HRH The Prince of Wales at Lesser Branksome [The Queen magazine] 

“There is an invitation for you, Martin, from Lady Colfax; it’s a luncheon next Tuesday,” said Myles.

“That’ll be the one to meet George Bernard Shaw and Toscanini— The Plunger told me about it.  I can’t go.”

“And Stephen has received one for the same day from Lady Cunard to meet George Moore and The Queen of Romania.”

“Well tell him he’ll have to refuse,” said Martin.  “We must stay here and push the golf links through; it’s already February.”

It was true.  The opening day was fixed for the 25th of March.  There had already been a loss of a week due to freezing weather and Martin and Stephen had taken that week to travel to Antibes with The Plunger and Donald Selby-Keam.  It was warmer than in England, but by no means hot and they had to stay quite rugged up in their fishermen’s jerseys when they took Stephen’s little blue craft, L’espoir, out onto the Mediterranean.  There was no one they knew at the Hotel du Cap— the Murphys having moved on and Stephen was rather glad of a quiet time with just his friends. 

Stephen’s shares in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes had done rather well and the dividend would pay for some alterations to his little house, with Hélias engaged to create another bedroom in the roof.  It was to have two tiny dormer windows covered in the local orange tiles and be reached by a steep set of stairs from the landing.  This extra space would be handy for their coming summer sojourn when they anticipated being joined by Bunny and Dwight, their American friends, who had been persuaded to come to Europe at long last.

There was another American visitor at Croome:  Mr Atkins was the librarian at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts and he had come over to collect the book that Martin had promised to lend to that esteemed institution back in 1917.

“You see, Lord Branksome, we’ve had to do a lot of fund raising.  There was the insurance on such a valuable volume, and we have had a specially designed cabinet constructed in which to display it.  It is made of Birmabright steel and Vita glass and the whole thing can have the air exhausted, you see, to eliminate deterioration of the paper in the air.”

“I see,” said Martin who was rudely practicing his short game on the Aubusson rug.  “We’d better find the Chaucer then or would you rather wait until after dinner?”

“Oh now please, your lordship.  It was all I could think of on the crossing.  It was very rough, but the thought of what was at the end of the perilous voyage kept me from despair.”

“Chilvers, where’s that book we talked about some time ago?”

“You mean ‘Man and Maid’ by Miss Elinor Glynn, your lordship?”

“No, I don’t read rubbish like that; the old one— ‘The Canterbury Tales’ by Godfrey Chaucer?”

“Geoffrey.”

“Oh thank you, Mr Atkins, I meant Geoffrey.” Chilvers was unable to help further. 

The Library at Croome [Country Life] 

They went into the great library with its rows of gilt-wired galleries rising many feet to the Gothic ceiling.  There were so many venerable bindings that Mr Atkins could hardly contain himself, but when Martin went to the spot where he thought this particular volume was, he could not find it, in fact there was a gap where it had been.

“Oh blast.  It was here, Mr Atkins.  In fact I read it in bed only last year— just the Prologue as it gets a bit tiring after that and I distinctly remember putting it back in here when I got down a book on ancient breeds of cows.  Have you seen some of the illustrations from a century ago, Mr Atkins?  They’d make you laugh; they were huge beasts— pigs too…” Mr Atkins had started to turn pale and tremble.  “Oh it will be here, don’t fret.”  Martin sat at the table and tried to concentrate.  “Ah, now I have it!”  He lifted up the velvet plush and fringed cloth and bent down to the feet.  He extracted a book from under a wobbly leg.  “The damned table was crooked and my pen kept rolling…”  When he looked up, Mr Atkins was nowhere to be seen.  He had in fact fainted and was stretched out on the floor. 

***** 

It was at one of the dinners at Croome— possibly the one that Mr Atkins had been revived for with Sal Volatile— that Martin called to Chilvers.  “I say Chilvers, this is very pretty china, what happened to the Sevres service— the maroon-and-blue one with all the gilding that looks like frozen meringue?”

