Victorian Taboo

by Bryn Colvin

  He lay on her, forcing her legs apart with his knees. Kisses covered her lips and breasts as his hands worked the soft weeping folds of her sex.

  “Are you a virgin, Molly?”

  “Not completely, Sir.”

  He laughed to himself at the girl’s stupidity. How could she be ‘not completely a virgin’? His hunger grew. What Lotte had said suggested the maid was far from pure. Sir Jasper liked that. He was in the mood for a rough, hard fuck. He looked her in the eyes and put on one of his best expression of care and love.

  “Once you are mine, Molly, I will help your brother.” A final deep, long kiss to distract her foolish heart, then he plunged his erection deep into her vagina. Molly shook and wept. He did not know if it was joy or trepidation–neither did he care.

  He took his pleasure, grinding her into the linen and dispelling all his frustration. At the moment of his ejaculation he heard her whimper. Jasper stood over her and made himself respectable, casually looking at her reddened nipples, which, like her neck, bore the passionate teeth marks of his lust. Walking to the door of the washhouse, he paused, felt into his purse and threw her a few coins. As the door closed, Molly muttered in sorrow something that only her conscience heard.

  Chapter Eight

  “I would like to speak with you, O'Shea.”

  Brendan, who had been making his leisurely way to the kitchen, paused on realising that his employer was standing in the doorway to the drawing room.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I do not believe I heard the doorbell ring, did you hear it O'Shea?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Nor did I ring to require your services.”

  “So you didn’t, ma’am.”

  “So, would you be so good as to tell me what you are doing wandering about in this part of the house?”

  He blustered. In reality he had simply been nosing about, having mistakenly thought that his mistress was still taking the air in her garden.

  “I came to see if anything needed taking away for polishing, ma’am, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Is that so?” Caroline eyed him critically. “O’Shea, when was that collar last starched? It is drooping.”

  “I’ll change it ma’am.”

  “Do that, and your buttons could use a polish.”

  From another woman’s lips the remark might have sounded suggestive, but Caroline was oblivious to entendres.

  “If you could bring yourself to wear the uniform properly, that would be preferable,” she added and, without really thinking, she reached out and did up the top button of his jacket. Her fingers brushed against his neck and she froze. Smiling broadly, Brendan took her hands from his throat and found her utterly compliant.

  “You can tidy me up any time you like,” he said, “but you probably shouldn’t. If you keep fiddling with my buttons like that, you’ll give me ideas.”

  He stroked the backs of her slender hands with his thumbs. Most of the girls he had bedded had rough, work-reddened hands, but Caroline’s were as soft as the silks she wore and whiter than milk.

  “O’Shea!”

  It was a plaintive cry, not the angry dismissal of a woman who knows her manservant has gone too far. He moved a little closer, conscious that she was trembling like a songbird in a trap. Somewhere under that prim exterior was a passionate woman trying to escape–he could see it in her eyes and realised just how frightened she was by the effect he was having on her. He had to wonder if old Josiah had ever managed to give her a decent seeing to.

  He began to stroke the palms of her hands in slow circles, watching her lower lip tremble and her eyes become bright with tears. Unless she was a darker horse than he thought, she had gone two years without so much as a fondle and he found himself almost feeling sorry for her.

  “O’Shea, please!”

  Was she begging him to stop, or to continue? It was difficult to tell. He realised that she was powerless to resist his advances, that her body was betraying her into his hands. He stroked his way along her forearms and up to her shoulders, tracing his way along her pale, slender neck until he was cupping her face in his hands.

  He was about to kiss her when he saw her eyelids flutter and she started to fall. He caught her swiftly, her whole body limp in a faint. Sighing, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to a nearby couch, laying her down gently, and taking a moment to gaze at her pretty face, so delicate and vulnerable-looking in repose. She was prone, powerless. He could not resist running a hand over her tightly corseted breasts, but then found he wanted her awake, gazing up at him with those liquid eyes and responding to his touch. He wanted her begging for pleasure and enjoying every last minute of it.

