 18 and used just a little rouge and powder on her cheeks and lips—at least that is all she seemed to use.  Mrs Polk-Stewart in repose was in many ways an elegantly turned out, self-assured woman not yet forty. However when she spoke at length her accent was apt to become a little grating and she talked as she moved: in a confident manner that seemed heedless of those around her. ‘Plain speaking’ it was called in the United States and there it was not considered gauche at all, rather it was tight-lipped people who were considered more than merely reserved; they had something to hide, or, almost worse, had nothing to sell.

“My late husband struck it rich on the Comstock lode in Nevada.  Have you heard of the Comstock lode?”

They hadn’t and Constance explained that it was a rich vein of silver.

Aunt Maude looked puzzled. “Nevada is a place in the west of the United States, Aunt.  It is mostly desert, but famous for its silver mines.”

“Sagebrush, silver, and sin,” said Mrs Polk-Stewart in a singsong voice.

“You know,” began Aunt Maude, “when Lord Vane-Gillingham and I were married in 18…well some time ago, we were presented with the most enormous silver service.  It was made in Philadelphia for an exhibition and quite ugly, I’m afraid.  The servants hated it and we were all quite glad when Hector had to sell it— they probably melted it down.  It may well have come from your mine, Mrs Polk-Stewart.”

“Your husband has passed over, your ladyship?”

“Oh no Hector was accepted everywhere—even at Boodle’s.  He did spend a lot of his time and his inheritance buying slow horses and shooting, but he is dead now if that’s what you mean.  Has been for some time.”

“It was natural causes mama,” forestalled Constance.  Martin gave her a nod in confirmation. “He wasn’t shot.”

“My late husband became shot,” said Mrs Polk-Stewart suddenly. “Didn’t shed a single tear. He was with a senator’s wife and didn’t have his gun on naturally (he could be quite romantic when he wasn’t the worst for liquor) and the senator objected to bein’ made to look a fool —what with the elections coming up and all.  The public sided with him and he was re-elected and I was left a rich widow.”

Aunt Maude had not quite followed all this.  “But it must have been a terrible shock, Mrs Polk-Stewart, to lose your husband like that.”

“Not a bit of it.  Senator got to him afore I did that’s all.”

“Mama, these people don’t want to hear all that.  Besides papa was their cousin.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Alfred.  “Are we related through my great grandfather’s first marriage?”

Martin looked surprised.  “I didn’t know my great, great grandfather was married twice.”

“Oh yes.  We didn’t speak of it because he divorced her.  She was a Catholic too.  They were both very young and it was during the Peninsula War.  Lord Thomas Holdenhurst (as he was then) was a soldier in the Militia and was fighting Napoleon’s army in Spain.

“What happened to the wife and daughters, Mrs Polk-Stewart, do you know?”

“I do know, Lord Alfred,” she thrilled.  “That young Portuguese girl was my husband’s great grandmother.  She and the two girls fled with the Portuguese court to Brazil.  She was the lady in waiting to the mad Queen Maria.  The younger of the two girls married my husband’s grandfather.  He was an American.

“And the other sister?” asked Jean Vane-Gillingham who was paying rapt attention.

“I don’t know.  Possibly ended up in a convent.  I can’t even be sure if she went to Brazil— she was older you see.”

“There were no brothers?” asked Stephen.

“I don’t believe so,” said Mrs Polk-Stewart, “Not on the shipping records.”

“I wonder why he divorced her?” speculated Martin.

“I think I can answer that,” said Lord Alfred.

“Firstly he may have wanted a male heir.  Secondly, his family back in England would hardly have sanctioned a marriage to a Catholic.  And you have to remember he was a younger son—the third son in fact and he was never meant to inherit.  He needed to support himself on more than his allowance and his Army pay.  He was a terrible rake by all accounts—gambling debts and mistresses and that sort of thing.”

“He could have turned highwayman,” said Martin who had been reading The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer.

“He made a good second marriage,” said Uncle Alfred.

“He married great, great grandmama for love?” asked Martin whose mind was still with Miss Heyer.

“Of course not, Martin, she was the daughter of the Duke of Portland and had a dowry of a quarter of a million pounds.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Jean Vane-Gillingham.

“It paid off his debts and brought him a seat in Parliament and ten years later he succeeded his father as his two brothers had died before him.”

