Out beyond the cheerful room with its crooked beams and cosy collection of books and curios arranged against the old plastered walls, and out through the narrow latticed windows, in a velvet blackness, broken only by tiny points of coloured light, lay the Thames.  Stephen thought of Jacob’s Island and his mind turned to that dreadful rogue from Dickens’ pen, Bill Sikes, and then to Gaffer Hexam who made his gruesome living retrieving corpses from the water.  The deep, mournful bass horn of a freighter sounded and he remembered it was also the river of Conrad, with ships and their cargoes coming and going to the four corners— like that poem by John Masefield that he had learnt at school.  In the quiet of the room he could hear the water lapping; it was laughing, for it was also the river of Jerome K. Jerome, he reflected. 

“It says in this report from this doctor in Shanghai, that Mrs Warfield has pseudo-hermaphroditism,” said Martin looking down and struggling with the complex word, “and that her internal organs are not those of a woman.”

“It is not as uncommon as you might think, Lord Branksome.  I have read some of the studies done in Germany,” said Isidor Rosen.  “It doesn’t mean that the lady has the male sexual organs, it is just that she does not have the properly developed internal organs of a normal woman.”

“Is it like the female characteristics that develop in eunuchs and castrati?” asked Stephen.”

“Yes, something like that, except that in these cases the woman may exhibit some male characteristics in bone and flesh.  Those boys who are castrated before puberty do not develop fully as males and in this case it might not be until puberty is reached that a young woman may find that she is infertile and developing broad shoulders, large hands, and a square jaw and so on.  In many cases it is slight.”

“Does that mean that Mrs Warfield-Simpson could not have children?” asked Martin.

“Almost certainly so, if this report is correct.”

“But she might still desire men and have sexual intercourse with them?”

“I don’t know.  In some cases, perhaps, and there are many forms of sexual intercourse that can satisfy both parties.”

Martin opened his mouth to say more, but suddenly reflected on his own case and felt himself start to burn.

“You find this embarrassing, Lord Branksome?  Perhaps I should have spared your modesty.”

Martin looked at Stephen who seemed amused at his flustered demeanour.  Why is he such a man of the world?  “I feel sorry for Mrs Simpson,” said Martin with finality.  “I feel that I am intruding on something very personal and I am now sorry that I have even read it for that reason.  Clearly it is something she had no control over and I know what it means to want to have children and to be unable.  Is this document mine to do what I want with?”

“Certainly,” said Rosen.

Martin, without asking Stephen, took it over to the empty fireplace and put it in the grate.  He found a box of matches on the mantelpiece and struck a light and put the paper to the flame.  In a moment it was ashes.

“Now these other papers are a different matter,” he said to Stephen as much as to Rosen.  “If Mata is being compromised by this Mrs Simpson and if she is an agent of Hitler or Mussolini or anyone else, then I think I am obliged to act.  The woman’s unfortunate condition has nothing to do with her conduct as revealed in these other documents.”

“Will you show them to Mata?” asked Stephen from the window.

“I’m not sure yet.  Dr Rosen,” said Martin turning to him, “my wife is without close friends in this country and Princess Stephanie von Hohenlohe-Waldenburg-Schillingsfürst has made herself a friend of my wife and has been a guest at my house.  The foolish conduct of the heir to the throne is one thing, but I am fearful that this news will make my wife believe that I am spying on her friends or perhaps that her own judgement is somehow always to be open to question.”

“Also it might make her fearful, just when she is starting to feel safe in this country, Mala,” added Stephen.

“Yes, that too.  She had good reason to fear the family of her first husband before she came, Dr Rosen,” explained Martin.

“Well, you are certainly being considerate, Lord Branksome.  Her Serene Highness is a lucky woman, if I may say so.”

“You may say so,” said Martin, smiling, ‘I am thinking principally of her welfare.  I could just explain it like that and I’m sure she’d see the reasonableness in it all.”  Stephen gave him a look.

