by Bryn Colvin
In orgasm she was beautiful, with her eyes closed and her lower lip pouting slightly. He watched her eyelids clench tightly shut and felt her cunt grip him hard, shuddering around him as he began to come with her.
While she had been out of her wits, one bout of pleasure giving would never suffice, and she would work him mercilessly until jaw and fingers ached. This time, however, she curled up against him, her arms across his chest and her legs tangled with his.
“Does everyone know I was in a brothel?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Everyone knows you went mad and ran off.”
“There will be a scandal, then.”
“I would think so.”
He realized that she did not sound especially troubled.
“Who found me?”
“Myself, Amelia, Freddy.”
“You have become very familiar with them.”
He shrugged.
“It was just the three of us trying to find you in the end. The other servants left and most of your friends weren’t too keen to help.”
“Why did you stay?”
“Why do you think?”
Even now he was not sure he could admit it.
“Brendan?”
She knelt beside him so that she could look down into his face.
“You said you had to keep pleasing me.”
“If we didn’t, you’d try to run off.”
She nodded.
“But you never tried to make love to me?”
“Not until today.”
“Why?”
“Because you weren’t yourself, because it was you I wanted, not you gone out of your mind.”
“Maybe I was still myself all that time, even if I do not remember.”
She gave him a while to take that in.
“What if it is in me to go mad like that sometimes, what then?”
“I think you’d need someone you could trust to look after you.”
“But what man would want to take care of a woman who has given herself away as a whore?”
“Maybe with a good fuck every few days, you’d never end up going mad like that.”
Caroline gave this thought due consideration before replying.
“Are you offering to look after me?”
“Perhaps. But as I said, you’ve got to be able to ask for what you want or how will I know?”
She took a deep breath.
“Brendan, would you live with me, and sleep in my bed, and give me a good fuck every few days to make sure I do not ever go mad like that again?”
He wondered if she had ever managed to say ‘fuck’ before, but the effect of it was clearly a liberating one for her.
“Since you put it like that, yes.”
“I do not want some squalid, hidden affair, I want to live with you, openly.”
“Are you suggesting marrying me?”
“Maybe. Do you want that?”
“You won’t get invited to any more fancy gatherings, not marrying a servant, or worse still, living with one.”
“I do not consider the loss to be a great one. I was never happy in that life.”
Looking into her eyes and seeing the sincerity there, Brendan realized that he would happily give up his wanton ways and be faithful to this woman. She touched his heart and he wanted her as his lover, not merely as some passing fancy.
“Do you want to live with me?” The old spectres of doubt and hesitation had gripped her again; he could hear it in her tone. He took her nipples in each hand, his touch light.
“What do you think?”
“Do you?”
He squeezed, applying only a modest amount of pressure.
“You can do better than that.”
Caroline moaned.
“Now, my lady, answer your question!”
He applied his mouth to one sensitive nub, letting his fingers work their mischief upon the other. When at last he looked up, her eyes were shining.
“Yes,” she said, “you will.”
“I will.”
He pulled her back under the covers, intending to take her again, but finding himself distracted by the sly movement of silken fingers over his stiffening rod.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The need for respectability remained one of his greatest sources of motivation. It gave him focus and purpose now that everything else was gone. Sir Jasper replaced his black top hat and walked away from the simple graveside. The Reverend Mitchell O’Leary looked as if he wanted to speak. Akenfield kept his eyes lowered and walked away. The last thing he wanted was sympathy.
Only four people had attended poor Jenny’s funeral: Himself; the Minister; old Linklater, the doorman from the theatre where she had been such a star of vaudeville; and a girl friend who he had not previously seen. None of them had spoken to him, which suited him perfectly. Sir Jasper paid for the simple ceremony but did not converse or take active involvement. It was only after her death that he had discovered Jenny was a Catholic.