Martin pressed the bell with his foot and Glass brought in the coffee.  They took their cups out into the hall.  There was a portrait of the Earl.  They scanned it for likenesses but could find few.  There was no portrait of Regina Cavendish-Bentnick, the Earl’s second wife but there was one in the Long Gallery at Croome—the portrait that had been torn in the memorable lacrosse match before the War. They moved on to the oval portrait of Martin’s mother. “They went to Cintra for their honeymoon, didn’t they Uncle Alfred.”

“Yes, my brother wanted to see where our grandfather married our grandmother during the time of Napoleon.  He could be quite romantic in his younger days.”

“He had a second wind in his latter days, Uncle,” said Martin, thinking of his father’s affair with La Belle Otero.  Uncle Alfred nodded thoughtfully, mindful of how different he was to his late brother.  That’s what comes of being a younger son.

They retired to the drawing room and Mrs Polk-Stewart kept them entertained with tales about the Wild West while Constance looked slightly embarrassed at times and blushed when Martin looked at her.

“Derby, you don’t mind that I’ve asked them down to Croome?” said Martin when they were in bed.

“No Mala, not at all.  They’re amusing company.  Do you want me to make love to the mother?”

“Derby, of course not.  Why do you say such a thing?”

“Well, it’s just that Constance is making eyes at you.”

“Oh she is not!” spluttered Martin who was covered in confusion.

“Well just watch out.  And if your mind isn’t elsewhere, do you think you could pleasure me with your cock.  I have a craving for the Poole lineage.”

Stephen rolled over and presented his masculine rump to Martin.  It was muscular and hard as a coconut—or rather a pair of coconuts—and the places that were hairy and the places that were smooth were disposed in such a way that Martin thought he could see a divine plan, so beautiful was it.  He pried his cheeks apart and Stephen mischievously flexed the muscles causing Martin to struggle.  He was rewarded, as usual, by the hairy cleavage which was lined with soft, glossy hair, just like the soft black hair on Stephen’s head.  No silver mine in Nevada could be as beautiful as this hole.  The Comstock Lode was no doubt fabulous, but Martin was hoping that the Poole load would pay dividends, he mused as he applied the Spong’s Soothing Salve.  He rubbed his cock along Stephen’s crack.  Stephen moaned—perhaps with a trifle impatience, if that could be imagined in a moan.  Martin slapped the succulent rump with the flat of his hand.

“Ow!” cried Stephen.  “Do it again, Mala.  It makes my balls shake.” 

***** 

The following Saturday saw the Americans along with Sir Danvers and Lady Smith and The Plunger invited for the weekend.  The sixth guest was a young novelist, Michael Arlen, whom Stephen had met at Margot Asquith’s.

Arlen was an Armenian but had been raised in England where he had gone to school.  He was terribly charming and quite clever in his conversation.  Although it was never mentioned, there was a certain self-consciousness about his behaviour— as if he were trying too hard to be an English gentleman.  Indeed his erudition, good manners and charm marked him out as quite unlike the hearty oafs and dullards that Martin knew at school.  There was something of The Plunger about him.

Martin tried especially hard to be charming and witty himself, but he needn’t have bothered because between Arlen and Mrs Polk-Stewart there was quite enough dazzle and Martin didn’t even have to refer to the three short stories of Arlen’s that he’d read for homework.

A tour was made of the estate.  They were solemn before the war memorial—Arlen saying how difficult it had been for him in England as a Bulgarian national and how he had lost much of his family to the Turks in 1916.  Mrs Polk-Stewart said she shot at Pancho Villa in Columbus New Mexico in 1916, but no one asked her to elaborate on this piece of information.

They went next to the gymnasium.  Outside Stephen’s dogs were looking distressed. Through the door they found Stephen in his vieux rose and lavender blazer above a pair of grey short trousers and bare knees presiding over a meeting of the Women’s Auxiliary.  The ladies had apparently purchased a pair of parallel bars and insisted that Stephen rise from the President’s chair to demonstrate how to use them.  Martin turned his eyes away, lest he see anything untoward, but he noticed that Constance and her mother had no such scruples.  Stephen then calmly returned to the chair and gave his President’s Report in a business-like manner while the secretary, Tillie, took notes.  It was quite clear that the ladies were more active than the men who only held one meeting a year and had raised no money at all.  Curiously, when Stephen’s report was moved to be accepted, the mover and seconder each kissed Stephen on the cheek— such being the singular custom of the organization.  The visitors departed just as they were discussing exercises that Stephen should conduct ‘for those of riper years’.