“That has been locked away your lordship,” replied Chilvers to Martin who was at present using his fish knife to reveal the image of a country cottage—rather like Miss Tadrew’s with a hay wain parked before it for some obscure purpose and a garden overflowing with a profusion of flowers including, rather anomalously, primroses and hollyhocks.  “These are from Messrs Woolworth, your lordship.”

Scarcely had the name of that convenient establishment left his lips when there was a crash; Lance had been trying to balance the sauce boat on its saucer when it tumbled to the floor.  Chilvers indicated the presence of the silver crumb tray and brush with his eyes and the lad was soon bent over trying to clean up the worst of it.  “Sorry, Mr Stephen,” he said from beneath the tablecloth, banging his head in the process and making the cutlery jump. 

***** 

Martin and Stephen spent long days up at Lesser Branksome.  They were long days even though the winter days were short, for electric lights had been rigged so that the tradesmen might work in the dark hours now that they were onto the interiors.  It was frustratingly slow and even Stephen’s attempts to reorganise the worksite and the delivery of materials did not seem to speed matters greatly.

Nevertheless, the building with its five white gables looked quite handsome in its rather bleak setting, and its blue roof of Welsh slates seemed to match the winter skies.  On the links themselves, there was still a great deal of excavation taking place.  The greens had to be turfed and rolled as there was no growth at this time of year.  Martin lent an extra ten men from the estate to the workforce, and the overtime would add many pounds to the cost.  Sir Bernard Bonnington was quite excited however.  He would often drive over and his tweedy figure could be seen directing the workmen or talking to the boys.  “Yes, the extra pace is expensive, Martin,” he said, “but the news that the Prince of Wales will open the links has been the most wonderful publicity, and we have had nearly two hundred membership applications already and seventy-five for ‘associates’.”

“That’s incredible, Sir Bernard,” said Stephen.  “Why has it been so popular, I mean it’s not as magnificent as Broadstone, and it has only nine holes?”

“Well, some people can’t get in to Broadstone—Tatchell for example—and here is a course owned by his lordship, the Marquess of Branksome, and patronised by royalty.  What’s more, the clubhouse will be finer than Broadstone’s and people know there will eventually be a back nine and that the planting will soon establish itself.  There is also the convenience of the railway line.”

“Sir Bernard,” said Martin after a pause, “I insist that you and some of the better players must make up the foursome with His Royal Highness; Stephen and I would only be an embarrassment.” Stephen nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” said Sir Bernard, beaming.  “I can remember when I first started to play, and I wished I could go around without anyone else seeing me at all.  But you will get better if you play regularly.”

“Oh we will.  We’ve decided on once a week during the good weather,” said Stephen.

“Golfers are well-known for playing even in bad weather,” chuckled Sir Bernard, “I’ll wager you’ll both be doing the same when the bug bites you.” 

***** 

Martin and Stephen drove around to the western side of the links where villa allotments had been carved out along a lane that straggled beyond Lesser Branksome and ended, some distance later, at a farm gate.  There were a dozen large trees that Martin had insisted be spared and so the allotments varied in dimensions, but they all had a view of the second or third holes and a few had views of the distant sea on fine days.  Martin had bitten the bullet and allowed for two-dozen allotments.  The biggest ones were of two acres and the four smallest were about a quarter of an acre.  Most had already been sold—or rather leased for ninety-nine years—and Martin was now thinking that there was room for more housing lower down where there was a view over Pendleton but not over the links.  However he kept this opinion to himself.  Building had not yet started, but some blocks had signs erected indicating that it would begin soon.

They pulled up underneath one of the spared oaks—it was a bare skeleton at present—and Stephen produced a Thermos flask and a tin of sandwiches.  They discussed the proposed housing scheme and what it would mean for the estate.  “I know one purchaser is a palaeontologist, and another is a retired actuary, said Martin, “The actuary loves golf, and the fossil man wanted a small country house near the Dorset coast where he could work.  He has a wife and family.

