Chapter 1
My return to England from Indian serviceA title without the means to support it-A lonely dinner in Pall Mall-My unexpected visitor-News of an astonishing inheritance-Master of Coombe-My first sight of the house and its fine estate-Sian, the Welsh maidservant-J am bequeathed two young ladies of the riding-school-The beauty of Laura and Ruth-The excitement of possessing such young nymphs!
My story begins on an evening late in summer. The time is not more than two years ago and the place, of course, is London. I had just returned to England with my regiment after several years of Indian service, divided between garrison duties at Meerut and the pleasures of the season at the Viceregal Palace in Calcutta.
Seeing that I hold both military rank and a noble title, you may imagine that I had come home to a rich inheritance. I fear this was far from the truth. On the evening in question I had gone to dine alone at my club. I intended, you see, to ponder on my predicament. I wondered whether I should not sell out of my regiment and seek a fortune elsewhereor perhaps exchange with some luckier fellow in a regiment bound from Gravesend to Bombay. Soldiering in India may thin a man's blood, but it comes a sight cheaper than in England.
You wonder how a young lord with a title can have been so wretchedly provided for? The answer is simple to those who know the English law.
My grandfather, the third earl, held both the title and the estates. But the wealth was not, as they say, "entailed." In other words, the title would go to his eldest son but he might leave the property to whomsoever he chose. And so he did. My father married against the old fellow's wishes and was cut off without a shilling, though he inherited the earldom. The house at Coombe and all that went with it was willed to his younger brother, my uncle. Upon his death, the estate went to my cousin John Fortescue, a dozen years my junior.
I was almost a stranger to my uncle and my cousin. I had last heard that John Fortescue was in the pink of health and about to marry the daughter of a Somerset squire. A few more months and there would be the first of his children to inherit when the time came. That I should ever regain the family acres appeared a vain dream.
Believe me, I would not weary you with these details of my misfortunes, were it not that they relate directly to what follows.
Imagine me, if you will, riding through the lamplit dusk of a London evening, in a hired four-wheeler, to my club. I had a life membership there and so could eat cheaper than at Romano's or the Cafe Royal. It was gone eight o'clock when I arrived at the handsome balustraded portico which overlooks Pall Mall, and the hour for dinner was almost past.
Because the story which I tell you is true, it would be indiscreet of me to name that famous club. You will recognise it soon enough. Did you never walk down Pall Mall, past the Duke of York's steps, with the statue of the grand old warrior himself and a prospect of the trees in St. James Park? Not a stones throw from there stood the fine pillared club-house, portraits of our great generals and admirals glimpsed through its library windows.
I ate alone in the long dining-room upstairs, hearing the gossip of the summer all about me. The season was over by now and most of the fellows gone north to the grouse moors or to fish for salmon. The roast beef was plain fodder to a man used to Indian curry, but the claret was decent enough. When the meal was done, I took my brandy and soda into the library with its fine Corinthian columns and leather bindings in breakfront cases. I had done no more than sit in a leather chair and sip at my glass, when old Rogers-who had been servant there in my grandfather's time-touched me gently on the shoulder.
"Sir James Ramsbury of Lincolns-Inn asks to see you, my lord. On the most pressing business, Sir James assures me."
I could not imagine what business the family lawyer might have with me at such a time of night. If the matter was "pressing," I had best see what he said. The club, of course, is open to members only. Sir James would have been blackballed a dozen times over had his name been put up for it. However, there is a visitors' drawing-room upstairs, overlooking the park, where callers may be received.
Glass in hand, I went up the marble curve of the broad Regency staircase. What the deuce could the old curmudgeon want? Ten to one he had some complaint about my debts and was here to remonstrate with me on my rate of expenditure. What business had the miserable old devil to come preaching to a fellow in his club after dinner? Such was my mood as I entered the visitors' drawing-room with its Egyptian settees in yellow damask. I was brave enough now to deal firmly with Sir James Ramsbury
Q.C.