After tea, Constance and Martin went out to look at Martin’s sunken garden under construction.  Constance seemed very interested in the project, which pleased Martin, although she was irritatingly unfamiliar with even the most common of English flowers.  Martin explained how the old bricks from the south wing would be used to build a high wall topped with a slate coping to protect the garden from the wind.  The House itself would form a similar boundary while the remaining side would be bounded by a raised pergola walkway as he had seen in the south of France, making use of a great many oak beams that were debris from the great storm.  This, it had been decided, would be extended to the new tennis pavilion, thus uniting the two projects.  More old bricks and York stone would be used for the half-circle steps and for cruciform paths.  “Down the middle of the path will run a rill for Japanese irises.  It will be fed from a lead tank up against the wall of the house.  Stephen worked out how to make the water flow. He’s very clever with that sort of thing,” said Martin squinting into the sun and gesticulating.

“You’re very fond of Mr Knight-Poole, aren’t you, Martin?”

“Yes I am,” said Martin going red.

“Is he a relative?”

“Not exactly, my brother adopted him as his ward before he died.”

“So he’s rather like a brother to you?”

“Not exactly,” replied Martin, wanting to change the subject quickly before he said something he’d regret either way.  “In the middle here I’m going to place an old millstone, face down.” Constance dragged her eyes away from Martin and looked at the bare patch of earth where only Martin could see a millstone— or anything else for that matter.  “But I don’t know whether to put in a bird bath or a sundial.  They’re so suburban, don’t you think? And sundials always have shocking poetry engraved on them.”  Constance didn’t understand what was wrong with the suburbs and had no opinion of poetry.  “I suppose I could have a statue.”

“Mr Knight-Poole would make a very fine Greek one.”

“Yes he would,” laughed Martin, “but he’s conceited enough as it is.”

“Then what about a seat?  I know it would be very nice to sit in the sun here with you and you could tell me all about your English flowers.  What are the blue ones called again?”

Before Martin could answer she had put up her parasol and had taken Martin’s arm and they wandered back to the morning room windows where she recited again what wonderful parties she had been to since she had come to London.

On Sunday there was church parade and then tennis after lunch.  There were mixed doubles. Constance was very good and she partnered Martin.  They easily beat The Plunger and Mrs Polk-Stewart and Stephen and Lady Smith.

Stephen took Michael Arlen and The Plunger down to The Feathers where he was to meet Louch for a pint.  Arlen was always on the lookout for ‘characters’, but there were few Mayfair types to be seen in the tap room.  He remained an exotic outsider and merely sipped on his beer while The Plunger—so unlike in times of old—manfully swallowed his.

Uncle Alfred had been talking a great deal to Mrs Polk-Stewart about the Poole family history and showed her some of the more notable portraits in the Great Hall and Long Gallery. Later in the afternoon they were shut up together in the library where boxes of papers and other documents relating to his great grandfather’s time at the turn of the nineteenth century were laid out.  These had originally been assembled by his brother, Martin’s father, as a young man when he had been interested in era of Napoleon and the part that the Pooles had played in the downfall of that tyrant.

Martin and Constance, taking advantage of the warm twilight, went for a long, slow walk right around the lake where Constance told him something of their social life, first in Virginia City and then in the more cosmopolitan Denver.  “I suppose you think mother and I quite suburban, Martin.  Apart from our three weeks in Paris, London is the first big city I’ve been in.  You must think us dreadfully unsophisticated.  I don’t understand half of what Mr Arlen says and only laugh when I see everyone else doing so.”

“Not at all,” said Martin and hurriedly went on to reassure her of his high regard for her poise and sophistication, which she may have well anticipated, as the young ladies of Denver were not so unlike their sisters in London (and Paris) in some essentials and those of Virginia City just the same, but even more so.  Thus by the time they came past the great cyclopean statue in the lake that noisily spouted water in all directions, Martin felt that they had reach some sort of understanding.

The guests were seen off at the station on Monday morning.  Uncle Alfred was to travel up with them while Martin and Stephen would be remaining for a few days longer.  When they were alone on the platform for a few minutes Uncle Alfred said: “Martin, I have invited Mrs Polk-Stewart and Miss Constance to stay at Branksome House for a short while.  I hope that is alright with you.” Martin looked surprised, but did not object.  “They were going to move from the Ritz in a day or so—apparently it is too noisy—and I thought, why not?  It will also give Mildred and me more opportunity to work on our history.  She thinks there might be a book in it.  What do you think?” Martin offered no opinion so his uncle continued.  “And besides, you’d like to see more of your pretty cousin, if I’m not mistaken.”