  Brendan rang for Sophie who came to him at once, her face filled with concern.

  “What happened?” the girl asked.

  “I was just walking along here when I heard this almighty thump, looks like she passed out. You’ve done her corset up too tight I reckon.”

  * * * *

  The tearoom was a quiet, secluded place full of leafy corners and the delicate sounds of genteel luncheons. Amelia enjoyed the nearby art gallery and museum, and often frequented this elegant haven when she had afternoons at her disposal. Here she could pretend that she was a woman of independent means, a modern freethinker who did not need a male escort or a female companion.

  Here she could read quietly or contemplate the state of her existence. Around her, private, polite women sipped tea or talked in hushed voices with friends. This was the secret reserve of that most rare of creatures, the female intellectual, and many of them had come to find the company of their sisters infinitely preferable to the boorishness of men.

  Amelia liked clever women and regretted that her family’s fall from grace had prevented her from furthering her own education. She would rather have used her brain and taken employment than suffer the unending indignities of a companion’s life. The only thing that she could imagine might be worse was becoming a governess. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to do anything much as she had not been raised in the expectation that she would need to make her own way in the world.

  The door opened with a delicate tinkle of bells and, looking up, Amelia was surprised to see someone she knew. Phoebe Delphine hurried to her and Amelia rose to greet her friend of years past.

  “Amelia, mon chere, it is good to see you.”

  Phoebe still had more than a hint of French to her English, which gave her considerable charm.

  “And you, Phoebe, it has been too long, my darling. This is a happy accident, meeting you here.”

  “I come here all the time,” said Phoebe.

  “So do I!”

  Then they were giggling just as though they were schoolgirls again, passing a year in Switzerland to broaden their minds.

  “May I introduce my friend, Freddy Cadwell? Freddy, this is Amelia, a dear friend from my school days.”

  “Charmed.”

  Frederica took Amelia’s hand, and rather than shaking it lightly, she raised it to her lips. Amelia shivered with delight. Freddy was perfect; her strong face unadorned by makeup or frivolous jewellery, her dress neat and simple, almost manly in its cut. She had all the elegance of wealth and breeding, and Amelia quickly sifted through her recollections to see if she could remember the name.

  “May we?”

  “Of course.”

  The three women sat together and Phoebe chatted happily, as had always been her inclination.

  “I am ever so sorry about your family, I did hear.”

  Amelia sighed. She had not wanted that spectre raised, especially not in such promising company.

  “Although a good friend of mine claimed to have seen you at the Duchess of Penbury’s the other week, so things cannot be too bad for you.”

  “I cannot deny that I was there, but sadly, not in my own right, merely as the companion of Mrs. Caroline Terrington.”

  “Oh, my poor Amelia, how horrid for you.”

  “
I know.”

  She looked away, wishing that Frederica had not heard any of this, suspecting that she would now be beneath the woman’s interest.

  “There are worse things to be,” Frederica observed, “chained to a husband for one – at least a companion has some independence.”

  “True enough. Husbands have never been to my taste.”

  “Nor mine,” Frederica smiled.

  “Oh, they have their uses,” Phoebe said. Amelia made no effort to mask her surprise. Phoebe shrugged.

  “I wanted children, and it is terribly difficult to get them without… that. Most of the time he keeps busy with his mistress and his club, and I do as I please.”

  Amelia laughed, amazed that the girl who had initiated her into Sapphic pleasures was now wearing the mask of heterosexual propriety.

  “You must come and visit me, Amelia, I think we could be very good friends,” Frederica suggested.

  * * * *

  Lord De’Lisle could trace his financially successful lineage farther back than most of the aristocracy in the country. It was said that his ancestors not only came over with the Bastard Duke in 1066, but that they hired out the boats at an enormous profit and sold tickets to spectators for the spectacular battle with Harold Godwinson and his Anglo-Saxon rabble. This was, no doubt, mere hyperbole, but it captured the spirit of this most mercenary bloodline. Wits speculated that the originator of the noble line, Henri De’Lisle almost certainly took bets on the outcome - and won another fortune. How sad it was that, over eight hundred years later, the present head of the family should prove to be such a bloody fool.