He was standing with his back to the elegant arch of the Georgian window whose little balcony looks towards Carlton Terrace and the park trees. I saw at once that he had come upon an errand quite different to the one I had in mind. There was no frock-coat nor stock. He was dressed in traveling clothes and had the air of the railroad terminus about him. One could smell soot at several yards distance.
"My dear Sir James!" I said, as if the sight of him filled me with unaccountable pleasure, "To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Will you take a glass of wine?"
He waved the suggestion aside and advanced upon me with hangdog look.
"My lord," he said quietly, as if he feared to be overheard, "I called upon you at your rooms half an hour ago. Your servant informed me that I should find you here. My lord, you are the Master of Coombe."
He was in error, of course, but his air of lean and slippered pantaloon was enough to suggest that senility had laid fast upon him.
"No, sir," I said gently, settling him back in a chair, "I hold the family title. My cousin young Fortescue is the Master of Coombe-and has been so for several years past. He will marry in a few weeks and his son will be master after him."
That seemed to put the position as neatly as any attorney could wish. But Sir James drew a red silk handkerchief from his tweed jacket and blew a trumpet blast upon his nose. Then he looked up at me and his rheumy old eyes seemed to water with strong feeling.
"You have not heard, my lord," he murmured, "I did not know where you were to be found-where a wire might be sent. Young Mr. Fortescue was thrown by the bay gelding at the Manor Farm gate. It was last night, as he was riding home from the town. Dr. Gift did all that he could. I was sent for this morning. Mr. Fortescue expired shortly after lunch. He left no will, unfortunately. I repeatedly urged upon him the wisdom of drawing one up but he had decided to wait until the eve of his marriage next month. My lord, for the past six hours you-as his nearest living relative-have been Master of Coombe.
Believe me, I did not wish John Fortescue dead. Yet what a hypocrite I should be now to lay claim to a madness of grief for a man I scarcely knew. Even as I regretted his passing, I could not but be aware that young Fortescue's death had solved the very problems which had brought me to such a desperate state. A month more and he would have married. A year longer and there would have been a son to succeed him. As it was, I stood next in line. The house and estate of Coombe, with all the revenues and responsibilities, had passed to me. Confident in the span of life remaining to him, Fortescue had not bothered to will it otherwise.
Perhaps his conscience had nagged him. Perhaps he wished, in the event of having no son of his own, that the property should pass back to me. I would possess it then as I should have done if my own father had not been disinherited.
Until I went to take possession of my inheritance, a week or so later, I had visited Coombe only oncein my childhood. How little its beauty had impressed me then! As the train bore me between wooded hills to the ancient city a few miles from the house, I tried to recall that visit long ago.
An open carriage waited at the station. We drove out of town, past handsome terraces, built when the Regent was prince and Wellington the conqueror of Europe. The village of Coombe lay at a little distance in an idyllic landscape of lush fields and wooded hills. There are several other fine houses there and the road passed along the valley between high walls of pale stone overhung with blue and purple flowers. Higher still towered the shade of beech and elm, the woods rolling away on either side.
Was there ever so picturesque a place? Within the old walled churchyard rose the square lichened tower of the medieval church, from whose top the beacon fires had been sighted after Waterloo, the Armada, and Agincourt. A great yew tree spread its branches almost to the height of the tower itself.
Presently the road grew wider. Ahead of us, at the top of a little vale, rose the main front of Coombe itself. It was built of a sandy stone with tall chimneys and long sash windows set in a regular sequence. A pediment and pilasters in the style of the eighteenth century decorated its facade. Yet it was a gentleman's dwelling rather than a great house. like the village it was a place of dovecots and dairies, a retreat where a fellow might take his ease undisturbed.