“And she is in a delicate condition, your lordship,” contributed Rosen.

“But surely if it is for her own good, not to mention her safety…” said Martin in a plaintive voice.

“You’re not very experienced in the ways of ladies, Mala,” said Stephen.

“But the evidence, Derby; I could present her with the evidence and she could make up her own mind,” persisted Martin, “and it is not as if I was even spying—it was Custard who…”

“If ladies feel wronged,” said Rosen, “then no amount of facts will be admitted to spoil an argument.  Now my late wife could always be persuaded with flowers.  Of course she always knew why I was giving them to her, but it still seemed to work.”

“The other trick is to let them think they made the decision, but that is not for amateurs, Mala.”

“Perhaps we should have some more coffee and kummel?” said Dr Rosen, faintly amused. 

****** 

Martin had been struggling with how to tell Mata that her new friend, Princess Stephanie, was almost certainly a Nazi agent of some kind and that she was attempting to cultivate her friendship for political ends.  In London Mata seemed so well and so happy that it seemed cruel, to Martin’s way of thinking, to shatter this illusion.  Mata spent long hours with Erna up in the old school room where they chatted to The Plunger as he worked on the mural, bringing him drinks and sandwiches and washing his brushes in turpentine.

“Was ist das, Rot?” asked Erna, calling him by their pet name for the colour of his hair and van Dyke, which were carefully maintained and even enhanced by his manservant, Gertie.

The Plunger and Mata looked at the pencil outline of a weird and futuristic helical shape that oddly contrasted with the more familiar toy Grenadier Guards with unnaturally rosy cheeks that he was painting just now in scarlet lake.

“That’s the new penguin pool at the zoo.  Haven’t you seen it?”

The women hadn’t.  “Oh I love penguins!” cried Mata.  “Please take us there so we can see them, Rot,” she cried, clapping her hands.

The Plunger smiled and was secretly pleased that they liked him so well and could converse with such an easy informality.  “Very well, we’ll go to the zoo, but just let me finish this sentry box.” 

******** 

At Croome, Martin found, on one afternoon while Erna was down at the infant school site, that Mata had joined him in the sunken garden.  They discussed the health of the plants with translations being made between the English and German common names for them.  Mata then expressed a desire to build her own garden— a rock garden with moraines and gravel and trickling water so that she might grow edelweiss and other alpines to remind her of Switzerland where she had passed her girlhood.

Suddenly Martin said: “Mata, have you heard from Princess Stephanie?”

“No, Martin.  Do you want me to write to her or telephone?”

“No, nothing like that, it’s just that…it’s because that…Mata, I’m afraid that I have some unfortunate news.”  Mata looked at him without any expression.  “I have been told…no, I have seen evidence, that Stephanie is very close to Hitler and that she is sending reports back to Germany on all the socially prominent people that she has been able to influence and that her American friend…”

“Mrs Simpson?”

“Yes, Mrs Simpson is also in sympathy and is the mistress of the Prince of Wales.”

“So you are forbidding me from seeing her?”

“Well, I was hoping that it would not come to that.  I would not presume to rule your private life— I’m hardly in the position of an ordinary husband, who can do that, but I do care for your welfare and none of us are well disposed to the Nazis, are we?”

“It is alright, Martin, I was not going to see her again; she was rude to Erna.”  Martin felt himself relax.  “Where did you get this information?”

“It was gathered by the Soviets I think and it came from one of their agents who is now in disgrace and has been recalled— probably to his death.”  He then told the story of Isidor Rosen, omitting the medical report on Mrs Simpson.

“So this Jewish boy you helped twenty years ago is now a doctor and he has repaid your kindness with this information that he thinks might prevent me from being jeopardised?”

“Yes, so it appears.”

“You’re a good man, Lord Branksome, thank you,” said Her Serene Highness and kissed him on the cheek in violation of the Potsdam agreement.  Martin blushed.  “Can you trust this information from the Soviets?”