He returned to the cabby, who was waiting for him on the approach road, jumped in and banged his cane of the roof to signal they should leave. The Reverend O’Leary gave up his attempt to catch up with Akenfield, and as the cab went by, gave a tired and resigned wave to Jenny Nightingale’s benefactor in death.
The cab clattered from the west London cemetery at Kensall Rise out into the Brompton Road, and within ten minutes, was back in the civilized world. Sir Jasper closed his eyes and remembered how thin and emaciated Jenny had been in those last weeks. Even in the clutches of death she had been such a beauty. She had turned a thousand heads on the musical stage and set many a male fantasy in motion.
At the end, she was reduced to the condition of a broken and wasted doll, gaunt and haunting. She did not want to see anybody and persisted in telling Sir Jasper she would rather be remembered as she had been in her prime. Even with her vitality gone she had been captivating, but he had not regretted her lack of inclination to share those last, precious days with anyone else.
These last few weeks Jenny’s illness had absorbed Akenfield’s thoughts. Now he wondered what he was going to do. The clouds were gathering. Debts were mounting and creditors becoming more irate. His reputation was beginning to suffer and he noticed that the invitations to society events were becoming less frequent. That very day, as he left for the funeral, a summons had been delivered to his London home by some bailiff. It required him to appear at the courts so that he might make a presentation of his financial affairs in regard to outstanding debts. The charade was over and he found himself feeling something akin to relief.
When he entered his house, having paid the cab and realizing it was the last coinage he had on him, the cabby drove away cursing him for a lack of tip. Sir Jasper went to his rooms, shut the door, locked it, drew the drapes and slumped in the corner, lighting a cigar. He had three left after this one was smoked and doubted he would get any more credit to fund further luxuries. Sir Jasper contemplated suicide but rapidly concluded that he was too much of a coward to take that way out. There was also the issue of his oath to Jenny, and he knew she would not have wanted his death. A series of ridiculous plans tumbled through his mind as he fell into slumber, with the images of Jenny and Caroline haunting his sleep.
He had been eight--no nine–years old, when his father sent him to that appalling boarding school in Marlborough. Fifty miles from home and the warmth of his mother, but it had seemed like the other side of the world. It had been the first time that Jasper had been away from the beautiful surroundings of the family residence. Now his flight from London gave him that same lost feeling.
He had pawned every small item he owned to raise some revenue and left a note saying that he proposed to walk into the sea. He hoped it would distract his creditors for a little while. The first part of the journey took him to Norwich. It was only a provincial town but even so it had enough style and rich, middle-class businessmen to convince him he could not hide there and start a new life.
; Very soon someone with connections in London or its politics would have recognized him and the game would be up. After a few days he caught the coach east and headed for the fishing port of Lowestoft. The guidebook that he read on the journey told him it was the most eastern point in England. Was it far enough and lost in contact from the metropolis to find him the anonymity he craved, not to mention his much-needed escape from his creditors? Only time would tell.
He found lodging in one of the fine houses along North Road, with their sweeping gardens down to the Denes. This area fronted a wild expanse of dunes by the sea, but already some of the establishments had become multi-occupancy residences. After a week, Jasper found his way down to the market square alongside the growing port. He sat for many hours watching the herring fleet come and go. Along with its northern neighbour of Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft had become a major fishing port for ‘King Herring.’.
Sitting in a corner seat at the Golden Swan pub later that day, Jasper ruminated on the past. He had come so very close to winning the prize and snaring a pretty rich widow. He could have had everything then–a fine political career, leisure, pleasure, and Lotte as well. Jenny’s plight had been the fatal distraction, but he did not regret it.
Looking back at his life, he realised she was the only woman he had ever truly loved and that knowing her had changed him utterly. The loss of all the prestige he had once so doted upon seemed trivial in comparison to her death. He could not imagine how he would live. As yet, the future was an unknown world, which he feared to visit.
“Having your usual pie and potatoes, Sir?” he looked up from his thoughts. He recognized the barmaid. He had seen her a few times but had never engaged her in conversation.
“That would be fine…” He hesitated for a name.