The carriage entered the gravelled courtyard before the house. At the centre of this space a marble nymph lay in the fountain basin while the water played delicately over her naked form. Beyond the balustrades the gardens stretched down the little valley to an ornamental bridge over the stream which closed the view.
From the gravelled forecourt to the handsome portico, a short flight of broad stone steps led me to my inheritance. On either side, the servants bowed or curtsied, according to their sex. Now, I would not boast of my new-found affluence nor lead you to suppose that the place was grander than I found it. Yet there was Heathers the butler, Wild man, the head groom, and half a dozen women from housekeeper to scullery maid.
It was, you see, an ample establishment but in no way ostentatious. I would by no means be the greatest man in the country. Yet in the wooded valley which led from Coombe to the crescents and terraces of the little city, I was to be master. What more could a man ask for than to be lord of such a little kingdom, a happy valley of this kind?
The stable-block with its clock-tower in the Pal-ladian manner stood behind the house. Beyond it lay a mile of ornamental gardens with charmingly-built follies and ornamental lakes, thickly wooded on either slope. The house itself, apart from the kitchens and servants' quarters, consisted of a fine open hall paved in black and white marble with square but well-proportioned rooms opening from it at three levels.
It was the venerable Heathers, butler at Coombe for thirty years past, who guided me through the library with its Chippendale cases and the master's study furnished in leather and masculine comfort. Tomorrow it would be Wild man's turn to introduce me to the splendours of the stable and the gardens.
I was surprised to find that three of the elegant bedrooms on the upper floor had been prepared and, indeed, seemed to be in occupancy. That the servants' sleeping quarters should be in use I could well understand. But what need had young Fortescue, a solitary bachelor, to use three bedrooms at once?
We returned to the ground floor, where Heathers opened the fine double doors which displayed dining-room and music-salon, the table of the former set with the finest silver and cut-glass on linen of the first quality. I was about to mention the curious matter of the bedrooms, when Heathers anticipated me.
"Would you wish to see the young ladies now, my lord?"
I promise you I had not the least idea what he meant.
"Which young ladies might those be?"
Despite his straight-faced manner, becoming to a senior butler, I saw his old blue eyes twinkle a little.
"Why, sir, the ladies from Chelsea. Those from the military school that have no one else in the country just now to care for them. They were young Mr. Fortescue's special charity, sir. He had two or three of the young ladies from Chelsea here all the time, to teach and train them."
"What did he teach them?"
I asked the question with the air of a man testing the jungle path for a concealed elephant-pit. Nothing whatever had been said-or even known-in Lincolns-Inn about John Fortescue's young ladies.
"What did he teach them?" I repeated the question, finding Heathers so coy in answering.
"Ridinglessons, sir." He struggled to retain his composure and yef his lips moved in the beginnings of a smile.
"Ridinglessons?"
"Indeed, sir," he said bowing his head a little, "Exactly."
I looked about the marble-paved hall where the fine old Tompion case-clock was ticking the afternoon away in its stately fashion.
"Well," said I, shrugging at the problem, "then I had better see them."
"Follow me, sir, if you please," said the old butler.
And with that this improbable guide, this senile Fidus Achates, led me into the strangest adventure which ever befell so lucky a fellow as I! Listen-and you shall hear it all.
I followed him up the curve of the graceful freestanding staircase to the very top, where there was a floor above the main bedrooms. The windows were a little lower and looked out on the main balustrade of the house, giving a clear view of the Coombe woods in full green leaf against a smoke-gray backdrop of thunder-cloud.
Heathers opened a door and I stepped into a large playroom, whose ceiling sloped on one side with the fall of the roof. The room was furnished with a rather worn carpet, cushioned chairs and sofas, which seemed to have been exiled here when they had served their time in the drawing-room and library below. A pair of dappled rocking-horses stood in the sunlight at the far end of the room.
"Miss Laura," said Heathers, "She is the elder of the ladies. Seventeen years old. And Miss Ruth is sixteen."
