Rupert Mountjoy
The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.I
I am fully aware that my youth has been spent, That my get-up-and-go has got up and went.
But I really don't mind when I think with a grin, Of all the grand places my get-up has been!
Rupert Mountjoy London September, 1913
CHAPTER ONE. First Stirrings
Little apology is needed-or will be made-for putting into print my frank, uncensored memoirs. For why should I not publish my diary? It may be of interest to both present and future generations of readers for many famous people are named in its pages. Here at the very start, however, I will freely admit to the alteration of certain names and places and the omission of a number of events, for nothing could induce me to embarrass or offend the sensibilities of any lady, from the parlourmaid positioned in the lower classes to the high and mighty London hostess who claims pride of place at the very apex of Society. I trust you will appreciate my concern, dear reader, though let me hasten to assure you that the above caveat notwithstanding, I also confirm in clear type a matter of importance which I have stated verbally on numerous occasions to my close friends, whilst placing in order the many and tidying recollections from the disordered files of memory. I refer, of course, to the fact that every gentleman whose name appears in my memoir has happily granted permission for his nomenclature to be revealed. Several letters have reached me from old acquaintances of both sexes who, despite having been warned of my intention to write a candid and undisguised account of my recent past, have expressed their pleasure to hear of the project. Indeed, they have urged me not to leave out their names in my manuscript, whilst not hesitating to remind me of jolly times enjoyed together at St Lionel's or sampling the varied and often exotic delights afforded to gentlemen of means domiciled in the heart of Belgravia and Mayfair, surely the most propitious areas in London for those like myself whose chief interest lies in l'art de faire l'amour. To complete these introductory words, may I cordially thank all who have assisted me in the compilation of what has turned out to be, according to my dearest chum Harry Price-Bailey: 'the horniest book of licking and lapping, sucking and fucking I have ever had the pleasure to read'. So without ado, let us turn back the years to the summer of 1898 when I was a lad of just fifteen years of age, living with my parents at the family seat of Albion Towers, which lies near the sleepy little village of Wharton on the edges of the Forest of Knaresborough in Yorkshire. Few areas of Britain are so rich in beauty and interest as this part of the country. There are moors to hike across, several wooded valleys through which flow lovely streams with glittering falls, grand ruins of castles, abbeys and historic houses and many fine buildings which show few signs of the passage of time-all these and many other features of appeal are to be found on every hand. This is why my father, Colonel Harold Elton Fortescue Mountjoy, late of the Indian Army, so enjoyed coming back to the home country after long service on the North West Frontier, for Yorkshire has an insistent appeal to all who delight in open-air pursuits, while the bracing air is unrivalled in England. Whilst the Pater busied himself with looking after our estate and taking every opportunity to go hunting, shooting and fishing, my Mama occupied herself with other ladies from the best families in the county. As surprisingly few houses were yet connected by telephone (I should add that we were an exception to this rule for though Father could be a bit of a crusty old buffer now and then, he was extremely interested in scientific progress and was the proud owner of one of Monsieur Lumiere's cameras that could take moving pictures, but more of this anon) Mama spent much of her time writing letters regarding social events in our neighbourhood, from dinner parties for the gentry to trips to Harrogate with Lady Scaggers, The Hon Mrs. Boote and other close friends. We returned from India four years ago, leaving my elder sister Barbara in New Delhi where she lives with her husband, Lord Lisneigh, Deputy Governor of the North East Territories. However, though to all intents and purposes I was an only child, I rarely suffered from the pangs of loneliness. Although I had no companions of my age locally, I was at home only during school holidays for my education was conducted at the grand old school of St Lionel's College for the Sons of Gentlefolk far down south in the beautiful county of Sussex. There I made many pals including some like Harry Price-Bailey, Terence Blacker, dive Allingham and Frank Folkestone who have remained firm friends throughout the passing years. During our vacations we frequently visited each other's homes, and as Mama was always more than pleased to extend hospitality to my school-fellows, I spent few days without someone to pass the time with. Nevertheless, I begin this excursion down the lane of recollection on one of these rare days. It was a glorious morning in early July 1898 and I looked forward to welcoming Frank Folkestone, the captain of the Upper Fourth at St Lionel's, to Albion Towers. Frank was spending the first week of the summer vacation with his parents at their home in St John's Wood before taking the train up to Harrogate where Papa and I would meet him. But what I hoped would turn out to be a highly satisfactory day opened on a gloomy note with the arrival of a telegram from Lady Folkestone, stating that Frank was suffering from a heavy summer cold and so she was postponing his trip up to us for twenty-four hours.