“Not completely, I confess.  It was intended for their own people, but of course it is possible that they intended the British government to obtain it all along, but that would mean that Isidor Rosen was in on it and I don’t think he is— well, not intentionally at any rate.”

“And will the British government get it?”

“I don’t know.  What do you think I should do?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, Mata, I’m asking you and don’t say to ask Stephen.”

“Well, I think that you should give it to them if it doesn’t get Isidor Rosen into trouble.  If Stephanie is an ardent Nazi and if Mrs Simpson is obtaining confidential material through the Prince’s ‘pillow talk’— is that the expression?  Then our country is compromised— and it is my country now too, I suppose.  Those Nazis are beasts.”

“Very patriotic, Mata,” said Martin with a little humour.   “Now where do you propose that this alpine garden be built?” 

Martin told Stephen what Mata had said and that she recommended that the material be passed on to the government.  “I thought it should go to Sir Robert Vansittart, Derbs,” he said.

“I agree,” Stephen said to Martin’s relief, “but I fear that he will demand to know its provenance.  If Isidor’s name should be divulged I fear that he will be pressed by Military Intelligence— especially as he is a Communist— and that the Russians may find out as well.”

“But that would require a double agent in our ranks, Derbs, right there in the FO.  It’s unthinkable at any of our chaps could be Soviet spies— most of them went to my school.”

“Yes that would be hard to believe, Mala, but I still think we should be cautious.  Why don’t you just post these papers to Sir Robert without any covering letter; there’s nothing in them to associate them with you or Isidor.”

Martin agreed and would not mention it to Biffo or Donald or anyone else except Mata and when they were next in London a large, plain envelope was obtained and Myles was given the task of copying out the address in block letters and the papers were wiped for fingerprints and sealed in the envelope which Glass took to the pillar box in Piccadilly Circus. 

***** 

It had been on the shooting weekend at Croome when Princess Stephanie held such high hopes of becoming intimates of the Poole family, no doubt with a view to adding a notch to her belt and a paragraph to Berlin, that two members of that family were in earnest conversation in the Prince Regent’s bedroom.

“There’s no doubt that she’s pregnant, Philip,” said Lady Constance Rous-Poole, the former Miss Polk-Stewart of Denver Colorado.  She was getting ready to change for tea and had rung for her maid who had accompanied them and Philip was cleaning a pea rifle.  “She must be five months gone at least and you know what that means?”

“That she probably shouldn’t ride out when we hunt with the drag on Sunday?”

“No you fool; if it’s a boy then he will succeed to the title and the estate instead of you and our Georgie.”

“No need to sound quite so like Lady Macbeth, my dear.  Our son will still inherit Tetbury Park and my title.” 

“And the mortgages.  Their son will be a Marquess, Philip, don’t you understand?  And Croome is plenty wealthy.”

“But the hunting is nowhere near as fine as in Gloucestershire, Connie and I’m not jealous; I’d rather have you than any princess.”  He went to kiss her but she pushed him away.

“I just don’t know how she became pregnant,” Lady Constance muttered almost to herself.

“What do you mean, dearest?  We’ve had two children, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Never mind and I have not forgotten and I’ll thank you to keep to your own room tonight.” 

***** 

“I think it was English gardens that I missed the most, Stephen.  We had mostly what they call ‘evergreens’ because the winters were so cold and the ground froze so deep that it was too difficult to have flowering shrubs and so on.  We did not even have a fenced yard.”

“Well this is really Martin’s garden, Honoria, and if you look around the house you will find nurserymen’s catalogues and packets of seeds in all sorts of odd places.”  Stephen stopped himself from saying that he found the rose catalogue of Messers T. Hilling and Company of Chobham in their bed only this morning.

“Then I envy him.  You know Stephen, Thaddeus has left me a rich women and I thought I should use the money to show Tad that there is more to the world than he could see from St Cloud.  An English school will be good for him.”

“It is a pretty town, from my memory, Honoria.” 