“Derby I’ve been worried about the choice of tiles for the clubroom.  Do you think we should go for the Spanish design, or will that look inappropriate in Dorset?  I’ve been worried, and a decision has to be made by tomorrow.”

“Is that why you didn’t sleep last night, Mala?  You’ll have to stop worrying.”

“And you will have to stop worrying too.  I heard you get up in the night and rustle those plans.”

“I was just checking on the drainage.  I don’t want it to flood around the kitchen door where it’s lower than the surrounds.”

“Well I can think of something that will stop both of us from worrying, and it’s something we missed last night.  Fold these seat backs, Derbs, I don’t think anyone will see us.”

“They might, Mala.”

“Then that will make it even more exciting.”

Martin undid Stephen’s tweed trousers and took off his own coat and then Stephen’s too. Stephen’s cock, unencumbered by drawers, sprang out with the kind of lazy insouciance of a balloon being inflated. It wasn’t enough for Martin; he wanted Stephen’s trousers right off. Stephen lifted his hips and the rough material slid over his magnificent marbled buttocks—that is marble, should it have been warm and dusted with hair. “Shoes and hose, Derbs.” Stephen removed these too and his trousers slid right off.  Martin then opened Stephen’s shirt. The cold air nipped at his nipples. Martin nursed on one, then the other, to restore circulation.

“I don’t want you to touch your cock.  Leave it to me.”  Stephen knew a rule when he heard one and complied.  Martin held just the blunt tip of Stephen’s member between the fingers of two hands and lathed at it with his tongue.  The head emerged from under its sheath of velvety skin, and Martin licked all around it and into the folds.  Stephen squirmed with pleasure and wanted Martin to take him all, but Martin stood firm and did not comply, instead concentrating all his attention on his use of just his lips and tongue on the very tip of Stephen’s penis.  The sensation was almost unbearable, but Martin made him suffer.  Martin himself was being rewarded by a constant flow of clear juices, which he eagerly lapped up.  He only had to probe the sensitive slit with his tongue to precipitate the flow.  Once he stopped and kissed Stephen that he might taste this nectar, but he then quickly returned to this sublime torture that had Stephen thrashing about.  Martin wouldn’t let him go, nor would he stroke the shaft.  Stephen had to do something with his hands, so he fumbled for Martin’s cock through his flies and began to masturbate him.  Martin was now rotating his tongue around Stephen’s head, with frequent sweeps over the slit.  Stephen could scarcely stand it.  A moan let Martin know he was close and he redoubled his efforts.  All of a sudden Stephen spilled into his mouth.  Martin swallowed rapidly and continued to suck and probe the slit until Stephen pulled off in pain.

“Oh Mala.  That was wonderful, but I’m so sore!”

Martin smiled with his mouth still full, and Stephen pushed him down and dived on his cock and sucked at it with fury.  Martin grabbed Stephen’s beautiful hair and forced him down, at the same time thrusting up with his hips.  Stephen gagged but kept on sucking until, at last, Martin too spilled.

They kissed and then hot breath on Stephen’s naked buttocks made him turn around in alarm. There was a pair of pretty brown eyes staring at him.  It was a Jersey cow from a neighbouring farm and, with a piece of fruitcake from their picnic, her discretion was purchased. 

***** 

The other arrangements that became equally taxing were those for the reception for His Royal Highness and other dignitaries.  Myles had sent out invitations to all the great and good in the county as well as to the shareholders.  A letter from St James Palace said that His Royal Highness, Prince George, would also be accompanying his brother and they would be arriving in the early afternoon following Prince George’s engagement opening the new road to Southend.  “That means they should start to play at 2 o’clock following speeches and they should be finished by 5 o’clock for tea in the club lounge— if the room is finished.” said Martin, who had written it all down on a chart.

“What about tea and cocktails?”

“Good idea, Derbs.  Then there will be dinner here followed by the ball.  I’m terribly excited, Derbs, and I have engaged an American dance orchestra that is coming to take up a position at the Kit Kat Club.  They will come to us first.  Have you heard of Vincent Lopez?”  Stephen hadn’t.  “Well they’re very good, and I’ve got a cabaret dancer who performs with her brother.  It will be quite like the Café de Paris— at least I hope so.  We have to find enough bedrooms for everybody, including the band.”