'It's only one day, Rupert,' said my Mama, trying to lift my spirits, 'and the weather looks so fine, why don't you spend the day out of doors? Perhaps you would like to join your father and Reverend Hutchinson who are fishing at the river on Mr. Clee's land? I'll ask Mrs. Randall to make you up a packed luncheon and I'm sure it will be in order for you to borrow one of your father's rods.' But I declined the offer, for I have never possessed the patience to wait for a fish to take the bait at the end of the line. Still, the idea of spending the day out of doors appealed to me. An idea struck me -Mr.
Richer, the senior teacher of natural history at St Lionel's, had fired my class with the notion of starting a birds' eggs collection and I thought that today would be as good as any to begin making up a set. I mentioned this to Mama who conveyed my request for roast beef sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale to Mrs. Randall in the kitchen whilst I went upstairs to change into an athletic vest and football shorts as the weather was uncommonly warm and I planned a three-mile hike to Knaresborough Woods. So this is why, on that never-to-be-forgotten July morn, I went striding out of our front gates, my rucksack on my back filled with food for my al fresco luncheon and a woolen jersey to slip on in the unlikely event of a change in the weather. It was just after ten o'clock when I left home to walk through our grounds and as I walked briskly along, I had a vague sensation that someone was dogging my footsteps. Yet when I turned round to look behind me, which I did several times, the road was clear and I was apparently alone. I must be imagining it, I said to myself, yet there was no shaking off the feeling that someone was keeping pace for pace with me. The sensation of being followed is most disagreeable and I began to wonder whether some vagabond tinker was waiting to pounce upon me, though such crimes of petty robbery were so rare in the locality that any news of such a happening would warrant substantial coverage in the weekly Harrogate Chronicle. Yet I could not rid myself of the notion that I could hear the patter of light footsteps that were not my own. But soon the path was clear of trees and though I was still a mite apprehensive, I was now also slightly ashamed of my first concerns. After all, the Queen's Highway was free to all and I was probably just being tracked for fun by a young son of one of the farmworkers whom my father employed to till our arable fields. If anything, the sun now shone even more brightly. Soon after I crossed the meandering country lane that led to the Harrogate road I sat down to rest for a moment or two on a mossy bank.