Mrs Buckweet pulled a face.  “I suppose along the river was restful and perhaps Barden Park…and the summer skies…and of course I made some good friends there— the people there aren’t all small minded— although some of them certainly are— but it’s just that the world of ideas and new experiences and everything seemed so far away and I’m afraid I didn’t fit into being ‘just folks’ very well— especially at first and I know many of the locals thought me standoffish.  And Stephen,” Stephen turned to her, “if I never see gingham and another puffy sleeve again it will be too soon.”

“So you don’t intend to return?”

“Not to St Cloud.  Do you know that Thaddeus hadn’t been dead more than a month— thank you for your lovely letter by the way— when Mr Gribble, the owner of the hardware store— that’s what they call an ironmonger’s— proposed to me.  And do you know what the worst part was?”  Stephen didn’t.  “The worst of it was that I felt flattered and wondered for a minute if I should accept.”

“Would you like to remarry?”

They ceased walking and sat on a stone bench in the shade.  Honoria Buckweet then unburdened herself to Stephen on this matter.  “…and I was very tempted, I must confess, when you turned up out of the blue in 1917 in your handsome uniform looking like you had just stepped out of a recruiting poster, but I was pregnant then and…well…it wouldn’t have been right.  But you’re not married Stephen?”  Stephen said nothing.  “And isn’t it lovely that Princess Mata is having a baby?’

“Yes it is.”

“And what a coincidence that Dr Obermann should also be having one.”  Stephen tried to keep looking straight ahead but felt that Honoria had turned and was giving him a look to match her arch tone.  “So I had better be careful under this roof or I might find myself in the same way.  Do you think that would be likely, Stephen?” she said placing her hand on his thigh and let her fingers stray.

“I don’t think so, Honoria.  I have no intention of marrying any lady.”

“No, I didn’t suppose so, more is the pity.  But if you were to kiss me it would be very nice.”  Stephen leaned over and kissed her.  “And if you were to come to my room…”

“No Honoria that is not a good idea.  It is very tempting and I was very tempted in St Cloud, but that was a long time ago.” The hand which had been caressing Stephen’s cock through his trousers was removed.

“Oh well,” she said brightly, but clearly covering up her disappointment and embarrassment for having exposed herself, “I will just have to find another man, this time a young one.  Now that I have money I could take any village swain I thought attractive— he wouldn’t have to have black hair and blue eyes and a devastating pencil moustache; your footman, for instance is a pretty boy— the big blond one.”

“You mean Lance?  He’s only 24 and his mother still sends him food parcels and Sunday school tracts.”

“Well, I find him attractive and I taught Sunday school in St Cloud for a brief time right before Thaddeus’ election and if I can’t have you, he is surely the social equal of Mr Gribble and Mr Young the dry goods merchant.”

“Honoria, our servants are out of bounds, I must insist.  Do you know how hard it is for Chilvers to get a good footman?”

“I was only joking Stephen,” she replied, but Stephen was not entirely sure, “and I would not want to upset your very particular domestic arrangements— any of them— so I will look for a husband in London.  Did I tell you I’d taken a lease on a flat in Bryanston Square— just near Princess Stephanie?”  Honoria then went on to describe it and gave a damning critique of all her new neighbours.

High above, and obscured by the venerable battlements of the ancient house that had been the seat of the Poole family for centuries, but within earshot of this contemporary conversation, lay Carlo Sifridi, Martin and Stephen’s valet.  He left his sunbathing position on the rug and sidled up closer to the crenulations so that he might not miss a word and with the practiced ear of an eavesdropper he caught most of what transpired, with a moment’s pang that Stephen might betray Martin and then with surprise that his protégé, young Lance, should be the lustful object of this older woman.  He wanted to sneak a look over the edge, but could not squeeze his head through the gap, so he painted his own picture in his mind of what actions had accompanied the dialogue he had overheard.