The train arrived and there was the bustle of departure.  Then they were gone.  On the way back Martin was confused.  What am I doing? I love Stephen.  This can’t lead anywhere.  At the same time, part of him was quite looking forward to seeing Constance again.  Stephen and he would have to be discreet at Branksome House.  That was a nuisance.  It was all too confusing.  The most confusing thing of all was how the Ritz Hotel could be any noisier than its neighbour, Branksome House.  He would talk it over with Stephen. 

***** 

“Mala, I’ve had an idea,” said Stephen.  They were standing on the lead roof of the house behind a parapet.  If they stood on their toes they could see down below to where the workmen were laying up courses of bricks for the new garden wall with the opening in it that would lead down to Martin’s sunken garden.  They had been marvelling at how the masons were striking the arch, which would accommodate the new wrought iron gate.  Below them they could hear, but not see, the chipping of the stonemason as he prepared for the large new window in the corridor that lay wrapped in sacking against the wall of the house.

“This is a very sunny and sheltered spot up here.  I’d like to ‘sunbathe’ as they say it now,” said Stephen.  “Feel how the black lead radiates the warmth.  The parapet protects us from the cold wind.”

“Yes, Derbs, not quite Antibes, but very nice all the same.  Get Carlo to bring our costumes and some cushions.”

Stephen looked at Martin with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, of course, no costumes.  Well it is private and you have to walk through that big cupboard to climb out here.  He can just bring the cushions—and some coconut oil, if we have some.”

“I was thinking Carlo might like to join us.”

“Why not— if he hasn’t got any work to do?  I’ll ask Chilvers if he has.”

“Mala, I was thinking of forming a little private club— the Croome Naturists, maybe.  There could be you and me and Carlo and Chilvers and Higgins and Glass when he’s down here.”

“Servants, Derby!”

“Yes, Mala; anyone who would enjoy being free and in the sun and air.  There would have to be rules and we’d all be equal.”

“That sounds like Soviet Russia, Derby.  You’d better get Carlo and explain the rules to us.”

Carlo was summonsed and he made his way through the cupboard and, bending his head, came through the little door and out onto the lead flats.

“Carlo, Mr Stephen has had an idea,” said Martin and they listened attentively as the plan was unfolded.

“There’d be no hanky-panky?” asked Carlo when Stephen had finished.

“No. We’d have fines.  There would be no touching, except to apply oil.”  Carlo and Martin gloomily wondered if that would be enough.  “We would all have to be naked.  That’s a rule. We’d all be equal and no one is allowed to talk shop.  Just like at the Saville.”

“Oh, please Mr Stephen, I couldn’t call you by your first names.  It is such a habit you see.  I wouldn’t feel right either.”

“Very well,” conceded Stephen.  “Mr Chilvers might find that bit awkward too.”

“Mr Chilvers! You don’t propose to ask Mr Chilvers! Mr Chilvers without his clothes on!”

Stephen was firm on this point and insisted Chilvers would be invited to be an inaugural member. “I also propose Higgins and Glass and The Plun…er Mr Craigth.” 

“Will there be lady members?” asked Martin.

“No this is just for boys,” said Stephen, recalling the gymnasium fiasco.

“The Big Boys’ Club,” said Carlo.

“Yes, Stephen, would you have size requirements for membership?” giggled Martin.

“No Mala,” replied Stephen quite seriously.  “Equality is a foundation principle.  We can call ourselves The Big Boys’ Club if you like, but that is just like your Uncle Alfred being a Freemason.  I don’t see him doing any work down there.”

“Carlo, would you send Mr Chilvers up here.  We’d better see him alone —and bring a blanket and some cushions.”

Chilvers came awkwardly through the low door and onto the roof.

“Good afternoon, Mr Chilvers,” began Stephen. “It’s a lovely day don’t you think?”

“Indeed sir, it is especially warm up here.  It must be 75 degrees.  Would you like a hat?”

Stephen didn’t reply to that but launched straight into his idea of this being a spot for “free” sunbathing.