  His town house occupied a fashionable river frontage, where many abodes had sprung up since the banks of the Thames in central London had been stabilized with boarded wooden banks and concrete piles, improving the previous muddy and flood-prone sites by the river. He was related to the Cavendish family, and after the appalling murder of Lord Frederick of that name in Phoenix Park by the Invincibles -a shady Irish nationalist group- the venerable Prime Minister, Gladstone, had found a junior government post for Lord De’Lisle, almost as a mark of respect for the relative he had lost.

  It was a very minor post given to a very minor brain. De’Lisle spent most of his time making boring speeches in his foppish lisping manner, as most of the Upper Houses of Parliament slept from the tedium of it. While he played at politics, his own house was ironically being used as a place of plotting and intrigue by the very self-same Irish group that he so publicly abhorred.

  Sean O’Neil sprawled arrogantly in the basement parlour of Lord De’Lisle’s house and watched through the pavement grill as the legs of a lamplighter walked above him in the street. For the last fifty years the greatest city in the world had grown. Now more and more legislation had to be passed to make government responsible for policing, sanitation and even educating the capital and its people. In the rich centres, town gas now lit the streets and it was the task of the lamplighters to ignite the lanterns on their poles.

  “Any more gin in that flask?” It was more of a demand. The woman sitting on his lap rose to reach for the flask. He smacked her rear and the two other men in the room roared with laughter.

  Terence Reardon and Brendan O’Shea also had women perched on their knees. When Sean arrived for the meeting, he had insisted Terence go out and buy them a good fuck. It was hardly difficult. The number of prostitutes plying their trade had reached monumental numbers. Whilst respectable Victorian London pretended they lived in a moral heaven with a straight-laced Queen on the throne, the underbelly of the capital consisted of abject poverty, gin parlours, opium dens and sex on sale to suit every taste.

  When Reardon came back with three women, Sean, who had just arrived from Dublin via Liverpool, wanted to satisfy his lust immediately. The other two men and women swigged gin while the leader of the group took a young woman into the kitchen and fucked her rapidly and without sensibility over the large wooden table. If Lord De’Lisle’s cook had known--it was her day off--she would have gone into a swoon and demanded the whole room be scrubbed and disinfected.

  The woman came back with the gin for Sean. He gulped from the flask, ran the back of his hand over his lips, and as the woman tried to sit back on his knee, pushed her away.

  “You three wait in the kitchen,” he ordered the prostitutes. After they had gone he indicated, by a hand gesture, for Brendan to shut the connecting door.

  “Did you see what the bloody English newspaper said about Parnell?” Terence began the conversation.

  Sean O’Neil spat on the floor.

  “Parnell has denied he knows anything about the Invincibles. He spoke for hours in the House of Commons, saying he wanted Irish Home Rule, but not the death of innocent people.”

  “There’s been enough innocent blood spilled in Ireland,” Terence growled.

  Brendan nodded, but his thoughts were not with the group. Back in Ireland his own family had suffered grievously at the hands of the Anglo and Anglo-Irish landlords. The O’Shea’s had been evicted from their tenant farm by Albert Hardcastle, who was an Uncle of Caroline Terrington’s. Through him, on his death, she had inherited much of the land.

  He had blamed them for what had happened to his own family and hated the English bastards who had bled his people dry to line their own pockets. He had wanted revenge at the time. Now he was less certain. Caroline, like so many spoiled English fools, had no idea where her wealth came from or whose blood, sweat and tears it had been purchased with. He hated her for her ignorance, for her blindness, but he no longer thought he hated her enough to want to see her dead. Maybe having her understand would be enough.