It stood on the verge of a meadow owned by our neighbour Doctor Charles Wigmore, whose sixteen-year-old daughter Diana was a girl whose beauty struck me tongue-tied and left me awkwardly attempting to remember my manners on the few occasions when we had found ourselves together in company. Momentarily a picture of the delightful Diana flashed across my mind as I allowed my rucksack to rest along the slope of the hillock and I stretched my arms and yawned, at peace with the world. I sat for a minute or two and then heaved myself up again-only to hear the quickening approach of another traveller behind me. I turned to see that standing only some twenty yards away was none other than the lovely Diana Wigmore herself, also dressed for the heat of the summer in a white linen blouse and a similarly coloured dress which barely reached more than a couple of inches below the knees of her uncovered legs. She really looked the acme of feminine perfection, being a lovely rosy-cheeked girl with a gay twinkle in her bright blue eyes. She wore her tresses of light ash blonde hair gracefully pinned up around her graceful neck, and young and inexperienced though I was regarding the fair sex, her saucy little nose and pouting lips, together with the clearly visible heaving of her proud young breasts as she recovered from her sudden exertion, set my own heart pounding at a fair rate of knots. 'Good morning, Miss Wigmore,' I said shyly, congratulating myself on for the first time speaking to this gorgeous girl without stuttering or blushing furiously with nervousness. 'Have you been running to catch up with me? I thought there was someone on my trail but you kept yourself invisible every time I looked around to see who my mysterious follower could be.' This time it was Diana whose face coloured up with genuine embarrassment. 'Oh Rupert, I do apologise – I know I should have called out to you at least a mile back. You looked deep in thought, and I thought it would be rude to disturb you.' 'I wasn't meditating about anything more important than how best to begin collecting birds' eggs for my collection. I haven't even started yet and I was only thinking as to whether I'd find anything in the nests at this time of the year.' She smiled and a delicious dimple appeared on the side of her face. 'I don't know much about the habits of birds,' she said. 'Is your quest for schoolwork or simply for your own entertainment?' 'It's not very important at all – I just thought it a good excuse to get out of doors on such a fine day. I could have gone angling with my father but, between ourselves, I find the sport boring though I know that many people derive much pleasure from the pursuit.' Diana sighed and said: 'You are a lucky boy, Rupert. I have some holiday work which must be finished by the end of the vacation. As we are going on the Grand Tour next week I must complete my portfolio to gain the certificate in art which I need to go on to further studies at college next term.' 'I didn't know you were an artist, Miss Wigmore.' 'Oh please call me Diana, Rupert. All my friends do-and you are my friend, aren't you?'
'I would love to be,' I said boldly, 'and I just wish there was something I could do to help you in your work. But I can hardly draw a straight line and I know very little about painting!' *But there is something you can do, Rupert, though I hardly dare ask you,' she burst out. 'Well, if we are friends, you should be able to ask anything of me- all I can promise is to do my best to oblige. But if I cannot help I will just say so and nothing is lost.'*You are a sweet boy. Very well then, I will take up your offer but promise me you won't be too shocked and that, whatever happens, you will keep this conversation secret,' she demanded.
'I give you my word,' I said, puzzled by the earnest look on her pretty face. This must be a matter of very great importance to you. So again, how may I be of assistance?' Diana slowly expelled a deep breath. 'Rupert, you might know that I attend Nottsgrove Academy, a progressive institution which believes in the equality of opportunity for women in both political and cultural matters. As far as art is concerned, Mrs. Bidder, our art mistress, firmly believes that painters are often forced to suffer varying degrees of injustice from financial problems. This is due to a misunderstanding or dislike of their finest work by patrons or the ruling artistic establishment. For women, there has always been a further prejudice against which to battle which is why so few women have made any serious headway in this field.' I listened patiently for even at this early age I had already realised the uselessness of interrupting when someone has climbed upon a hobbyhorse-and, anyhow, I enjoyed looking at this pretty girl who obviously cared passionately about her subject.
'There is still a bar against women at meeting places such as clubs or, heaven forbid, a genuine studio! Even at this early stage, I cannot find a subject for my figure studies. This is where I need your help, Rupert,' she added bluntly. 'I will not beat about the bush. I want you to pose for me whilst I make some charcoal sketches.'
'But that hardly seems an onerous task.' I declared, slightly puzzled by her words. 'Why, I'm truly flattered to be asked and I'd be delighted to help out. Look, I'm free this very minute if you would like to begin work straightaway.' Her beautiful blue eyes sparkled. 'Oh Rupert, what a kind offer! Well, if you really mean it, just a half mile or so through that stile there is a perfect place where I have set up my easel. On the ground lie my pencils and brushes. I've also brought along a small hamper, but Cook always packs too much and there'll be more than enough food for both of us.'
'It doesn't matter as I also have some sandwiches and a bottle of ginger pop in my rucksack.' 'Well, that would seem to settle it.