There were more sleepless nights and a good deal of expenditure, but Martin kept thinking of the success of the golf links and how, with a bit of luck, this would bring money into the estate in the future.

It was now only four weeks away to the opening, and Martin was fully occupied with the furnishing of the clubroom and the hotel.  It was now also quite clear that none of the bedrooms or bathrooms would be finished upstairs, nor would the terrace even be levelled.  Martin therefore decided that the tradesmen must concentrate on the public rooms and, if possible, the two flats; the bedrooms could wait.  He also directed a team of estate workers to clear the terrace of builders’ rubbish so it wouldn’t look so dreadful.

Meanwhile Stephen was on another mission.  He had taken Miss Tadrew up to London to buy her a gown for the dinner and the ball to be honoured by the presence of the two princes.  Miss Tadrew had been made secretary of the Associates under the presidency of Prudence Plainsong.  Stephen had walked over the course with Miss Plainsong only the previous day.  She had been in a despondent mood.

“Stephen—I may call you Stephen after all these years?”

“Of course Prudence, it’s been 14 years since we first sat next to each other in the dining room at Croome.  I was so nervous, I didn’t dare to speak and I had to watch you carefully to see how to drink my soup.”

“I remember the occasion well and you didn’t seem nervous to me at all; you just smiled at whatever I said and talked about cricket.  It doesn’t take much to impress a girl.” She walked on a few paces and then turned around to look at Stephen.

“I feel that I’m a nothing in this village, Stephen, even less now that father is no longer the Member.  I used to help him when mother became ill, but now I’m not needed—not in that way.”  She bit her lower lip.  Mr Plainsong had not contested the last election and had been replaced by Noakes whom, it was said, Stanley Baldwin had his eye on for higher office.

“I’m now 30 and I feel that life is slipping through my fingers like sand.  Besides, there are few eligible young men down here— present company…et cetera, and I have horrible nightmares that I will end up simply inheriting my mother’s charities and devote my days to  looking after father and mother as they get older.  I hope that doesn’t sound selfish; I’m only trying to be realistic, but I think life should offer something more than that, even for an unmarried daughter, don’t you think?”

“Well why don’t you go up to London?”

“What, by myself and live in a bed-sit with a gas ring on the landing?”

“Why not take a flat with another girl or two even?  That way would be more fun, even if it wasn’t very grand.  There’s plenty of jollies to be had in London, and every second Londoner is a man.”

She laughed. “And how would I support myself?  I can’t see my father even allowing it, let alone financing it.”

“You could get a job—it has been done before, look at Dick Wittington.”

“But what can I do?  I can’t typewrite or make clothes.”

“You could always learn, or you could seek work in a posh dress shop, or I know of some girls who have set themselves up in a little shop doing interior decoration— it’s mainly making their own lampshades and cushions and they have a few bits and pieces in their window—all a bit bogus really, but they seem to be doing well, and you have got good taste.”

“Have I?” she asked disingenuously, at the same time as wiggling her hips in her modishly clinging tubular dress.

“You’ll have to think about what you could do, what you’d be good at—and that’s not always easy, but you’ll find London fun, and Martin and I could introduce you to people and I’m sure you must know plenty of people already.  Don’t mention all that to your father, though.”

“I won’t mention that aspect, but it does sound rather promising and there’s nothing for me down here.”

“Don’t be so sure, Prudence, if you are a working girl you won’t be able to dine at the Ritz every night, but you’ll find that it will be an advantage to have a house in the country for weekends.  People in London will like that.”

“I have got a pair of old aunts in Bayswater, but it might be better to have a place with some other girls.  You know, I was good at helping my father; there might be something I could do along those lines— especially if I learn to typewrite.”

They continued their walk around the links, now arm in arm, and Prudence felt happy for the first time in ages. 