Princess Stephanie von Hohenlohe-Waldenburg-Schillingsfürst was a remarkable creature.  No doubt she had been a beautiful young woman in the various European capitals before the War and now she was, as some journals might describe, terribly ‘sophisticated’ or even ‘glamorous’ and this may have been partly the result of her eyebrows, which had been shaved and redrawn again at a slightly more haughty elevation.  She was small and dark-complexioned but she dressed and carried herself with considerable authority.  The exact origins of her title were a bit vague and Martin presumed that she had married it rather than having been born to the purple, although he knew that her last husband had been a count. But of her ruthless intelligence there could be little doubt.  While she did not ‘drop names’ in any vulgar way, she achieved the same end by her conversation which displayed a knowledge of important people and of most European nations and the United States as well.

“Of course we are all Europeans now, don’t you agree, Lord Branksome?”  Before Martin could formulate an answer to this rhetorical question, the lady continued: “And there has been a breaking down of those provincial attitudes that pitted nation against nation so disastrously in the War.  We can see this in the world of business, where British, French and American firms now all have offices and factories in each other’s cities.  It goes without saying that Art and Science and Fashion have no borders.”

“In Fashion certainly,” said Lady Bonnington who was much taken with Princess Stephanie’s dress sense.

“My dress is from Paris, my pearls are from Tokyo, my shoes are Italian and this watch was made in Switzerland.  Of course most people could say exactly the same thing.”  Lady Bonnington felt that she would love to say that her dress was from Paris but, in truth, it had been made by Madame Beryl in Wimbourne Minster.  “Until now the wrong people have too often been in charge and they have had to pander to narrow interests and to those with little education or knowledge of the wider world.  It is democracy’s weakness, I’m afraid.”  She looked to Stephen for a response.

“We need our people to be better educated, certainly.”

“But can they be?  And if they can be, can they be in time?  This century is moving along very quickly and most of the peasants in Russia, Germany, France and even here in England are still in the last century or even the one before.  Some of them are little better than the beasts in the fields and must have a master to drive them.”  She paused to let this sink in.  “This is the age of the expert.  I heard a new word the other day: ‘technocrat’— it means rule by experts in Science and Medicine and Engineering.  Perhaps this is the age of the technocrat, not of the common man.”

“But surely we must have in our government people who understand people, not just machines and the economy,” said Teddy from the far end of the table.

“I quite agree, Mr Loew.  We need in our government men who are experts in motivating the great masses and men with the vision to see beyond narrow self-interest or the next election.  We are already seeing these people in the United States, in Italy…”

“…and in Germany,” piped up Miss Tadrew who was sitting next to Stephen and making sure that Mrs Buckweet kept her hands to herself.

“And in Germany, certainly.”

“Well I prefer to make up my own mind and I resent being motivated.  That’s why I voted for you, Mr Sachs—you don’t shout and you give me time to think; that’s why I like your sermons, Mr Destrombe.”

“Thank you, Miss Tadrew.  I do not hold with the evangelicals and I’m only too glad that you stay awake,” he said giving Martin a look.

“I don’t know about technocrats, Your Serene Highness,” said Martin, “but I’m sure the age of the aristocrats is over.”

“I’m afraid so, Lord Branksome, but I do approve of your capacity in this country to create new peerages for men of ability; my friends Lord Beaverbrook and Lord Rothermere spring to mind and Sir William Morris is now Lord Nuffield I believe.  Your father too I have met, Mr Craigth.”

“That doesn’t happen in the United States,” said Mrs Buckweet.  “Half the government are nonentities and the real brains prefer to concentrate on their businesses.”

“I quite agree,” said Princess Stephanie, “Your Mr Ford should be president or young Mr Lindberg…”

“Or Clark Gable,” called out Charles Fortune from down at the other end.  There was an infinitesimal pause while the table decided that he was being sarcastic.

“Or Greta Garbo, she could motivate me,” said Mr Destrombe with sudden audacity, earning a black look from his wife.

“Or Mae West, I’d vote for her,” said Mr Sutton.