  Brendan’s father had died of poverty after the eviction, and his sister, seeking money for her younger kin, had sought employment in Dublin. She met a fancy man - another Englishman - was duped, seduced and became pregnant. Pretty Cathleen had died in childbirth.

  Brendan left Ireland burning with the memory of her pale dead face at the wake and had sought out the family he blamed for her fate. He had not even known the name of the bastard who had fathered her child and abandoned her to shame and poverty, so his frustrated rage focused upon the Hardcastles.

  “We need a spectacular event here on their bloody mainland,” Reardon muttered, looking to O’Neil for confirmation. “Guy Fawkes had the right idea. What do you think, Sean?”

  The dark-eyed Irishman had thin lips and a broken nose that he boasted had become that shape in a punch-up with English soldiers. Most people knew it was the consequence of a brawl over a woman, but lacked the courage to challenge Sean as he had a fearsome temper and a total disregard for life. Rather than answering Reardon, he suddenly turned towards Brendan.

  “This widow of yours, what’s her name?”

  “Caroline Terrington.”

  “Well, is she rich?”

  “Yes, Sean.”

  “Friends in high places?”

  “I think so, a Duchess for sure, and there’s been some bastard from the government paying court as well.”

  “Perfect. Kidnapping her and demanding money would make us heroes. We’d end up with cash and publicity. Now wouldn’t that be something to tell our children about?”

  Brendan smiled so weakly he was sure the lack of enthusiasm must be obvious. Sean was too absorbed in his own cleverness to notice it, however.

  “You start making notes of her daily routine, Brendan, and then report back in a week’s time.”

  Sean then lost interest in politics and got up, swaggered to the door, opened it and called, “Get in here and earn your pay, you three.”

  The three women came back in. Sean grabbed the one he had laid over the table and kissed her roughly.

  “Fucking you again is trying my luck, what with the English pox you’re almost certainly carrying. This time you Anglo-Saxon slut, you will kneel before your Irish master and worship my cock with your mouth.” He roared in amusement at his own coarseness.

  Reardon followed his leader, idiotically
thinking mimicking with a blowjob from his woman would increase his status with Sean.

  Brendan took hold of the third woman’s hand and dragged her back into the kitchen, kicking the door shut with his foot as they got in. He kissed her and found the response was cold. His lips bit hers and hands searched for her rough flannel bodice. Finding his way in, he discovered that her breasts were small and yielding. Brendan shifted his attention from her face and unlaced her so those tender nipples were exposed for further exploration. Feasting and sucking rapidly, he felt his ardour rise and harden.

  Normally, Brendan’s powerful masculine urges encouraged him to shag the woman. Usually he indulged his inclinations, taking his pleasure wherever he could find it. For some reason, this time he looked again and gave some thought to the condition of his conquest. What he saw was a fragile, abused girl. She was so young, so vulnerable, and so like his sister.

  “Do yourself up,” he tried to sound indifferent.

  “Don’t you want me, mister?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Please. I need the money. I’ll do whatever you want…and won’t charge extra. Surely there’s something you want?”

  Brendan took out a few copper coins and thrust them into her hands.

  “Go home and…” he did not know what to say.

  She looked amazed, then ran. He knew that within ten minutes she would have spent the money on gin and within the hour would be performing for some other man in a back alley, dark bedroom or grubby room over a public house. Still, he almost felt relieved that this time, it would not be him. It was the English and their ways corrupting him, making him forget that poor girls deserved a little respect. They would all be someone’s sisters, someone’s daughter.

  Chapter Nine

  Mrs. Thompson came with impeccable references. At thirty-two she was very young for a cook in a rich household like that of Caroline Terrington. However, when you had most of the well to do about town begging you to come and join their household, age counted for little. Louis Thompson. Yes, that was her name. She had almost forgotten it herself. She was ’Cook’ or, to the servants, Mrs. Thompson. Only the butler, Myles Cornwallis, called her Louis, and then only when they found themselves alone.