You really mean it, Rupert? Shall we really start here and now?' she asked eagerly, seemingly surprised that I made so little of the matter. 'Why not?' I said gallantly and gestured for her to lead the way. As Diana had promised, we did not have far to walk before finding ourselves in one of the numerous interesting copses on her father's property through which ran several shady footpaths hidden from the view of any passer-by. Sure enough, she had set up her equipment on a blanket spread out on a level piece of ground where I dumped my rucksack. 'Here we are then,' she called out. 'It's such a pleasant day and the light is quite superb just now. Gosh, I can hardly wait to begin. Are you ready Rupert? Yes? Jolly good-we won't be disturbed in such a quiet spot. I suggest you get undressed over here and put your clothes on the blanket.' I could not believe what I had heard and I looked at her in astonishment. 'What the deuce do you mean, Diana? Take off my clothes, did you say?'
She looked at me with a trace of impatience in her gaze.*Yes, of course, my love, how else would I be able to sketch the male figure if not from an uncovered form?' So this is why Diana was at first diffident about asking for my assistance! And why she was so happy to hear me consent to model for her without any fuss! I had assured her of my aid and it would be dishonourable and cowardly to break my word.
I will readily admit that I could not bear to appear foolish in front of this gorgeous creature who, if I backed away from this challenge, would probably never deign to speak to me again! So I took a deep breath and said: 'All my clothes, Diana?' 'Yes, dear,' she said steadily. 'Otherwise I would be unable to do either of us justice. So do be quick about it and then I'll show you just how I would like you to stand.' I hesitated still. Sensing my modesty, she added encouragingly: 'Come on, Rupert, there's really nothing to it. Look, if it makes you feel any easier, I'll kick off my shoes and take off this blouse and skirt. It's so hot that I'll feel far more comfortable just dressed in my chemise.' I closed my eyes, for the dreadful thought flashed through my brain that if I even took the most fleeting of glances at the sight of Diana Wigmore clad solely in a chemise, it would be impossible to prevent my penis from instantly betraying my secret sensual desires. As it was, like all boys at this difficult age, I had little enough control over my prick which would swell up sometimes for no good reason and which demanded the attention of my closed fist at least three times a day. Still, I had no avenues of retreat, so I sat down on the stump of a nearby tree and removed my shoes and socks. Then, drawing upon every ounce of valour in my body, I turned away and slipped down my shorts and drawers together and wriggling out of them, stood with my flapping white athletic vest covering just the upper part of my backsi
de. I exhaled slowly before raising my arms and pulling off my remaining garment to stand totally naked in front of this amazing girl. To her credit, Diana appeared to be unconcerned about her first sight of my bare body.
'Rupert, would you just lean back against that tree at a slight angle to the sun, but facing me full on. Good, that's absolutely how I want you. Lay your hands on your thighs and raise your head to the sky, no, not too much-there, that's right, can you hold that position? Are you comfortable? Now please keep as still as you can.' I complied with her request and surprisingly soon the fact that I was standing in a state of complete nudity began to fade in importance. Diana chatted away as she worked, saying: 'Your body is well suited to a classical study, Rupert. You have the physique and more important, perhaps, the confident pose of a youth capable of surmounting all the obstacles which might occur in your life-not only through your undoubted physical strength but also by the sheer force of your personality. Now I have the talent, I want to capture that pensive look along with a clear-cut profile of your face with that proud look of determination stamped upon your brow.' Her comments were perhaps slightly above my head but I felt flattered by all this attention and when, after half an hour or so, she suggested that we allowed ourselves a ten-minute break, I could hardly wait to pad over and see what she had committed on canvas. But before I could come round she placed her hand on my chest and said: 'Please, Rupert, wait till we have finished. You might not like what you see and whichever way you feel may adversely affect the way you pose for me afterwards. You don't mind, do you?'
'No, of course not,' I stammered, all too conscious again of my unclothed state and of the cool touch of her slender fingers upon my skin, especially when she let them trace a circular pattern around one of my nipples. 'You are so well proportioned for such a young lad.
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