“Rin Tin Tin, for president!” chimed in Mrs Sutton and the whole table fell to giggles, leaving Princess Stephanie without an audience.  

“Mala,” said Stephen as he lay on his back with his right arm cradling Martin, “what did you think of Princess Stephanie?”

“Rather formidable; like a younger Margot Asquith.  I’m not sure that I like her as well as Mata does.  She’s going to take her to meet her dressmaker, a Madame de Wolkoff, who also runs the Russian Tea Room in South Kensington— apparently she is very good and Mata is excited of course.”

“The Princess doesn’t ride and doesn’t hunt.  That is a bit unusual in the aristocracy, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps a bit.  There are those crackpots that oppose blood sports; she surely isn’t one of those?”

“Surely not a lowdown abolitionist, Huck?” said Stephen teasingly.

“Very funny.  Perhaps she spent a good deal of time in cities and watering places.  I don’t know much about Austrian royalty, but I’m almost certain she was not born a princess.”

“Not like our own genuine one.”

“No, we’re very lucky, aren’t we?  She’ll make a very good mother; she has a gentle nature, but is nobody’s fool.”

“I do believe she is a bit fond of you, Mala.”

“And I’m sure she’s fond of you, Derbs.”

“There was silence for a few minutes then Stephen spoke:  “Mala, do you think you’d like to let Mr Chilvers watch us…you know…?”

“Good heavens!” cried Martin, “How your mind works!  What has that got to do with Princess Stephanie?”

“Oh, no connection at all.  It’s just that up on the roof I felt sorry for Mr Chilvers.  I mean we hardly think of him as having any human feelings at all and it can’t be much fun being Mr Chilvers and I thought…well…he might like some entertainment.  I could put on a performance and…”

“No Derby, I don’t want that.  Chilvers has known me all my life— he’s like my father.  I’m not sure that either of us would enjoy it.  Imagine it were Titus.”

“Titus was very broad-minded, Mala.  He used to catch me masturbating and even sucking myself.”

“Yes, but he didn’t deliberately do it, nor did he want to watch.”

“I suppose so, but he certainly paused when he saw me with my own cock in my mouth.”

“Well that is quite a remarkable circus trick, Derbs, and one could hardly blame anyone for being curious, but it is quite different to involving Chilvers in making love to me.  I would not enjoy it.”

“But you don’t mind Carlo and lots of other people watching or even joining in.”

“I like to show you off, Derbs, but not to Chilvers; he’s already seen enough without providing him a chair at the end of our bed.”

“I just thought I’d ask, Mala,” said Stephen rolling over onto his stomach and taking up more than his fair share of the bed.

Martin smiled to himself; Stephen thought differently to most people he was quite sure.  He looked at his lover lying next to him: the mound of his meaty buttocks was clearly outlined beneath the blankets and his legs were spread wide; his shoulders were uncovered and his elbows were raised with his arms tucked beneath his head and the interlaced fingers cradled his cheek.  The back of his strong neck, where his black hair stopped, was terribly attractive, Martin suddenly realised and there and then determined not to share him with anybody.

In the great kitchens of Croome the hunt breakfast was being prepared and Mathew and Lance, under the direction of Chilvers, were busy packing the stout wicker hampers of venerable heritage.  These would be loaded onto the brake which was drawn up outside in the kitchen yard and taken out to where the shooters were on the Home Farm.

“Lance!” called Carlo.

“Sorry Carlo, I can’t stop.  Here, help me with this bucket of ice.”  The ice was for the champagne and Chilvers was down in the cellar selecting vintages.

Carlo hurried alongside him.  “You didn’t come to my room last night.”

“Sorry Carlo, I was too tired and …er…I took care of matters myself.”  The ice was loaded and the two men walked quickly back in the direction of the kitchen.

“Wait Lance, I have something to tell you.”  Lance paused and Carlo manoeuvred him out of earshot.  “I overheard something.  One of the women said she would like you to fuck her.”