***** 

Miss Tadrew was in London and indeed already in a dress shop with Aunt Maude and Stephen.  Stephen was frightfully bored but sat on a small gilded chair with his legs crossed and holding his hat, umbrella, and gloves, trying to look like a man about town.  He dutifully said that every dress looked lovely and smiled radiantly at the young ladies who modelled the dresses, despite wanting to go to the Saville Club and drink beer.

Eventually Miss Tadrew chose a very becoming outfit that was not a dress at all.  She had been very daring indeed and had chosen a pair of wide heavy satin evening trousers in a deep heliotrope colour and these were matched with a mantle of the same material with a trim of black net.  She would be the only woman in the room wearing trousers and Aunt Maude was trying not to be shocked as she admired the way the material moved.

Aunt Maude was emboldened to suggest that Miss Tadrew attend an establishment in Bond Street that was a ladies’ hairdresser and patronized by some of her friends who did not have their maids do their hair.  This was too much for Stephen who did go off to the club and agreed to meet them at Lyons Corner House afterwards.

“I never paid more than sixpence for this sort of haircut and this one charged me four shillings and called it a shingle bob,” giggled Miss Tadrew.  Nevertheless she did look smart with her cropped grey hair now more neatly shaped into the mode of the day— fashion had at last caught up with her, and Stephen told her so on the ride to Waterloo. 

***** 

The 25th of March arrived at last and as usual following the 24th, and indeed many other March days on which Martin had worked tirelessly.  Prayers were offered up to Providence as the morning rain had cleared by 9 o’clock and for the umpteenth time Martin paced around the unfinished building.  Fortunately the main hotel lounge, which was thrown open to the club lounge, was completed, even if dust sheets and judiciously placed banks of flowers masked the entrance to parts not yet finished.  The lounge had a beamed ceiling with stencilling on it.  Martin dared not touch the brown beams for fear that they were only made of plaster, however the room looked smart, and there were some gaudy Spanish tiles in place of the usual skirting boards and a little wrought ironwork, but the whole could equally be ‘Norman Farmhouse’ rather than ‘Spanish’ and it was, in fact, wholly ‘Modern English’.  The Belling radiators were operating, but Martin directed that a fire be lit in the wide fireplace with its medieval breast in the hope it would dispel the pervading odour of paint.

Back at Croome the servants were franticly allocating visitors to rooms and preparing for the great dinner in the evening. The staff had been supplemented by several servants from London, including M. Lefaux, whom Cook diplomatically allowed to take charge following the promise of an extra week’s holiday in August.

The band members had just arrived and their instruments, still in their cases, were lying about the Great Hall.  They were to sleep two to a room in a distant wing, but their bright and cheery American voices lifted Martin’s spirits.  He went upstairs to inspect, yet again, the Chinese Room, which was reserved for the Prince of Wales.  There they found Jenny, a maid, noisily nosing a vacuum cleaner over the carpet.  “It beats as it sweeps as it cleans, your lordship,” she shouted over the din.  Just at that moment Chilvers came in with a carafe of water and a tin of biscuits, which he set on a red lacquer table by the oriental bed.

“His Royal Highness will be most comfortable in here and Prince George I’ve put in the Celadon Room across the corridor, your lordship.” Martin nodded.  Chilvers then went over the guest list with Martin for a final time.  All was in readiness.

It was an unusual crowd who met the Princes at the tiny railway station—just a platform really—next to a ploughed field.  The villagers had all turned out in their Sunday best, while the official party were in their golfing clothes, Martin sporting a new pair of plus fours with Argyle stockings worn with brogues.  The two men stepped from the train.  They too were dressed for the occasion.  The brass band from Mr Tachell’s factory struck up the National Anthem and the Prince of Wales put out his cigarette and stood rigidly with the rest of them.  Then there were greetings, and the Princes moved to chat with the people who were kept back behind a cordon.

“I say Poole, I like your tie,” said The Prince of Wales.  It was a nice tie, of a subdued tweed with the Poole coronet surmounting a brassie with two golf balls.  To some it might look quite risqué in a certain light.