I had expected little girls, children of ten or twelve and, I confess, was quite disconcerted at first by what I saw before me. Laura and Ruth sat, one in a chair and one on the sofa, wearing their riding clothes and turning over the pages of the Tatler or the Illustrated London News with an air of great lan-guour and boredom.
I would have you share my adventure to the full and will therefore tell you at once of the view which these two presented as they swung their legs and sighed with tedium.
Laura was a slim and pretty girl. Indeed, she is one of the prettiest girls I have ever seen. There is such a mischievous combination of coquetry and innocence in her softly shaped face with its high cheekbones and blue eyes. Her lightly-waved hair is of the silkiest light golden brown. She wears it a long page-boy style so that its rounded cut swings lightly upon her shoulder-blades as she walks. As she curled up in the chair the tight denim of Lauras riding-pants showed how flat and taut were her belly and loins, how trim her teenage thighs. The tight jeans-seat shaped the apple-firm cheeks of Laura s bottom so lithe and mobile.
If one were to criticise Laura, it would not be for her manners. She is eager to please and at the first command her mouth opens in a rather dimpling smile to show her pretty teeth. She has, however, a tendency to powder and paint. You might catch the blue shadow on her eyelid or the dash of rouge upon her cheekbone. Yet that is a small price to pay for Lauras natural prettiness.
Every man probably-likes a contrast in the women at his disposal. In that respect, Ruth was very far from disappointing me. With the softness of her figure and her short crop of fair curls there is an engaging innocence about Ruth. She has an attractively solemn young face with such very wide brown eyes! She heightens this wide-eyed appeal with just a touch of mascara and there is a hint of naughtiness perhaps in that sweet, pert little tilt of the nose.
Her figure is softer and fuller than Lauras, yet her legs are trim and her belly flat. She was wearing the tight caramel-toned jeans of her riding-costume and a singlet of tight black cotton. In consequence of my dealings with these Chelsea girls, I have seen much of Ruth in the past year or so. I must concede, then, that she is at the peak of her physical charms just now. Indeed, with her rather petite stature the fullness of Ruth's bottom is a little brdader than her otherwise trim young body might warrant. The fatness of it in five or ten years is not to be thought of!
I am, you see, discerning in my judgment of beauty! Yet I promise you that if you were walking behind Ruth in the street, your gaze would be caught and held by the womanly roll of her rear cheeks in the smooth tightness of caramel-colored jodphurs.
Ruth has been at my disposal for a year and I have not tired of her in the least. Those other girls from Chelsea, Jacqui with the lank blonde tresses or Diane, another little mignon, have come and gone. Yet Laura and Ruth, in their contrasting ways, have been my favorite and constant companions.
Yet when I first set eyes upon them in that spacious attic room, I could do no more than stop and stare like a fool. The two girls rose at once with the respect due to their master. Laura looked so willing and smiling, Ruth seemed charmingly self-conscious and reserved. I nodded to them and said to Heathers that I would make their acquaintance later on. As for the ridinglessons, they had best be left to the groom.
We went back down the stairs so that the old butler might show me the usual offices of the house. There was the game room, a larder where pheasant and other birds were hung for ripeness. Beyond it lay the gun-room with its air of oil and polished wood. Further still the saddle-room, fragrant with the scent of wax and warm leather. Heathers paused on the threshold of this little den, its rows of leather straps hanging down from their rails and the fine sleek saddles mounted on wooden blocks to hold their shape.
"Do you whip, sir?" he asked softly.
I promise you that, innocent as I then was in such matters, I did not at first understand him.
"I beg your pardon?"
He looked at me closely.
"Most gentlemen whip, sir. When there are such pupils as Miss Laura and Miss Ruth, or housemaids like Mandy and Kim, most gentlemen find it necessary to whip from time to time."
"Then," I said, "I shall probably find it necessary too."
My reply was unpremeditated and came instinctively to me. It seemed to please the old man.