“Me? You mean one of them upstairs?”  Carlo nodded, his eyes shining.

“I couldn’t do that; I’d lose my job.”

“Yes you could.  You just go to her room tonight and pretend that you had thought she’d rung, like.  If she doesn’t want you, she’ll just send you packing.”

“Well I could certainly use a women.  I don’t think it’s healthy for me, Carlo, to keep it bottled up.”

“Of course it ain’t.”

“I suppose she’s an older lady,” he said with slight disappointment in his voice.

“Younger than me, but she’d know her way about, Carlo, and you’d like that.”  Carlo had to admit that he would and that it had, in fact, become something of a speciality ever since Mrs Vetch, the wife of a poultry farmer, had formed an attachment for the lad of an intensely physical and demanding kind.

“Which one is it?”

“The one from America.  Do you know her?”  Lance nodded.  “Well her door will be unlocked.  I want you to have a bath first and, here, put some of this on.”  Carlo removed a bottle of expensive cologne from Trumper’s from his pocket.  “It’s Mr Stephen’s so you know it will do the trick.”

“Carlo!” boomed Mr Chilvers.  “Stop gossiping and get those hampers into the brake.  It is departing in five minutes.” 

***** 

“Where are they Mr Chilvers?”

“They’re either asleep or they have gone across to Holes to look at the Saxon church, or out for some rough shooting on the golf course.  I hope no one is injured this time, Mr Stephen.  I thought I’d have a few minutes up here as I was up at 5:00.”

“Yes, it was a good shoot this morning, but I’m tired too.”  Stephen rolled over on his stomach, but he spread his legs and made sure his cock and balls were visible in case Chilvers should desire to see them.  The sun was behind the clouds but the lead flats were deliciously warm and Stephen felt the heat penetrating his body while a light breeze occasionally managed to invade their sequestered location and cheekily tingled the flesh on his back and buttocks.  He chanced a sideways look at Chilvers.  Chilvers was looking and saw him.  They exchanged little smiles.  Stephen tossed himself onto is back.  “This breeze is having an effect on my privates, Mr Chilvers, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Don’t you mean that what is in your head is having an effect, Mr Stephen?”

“Well, I suppose it is all in the mind, but I can’t help but feel good up here with the warmth and the teasing breeze.”

“Teasing, yes…” said Chilvers quietly.

“Oh Mr Chilvers, I don’t mean to tease!” cried Stephen in horror.

“Well, what exactly do you mean to do, Mr Stephen?” he asked, but not with any hatred in his voice.

“I just thought that after the other day…well…”

“People have always wanted to look at you, Mr Stephen, haven’t they?  Ever since you were a lad.”

“Yes, I suppose they have and I have become used to it— I even expect it.”

“Well, I’m afraid you are very nice to look at and I also enjoy it, but I think that such things should remain between you and his lordship.  It is a little unfair to an old fellow like me and perhaps you are old enough to know better, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Stephen was greatly abashed. “I’m sorry, it was thoughtless of me, Mr Chilvers; I feel such a cad.”

“Anyone less like a cad I have yet to meet and I doubt one could be found in the whole of Dorset, Mr Stephen.”

“Perhaps I should cover up?  We are all meant to be equal up here and I have been intimidating you for my own selfish pleasure.”  He reached for the towel, which was above Chilvers just as the breeze caught it and it eluded his grasp.

“No, Mr Stephen, there is no need for that; I have overstated the matter.  I only meant…” Stephen had risen on one knee and stretched himself across Chilvers just as the towel moved again.  “I only meant that as much as I would like to…”  Stephen had extended himself and with the very tips of his fingers seized the errant napery and was just thinking he would have to improve his fielding before the cricket season began when he looked down:  his cock and balls were lying across the butler’s face and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“Oh, I say, Mr Chilvers, I’m terribly sorry.  I didn’t mean to do that— after what you had just said— but the towel just…”  In saying all his he had not moved however and if Chilver’s had been imprudent enough to open his mouth to reply he would surely have swallowed one of Stephen’s low-hanging testicles, however the operation of his eyebrow was eloquence itself.