“It is the Club tie, sir.  Allow me to present you with one.”  In fact two ties were produced by Sir Bernard Bonnington and the Princes changed their ties there and then.  Martin was relieved to note that Prince George was not wearing lipstick on this occasion.

At 2 o’clock, after he had said a few words and unveiled a bronze plaque, the heir to the throne teed off.  It was a fine shot that went whizzing down the first fairway.  There was a ripple of applause.  Prince George sliced his ball slightly, but the patriotic crowd applauded anyway. Then Sir Bernard and Major Tilson completed the four but the villagers did not feel moved to clap their efforts.

“Why it’s young Tommy!” exclaimed Martin.

“Hullo your lordship, I’m your caddy; Sir Bernard assigned me to you.”  Tom Hughes was the formerly infant son of Hughes, Miss Tadrew’s servant.  He was now fifteen and a cheerful lad with a crop of pimples.

“Do you know much about golf Tommy?”

“Well, Sir Bernard said you’d be good for half a crown at the end of the day and I’ve played a few times.  Not that one your lordship; that’s the putter.”

“Oh yes, so it is; the handles all look the same.  Well Mr Knight-Poole and I have just started to take it up, so I would appreciate your help— especially in front of this crowd.” Martin placed his ball on the tee and took up his stance.

“Stand further back,” said Tommy through his teeth.  Martin moved back a pace. “More even on ya’ feet— ya weight is on the left one too much” hissed Tommy without opening is mouth.  Martin wanted to thank him, but instead gave a cheerful smile to the crowd watching from behind him.

He struck the ball with a satisfactory sound and it took flight, slicing a little like Prince George’s stroke.  Martin breathed a sigh of relief and found he had been sweating.  Stephen hit off as did the Plunger and finally came Alisdair Napier, a Scottish tenant farmer and president of the local Burns Society.

With a wave to the crowd they set off after their balls and Martin never played another stroke as good as he did that first one.  Two following foursomes played through and after the fifth hole Martin asked to be excused as he said he had to prepare ‘things’ for their Royal Highnesses.  Napier disapproved of such poor form, but could say little as his lease was up for renewal but would make sure he collected the five shillings if he won.

After just nine holes the golfers filed back to the new building.  There was much laughter and The Prince of Wales signed his card, which was souvenired by Sir Bernard for the archives.  The Prince had beaten his brother and the other two.  There was tea and beyond a cordon was a place where cocktails were to be served to the important guests.  Martin was particularly charming to Mr Tatchell who, as a major shareholder, had been invited to Croome for the dinner and ball.  “I don’t like him, Derby, but it is something I have to do for the greater good.  Without his thousands of pounds in investment, none of this would have happened.  Besides he seems to be supporting Noakes now that the Liberals are siding with us against Labour.” 

***** 

The two princes were good conversationalists, and the dinner went off splendidly.  Chilvers and Mathew served their Royal Highnesses while Lance was banished below the salt and given only robust silver dishes to operate.  Apart from a drip of Consommé a la Colbert on the dress of Mrs Tatchell, for which he could hardly have been held responsible as that lady had been leaning aggressively forward in an attempt to engage the Prince of Wales further up the table just as Lance came to her left elbow, there were no disasters.

Miss Tadrew had been placed close to the Windsors and Stephen was much pleased when some remarks about ladies’ golf were addressed to her.  Prince George saw there was some connection between Stephen and the elderly lady and made a further effort when they both found they had a love of South America where Miss Tadrew had once gone with her brother who had been in the navy like Prince George.

Prince George eagerly turned to Stephen who said:  “Miss Tadrew is responsible for my one or two good qualities, sir, as she helped bring me up after my mother died.”

“Nonsense, Stephen, it is you who brought out the best in me.  He’s the best human being in all of Dorset, sir.”

“Well, Miss Tadrew, he is certainly athletic and carries a damned useful clean handkerchief.”

“Well, I’ll take the credit for the handkerchief, your Royal Highness, but I was never able to get him to wear…”

“Miss Tadrew!” interrupted Stephen in alarm.