"Mr. Fortescue whipped, sir. The young gentleman always did it after dinner in the evenings, sir. He used this very room."
I surveyed the polished leather with more respect. So John Fortescue whipped, did he? And gave riding lessons to his Chelsea girls? There was more to being Master of Coombe than I had supposed. I promised myself that I would try to be worthy of the honor, and of the example which John Fortescue had left me.
Though I had expected nothing of the kind which Heathers now revealed to me, I was not entirely innocent in the ways of the world. I had put thoughts of marriage from me, for what girl of sense would have a man as poor as I-and one condemned to spend much of his life on Indian service? I had sought my consolation with those girls whom I could easily afford. One of them had accompanied me as a servant to Coombe.
If you were to see Sian, my young Welsh maid, what would you think of her? She has that casual easy-going look of a girl seen in a shop window or behind its counter. For all that, I imagine you would like to feel her under your hands.
Sian is a soft young thing of twenty, not tall or grand but with a certain sluttish sensuality. Her pale red tresses hang lightly waved upon her shoulders. Her fair-skinned face has a rather weak chin with a sulky little bud of a mouth. She paints her lips red to excite me by making herself more of, a tart and her blue eyes seem darker for she paints the rims and lashes black.
Sian s panties and bodice are worn tight to reveal her figure. She is soft rather than fat but has a way of standing slack-hipped or bending lewdly that emphasises the vulgarity of her appearance. Believe me, I do not decry these qualities. A man should have a varied appetite and there is room in loves banquet for a sluttish red-haired shopgirl of Sian's type. So there is for a more demure beauty like Laura, or a soft and bashful creature like young Ruth.
Do not believe those old roues who tell you that women are all the same when they surrender to a man in bed. The fools who spread such tales are worn out and disillusioned. I can assure you that I have found a delightful variety in the girls who are now collected here as my little harem. I may choose the hard adolescent sluttisliness of Michele or else the proud young beauty of Miss Susan. And if those fail to sharpen my desire then I may take my pick of half a dozen others.
But I must not let my thoughts run ahead of my story. On that first evening I sat down to dinner at the head of the polished oak table. There was, of course, no mistress of the house to take her place at the far end but Laura and Ruth sat demurely on either side. They wore plain brown dresses with lace collars and cuffs which, I suppose, must be the uniform of the Chelsea military school.
I talked gently to them, questioning on the education which they had received and telling them something of my Indian service. They listened politely and with great attention. When the meal was over, pretty Laura with her high-boned beauty and the long page-style of her golden-brown hair, came up to me.
"My lord," she said softly, "will you give us a ridinglesson this evening?
I laughed at so absurd a request.
"This evening? Why, my child, look through the window! It has been dark for half an hour. I should not dream of riding here myself at such an hour, let alone risk accident to so charming a pair of pupils."
I did not say that if John Fortescue was in the habit of galloping over the country in the dark, it was small wonder he had killed himself. Yet that was the thought in my mind. The two girls looked at me, and then looked at one another with very significant glances. They had the air of pity which one shows towards fools who cannot help themselves.
I did not understand as yet the cause of their expressions. The next few hours were to enlighten me, once for all. I was content for the moment to take my brandy and soda in the library, leaving the girls to prepare for bed. My cousin John Fortescue had a well-appointed library with many a curious volume. I took up one or two volumes of incandescent stories and was soon lost in the adventures of Dolly Morton or Captain DeVane. I cannot tell you whether I was reading of a saucy little wife like Jacqueline Grant with a man's cork in her rear bung-hole as well as the front-or Jane Truman bottom-upwards for a spanking. Whatever it was had engrossed me so much that I lost track of time.
I pulled myself together with the realisation that I had not touched my brandy and soda for the past half-hour, and that a curious sound was coming from somewhere above me in the house.
I closed the book, laid it on the leather sofa, and went soft-footed into the hall to listen.