They quickly resumed their respective and chaste positions and Stephen covered his groin with the towel, which was a small one for drying one’s hands.

“Mr Stephen,” said Chilvers after a few minutes, “I think that the towel is a useless precaution and you remain…ahem…a pillar of temptation.”  Stephen opened his eyes and looked down.  His tempting pillar was almost at ‘full mast’— if naval expressions were employed— and the towel now greatly resembled a circus tent.

“I’m sorry again, Mr Chilvers, I don’t know what is the matter with me this morning; I usually have more control.”

“I will just have to cope,” said Chilvers, but with less resignation in his voice than his words might have engendered.

Stephen whipped the cloth aside and his member found its rightful place in the sun— of which there was likely to be only another ten or fifteen minutes as rain clouds were gathering.  Chilvers looked unashamedly as did Stephen and wondered what damage that monster was capable of and how much of it his lordship could accommodate— quite a lot by the sounds he regularly heard through the bedroom door.  A tiny pearl glistened on the rosy tip, which was attractively embowered in silky folds or brown skin.  Stephen pulled this foreskin back.

“Can you put it in your mouth, Mr Stephen?” 

***** 

“Lance, how did last night go?”  Lance took Carlo’s elbow and led him to the stillroom and shut the door.

“Very well indeed.  I suppose you want the details.”

“Of course; it was my clever work that made it all happen.”

“But it was all my effort that made it a success and it was a lot of effort, Carlo.  These older women are very demanding and I sometimes wonder if they know we are only flesh and blood.”

“So tell me,” insisted Carlo impatiently.

“Well I did it to her twice and it was after 3:00 before I got back to my room.  Before I knew it, it was time to get up for the breakfasts.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“Well I took a bath— even though it was not Saturday— and I put on plenty of Mr Stephen’s scent.  I‘m sure you can still smell it in her room.  I’ll give you the bottle back tonight; I think there’s a drop left— I hope Mr Stephen won’t miss it.”  Carlo was growing impatient.  “Well, her door was unlocked and I just asked if she had rung.  She was a little surprised to see me, but kept me talking.  She was still dressed but asked me to wait for a bit until her maid had come and gone.  So I waited by the stairs and then returned.  We talked for a couple of minutes and then before you could say knife, she was out of her silk thingamajig and covering me with kisses as she was having a go at my buttons.  I will have to count them Carlo; I’m sure one’s missing and it wouldn’t do for it to be found in her room.  Do you think she could have swallowed it?”  Carlo was unsure.  “Well, it started with me on my back and her on top of me and then when she was all sloppy-like, I took her from behind.”

“Did she suck you Lance?”

“She did— both before and after and do you know where she put her finger?”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes, it went pretty well, except that we had to be a bit quiet with her husband being in the next room, like.”

“What do you mean?  She’s a widow; her husband is dead.”

“Dead drunk maybe, but he’s out hunting again today and I’m to meet her at 3:00.”

Carlo’s mind swiftly made some calculations.  “Lance, it was Mrs Buckweet you went to last night, wasn’t it?”

“Buckweet?  No, it were Lady Rous-Poole whom I is to call Connie when I’m on the job.”

“Lance!” cried Carlo aghast, “it was Mrs Buckweet I heard talking to Mr Stephen in the garden, not Lady Rous-Poole.  You went to the wrong room, you fool.”

“Now Carlo, there is no need to be abusive.  Lady Rous-Poole is from America, ain’t she?  She sounds like a Yankee.  Her door was unlocked and she was in need of a good rogering, which I gave her.  She certainly didn’t complain and I’m ready for this afternoon if Mr Chilvers can spare me after luncheon.  This other one, will she be staying until Monday? I can’t promise that I can fit her in too.”

To be continued…