“I was only going to say I could never get you to wear a muffler even in the snow,” said Miss Tadrew and then continued in a stage whisper: “I wasn’t going to mention your not wearing drawers.”

The Prince heard this of course and giggled and then became engaged in the topic of flying and the recent exploits of Mr Alan Cobham while Stephen found himself talking to Lady Bonnington about the destruction of Madame Tussaud’s by fire.

It was shortly after that when Stephen felt a foot rubbing his leg.  It was clear to Stephen it was the Prince’s—even more so when he managed somehow to slip his pumps off.  To the others, however, it merely seemed that both their Royal Highnesses were sharing reminiscences about their late grandmother, Queen Alexandra, who had died in the previous November.  Perhaps it was encouraged by some memory of her late Majesty or indeed of King Edward himself, but Prince George had now started to massage Stephen’s cock with his toes.  Stephen was reminded of his bunk companion out in Australia and was feeling concerned at where this might be leading.

These pedal attentions ceased when the ladies withdrew and there was a certain amount of rearranging of chairs for the port.  The sound of Señor Lopez’s orchestra tuning up brought matters to a close and the ladies were gathered up for the dancing.

This part of the evening was even more successful than the dinner.  More guests arrived and there were plenty of young ladies—both married and unmarried—for the Princes.  The Prince of Wales dutifully partnered Lady Bonnington for the first dance while Prince George stood up with Prudence Plainsong.  There was a swapping of partners and while The Prince of Wales was dancing with Prudence, Prince George was seen asking Miss Tadrew who tried to refuse, but good manners prevailed, and she did a neat little waltz in her trousers with the royal personage who looked over her shoulder to make sure that Stephen was watching.

The dancing became more generalised and Stephen found he didn’t have a moment to himself.  He saw Martin dancing on the other side of the room and, not for the first time, liked the way his tailcoat flowed over his hips and buttocks.

Before supper the floor was cleared for the cabaret.  The two dancers, who appeared in glamorous evening clothes, were the most marvellous Stephen had ever seen.  They executed complicated and balletic routines, apparently choreographed by the brother, and they whirled around the floor more like swooping birds than humans with feet of clay, each never much more than a fingertip from the other and all the while conscious of the other’s steps and their position without the need of their eyes at all.  It all seemed to be silkily spontaneous, but obviously it was the result of much hard work and practice and all was suffused in an aura of effortless grace.

“Mala,” said Stephen quietly to Martin when he found himself beside him as they applauded the exit of the pair, “Prince George is getting a bit frisky with me.  What should I do?”

“Do?  Do what you want to do, Derbs,” said Martin just as the dancers returned for an encore.

“But I don’t want to do anything with him, Mala.  I want you tonight.”  There was more applause.  “I don’t really fancy him but you can’t refuse royalty.”

“Yes you can, Derbs,” said Martin now looking at him, realising that he really was troubled.  “But it might be politic not to disappoint him too much— not with all the good they have done for us and the golf links.”

“What about what we did for him, getting him out of Lady Austin’s?”

“That’s true,” admitted Martin.

“I mean Mala; I have always done things with whom I’ve liked, not against my will.  I don’t want to be bought and sold and shown off just because I’m working class… and for the mere… the accident of my body.”

“You don’t think I’ve bought you, do you Derbs?” asked Martin in alarm.

“No of course not, despite the differences in our stations.”

“That sounds awfully old fashioned.  Derby, I’m the lucky one, you chose me when you could have had any boy or girl you wanted.”

“I don’t know about that, Mala.”

“Don’t you enjoy being the village stud, Derby?”

“Not if that’s all I am.”

“I love you because of who you are, Stephen, inside.  Just to be with you is a thrill.  You know that.” Stephen smiled.  “But it is certainly convenient that you have…” Stephen’s smile transformed to a frown, but he realised that Martin was teasing. “I mean boys think differently to girls about such things, don’t they, Derbs?” he continued.