“Very well.  Sir.  I know what you are for your freedom.  There’s no harm in it as long as the maids don’t come up.”

“That’s just it, Mr Chilvers.  We were wondering if you would like to join us.  Carlo already is. It would be a sort of secret club.”

“Me sir?” cried the butler. “But I’m a servant!  It would not be proper for me to be naked before my employer—besides, I wouldn’t know where to look myself.”

“I’d rather hoped you’d look at me sometimes, Mr Chilvers, but there’d be no hanky-panky; that’s a club rule.” Chilvers looked aghast and Martin made him sit down on a cushion.

“I shouldn’t even be sitting in your presence, your lordship.  What has the world come to since the War!  Why the very idea….”

Chilvers went on for some minutes, but miraculously Stephen began to talk him round.  He emphasised the health benefits of the sun—‘heliotherapy’ he called it.  He also said they would be ‘off duty’ up here.  Chilvers made a play for wearing bathing costumes, but Stephen stood firm.  However Stephen gave way on one point: none of the junior servants were to be allowed to join:  “I would lose every shred of respect below stairs if the footmen or boots saw me even with my collar off.  That devil Carlo is a different matter— he was a rogue even before the War.  Glass, however, is different; he is an equal,” he said, after considering the elaborate caste system that still ruled below stairs, even if things had changed among his betters.

“There’s one other thing,” said Chilvers who felt that the world had suddenly turned upside down since he walked through the low door like Alice, “I am not so young as I was and…well when I was your age, it was different.  I was quite…if I do say so myself…I mean your lordship, I do not look so attractive with my garments removed these days.  And I certainly do not look like Mr Stephen. Don’t you think it might spoil…”

“Not a bit of it Mr Chilvers,” said Stephen. “This isn’t about personal appearance.  This is about enjoying ourselves in the sun and air.”

“I can’t help thinking that we’d all enjoy it more if I was thirty years younger,” said Chilvers a little ruefully.

Stephen dismissed his objection with a wave of his hand.  Chilvers felt like a defeated boxer.

Carlo returned with blankets, cushions and some dressing gowns.  He and Chilvers could not look at each other in the eye.  Martin and Stephen were naked in a moment and Carlo not long after.  Chilvers was slower and more hesitant.  He tried to imagine that he were undressing at the doctor’s or for his bath.  The others did not look at him and instead lay down and looked up at the sky. “Are those skylarks, Derby?” asked Martin, trying to break the silence.  There was a shapeless discussion about what sort of birds they were which no one really cared about.  Then there was silence as the four bodies lay in a row.

Martin sneaked a look sideways.  Chilvers was a very large and very white mountain, with a fat tummy covered in dark hair.  He strained his eyeballs downwards without moving his head.  Chilvers’ cock was also white and uncircumcised he thought and sheltered by the tummy, but it was quite a good size, although it was hard to tell exactly as it was surrounded by a dense thatch pubic hair.

“I can only stay a few moments, said Chilvers as he lay rigid on the blanket. “I have to get back and write a list for the wine merchant.” He then remembered there was to be no shop talk so was quiet again.

“Isn’t that breeze lovely when it swirls up here every now and then,” said Stephen at long last.  “It feels good on my sweaty balls.” He gave them a jiggle.

“Oh please don’t do that, Mr Stephen,” said Chilvers in distress.  He looked over at Stephen’s beautiful body with that enormous brown cock at rest but still halfway down his leg.

“Oh I’m sorry Mr Chilvers.  Is this better?” He rolled over on his stomach and his muscular, meaty young buttocks were now on display.

“Hardly Mr Stephen,” replied the butler repressing a giggle and nearly choking in the process.  He grabbed a dressing gown and wrapped it around himself preparing to depart.

“You’ll come up tomorrow, Mr Chilvers?”

“Maybe for 15 minutes before luncheon, sir, if there’s time, he said shyly as he retreated into the big cupboard to dress.”

“Well, that was a success your lordship,” said Carlo rubbing his hand through the wiry hair on his olive-skinned chest.

Martin agreed and sat up.  He looked at Stephen’s cock and balls, extending a long way below his spread legs, even lying on his stomach.  He reached over and touched the blunt head enclosed in its brown foreskin with a moistened finger.

“That will cost you sixpence, Mala,” said Stephen with his face in the blanket.

“I’ll give you a shilling.  Come on Carlo, let’s bring him off.” 

To be continued…

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