“I suppose you’re right.  It’s not like I’m being asked to give up my virginity or anything.  But I want you to know I don’t particularly like being used— it offends my morals, if you want it put grandly.  I suppose the King’s son is alright enough, but I am the village stud after all and I’m not just here at anyone’s beck and call and I do love you, Martin.  You know that.”

“I know you do, Derbs.  Think of it as an emergency.” 

***** 

It was no surprise then that, later in the evening, Prince George got Stephen alone in the gentlemen’s retiring room off the large and rather baroque hall (believed to have been designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor according to the guide book which could be purchased from Mrs Capstick for 6d.) that served as the ballroom.  He motioned to his equerry to stand at the entrance.

“I feel that I should thank you for Lady Austin’s, Stephen,” he said.

“That’s alright, sir.  Your coming here is more than enough.”

“Mrs Allen said that she was quite sure that you’d be ‘one almighty fuck’ to use her expression and you are devastatingly good looking.”

“Well I don’t know how Mrs Allen could know that, sir, as I’d never met her before that evening, and I suppose I have regular features,” said Stephen, thinking honesty was a good start.

“One feature seems far from regular.  May I?” The Prince put his hand on Stephen’s evening trousers and felt his length and girth. “What’s that?”

“I’m wearing a leather strap, sir.  It forms a tight ring and stretches one’s person, your Royal Highness, at least this type does, and I like the feel.”

“May I see?”

“No sir, I’d rather not,” said Stephen looking around in alarm.

“Well may I kiss you— to say thank you?”

Before Stephen could answer, Prince George knelt down and, finding the end of Stephen’s engorged penis in his trousers, kissed the blunt end through the material.  It was a lingering endearment and left a large damp patch on the cloth, which Stephen hoped would not be noticeable, although he wouldn’t have cared had he done the same to Martin, he reflected.

“I hope I will find you in your room next to Lord Branksome’s later tonight.   I think we have more to discuss.”  With that he combed his hair in the glass and departed for the dancing.

The rest of the evening was rather dampened for Stephen who had visions of the Tower of London or worse, but he tried not to spoil it for Martin who was dancing and laughing.  He suddenly thought of the barmaid, Elsie, who was one of the finest bad girls he had ever known, and who was, even now, in the parched wilds of Woolloomooloo.

At half-past one the two American dancers came out and danced with the rest of the guests, the sister partnering Martin and the brother partnering Miss Tadrew.  It was a conjurer’s trick because they did all the fancy steps but left their partners looking like professional cabaret performers.

It was late the next morning when Stephen came into Martin’s bedroom and woke him.  “Oh Derby, I don’t feel too good; it must have been all that rich food and champagne because I kept dreaming that we were playing golf and I couldn’t make the ball stay in the hole— it would jump out and there’d be more and more of them on the green and I had to…Oh what happened with the Prince?”

“Well he came at about three— he knocked softly but came straight in,” began Stephen standing there.  “I hadn’t been asleep because I can’t sleep when you’re not there.  Anyway, I sat up and he kept looking at me and rubbing his hand over my chest.” Martin could well imagine. “I told him who I really was— just a boy from the village—I didn’t mention the third cousin part —but he didn’t seem put off.   I also told him that you were my boyfriend.  Should I have put that the other way around?  And I said that he and I were merely un passade.  Was that all right?  I wanted to be diplomatic but didn’t want to end up as the Royal Favourite.”

“And was there any danger in that?”

“Oh yes,” he sniggered, “he won’t forget the rogering that I gave him in a hurry— that is, after I got some terrible cotton pyjamas off him first— they were like those ones you wore at school.  Don’t you think royalty would have expensive ones like The Plunger wears?”

“Perhaps his nanny still buys them.  I hope you don’t feel too ill-used, Derbs.  I’d rather the golf links fail than that.”

“No, I was just being overly sensitive.  It was all good practice, and the one you miss is the one you never had.”  And with that piece of wisdom, Stephen jumped on the bed and got under the blankets, fully dressed, with his Mala who was very rosy pink and warm. 

To be continued….