“Molly,” she offered, seeing his dilemma.
“Not from around here, Sir, are you?” she said, and without being asked, pushed herself alongside Sir Jasper on the oak bench, polished by a thousand backsides of drinkers. She smelt of malt and flour.
“No, I’m from…Manchester.”
“That’s a big city where all those things are made,” Molly said with an engaging wide-eyed look. He wondered for a moment what she meant, then realized it was her colloquial description of the powerhouse of British manufacturing.
“Not like here,” he smiled, before he appreciated it could have been taken as a condescending remark about the fishing port of Lowestoft.
Molly just grinned, obviously not offended.
“Where’s your husband, Molly,” he said, changing the subject.
“Who?”
“The man who…” Jasper pointed across the room to the barman.
“Lord, William Mingay isn’t my husband, Sir. He’s old enough to be my father, aye, and has too much beer in his belly and not enough ambition in his head to wed me. I‘m not yet tied to any man, Sir.”
“What about your family, Molly?”
“My dad and three brothers are all fishermen. They run the ‘True Love’ smack out of Lowestoft, and when the season is right, I’ll join the many women from the district in gutting the fish. We get so many that even the women from Portugal and Scotland come down for the trade.”
She was a handsome woman and now she sat near he saw she was no more than twenty-five, with a nicely proportioned body. He looked up and saw her grinning at him as he inspected her breasts.
“Lord, Sir, you’re just like a fishermen examining his nets, but mind you, Sir, make them even,” she laughed.
“What does that mean, Molly?”
“It’s unlucky to cast an uneven number of drift nets, Sir. See you’re no man of the sea. Anyway talking of fortune, it would be unlucky if I didn’t attend to your meal. Excuse me for being so talkative.”
As Molly got up, Jasper reached suddenly out and held her hand.
“Perhaps you could tell me more about the ways of the district, Molly.”
“Lord, Sir, I’ve got lots to do in my work.”
“I meant one day when you’re free.”
Molly brushed the back of her hand against a lock of hair and straightened an imaginary seam in her dress. She looked at him with deep black eyes. She really was very pretty.
She moved back again to be close.
“I’d like that, Sir, but, without being forward, I have to tell you that although you are obviously a gentleman, I i’n’t no young innocent who will oblige with my favors. We can walk up on the cliff and talk of many things. If you want me to take your interests seriously, you’ll have to respect me as a lady and do right by me.”
Jasper smiled.
“I understand, Molly.”
She turned and bustled away. He liked the movement of her rear. As he drank his beer, Molly returned with his meal. She put the hot plate on the table and their hands touched.
“If we are to be…friends...I can’t go on calling you Sir. What’s your name?”
He saw at that moment that Sir Jasper Akenfield was dead. His old life lost and would not return. Jenny was buried in a pauper’s grave in London. Caroline, probably was also trying to make a new beginning, although he held out little hope for her.
“Richard Lionheart” he said. He went east to find adventure. I’ve come to find peace and a simple living.”
She did not understand his words but understood enough about men and their needs.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the throng at the dockside, no one paid much attention to the four people making their farewells. To the casual eye they looked quite unremarkable: A well turned out young man of the middle classes with a beautiful wife at his side, and a lean youth evidently in the company of his somewhat older sister. Admittedly one couple was far more elegantly dressed than the other but this did not draw more than an occasional glance from passers by.
“Write to me,” Amelia demanded as she gripped Caroline’s hand.
“Of course I will; and you must both write to me.”
“Good luck to you both,” Freddy said warmly.
“And to you with your trip in Europe.”
“A modest affair compared to your own grand scheme, my dear,” Freddy replied.
Brendan shifted impatiently from one foot to another. He hated protracted farewells.
“Time to go,” he said.
Caroline nodded regretfully. She kissed her friends on the cheek and, with a final promise to write, linked arms with her new husband and made her way towards the waiting ship. They would leave with the tide on a long sea voyage to the other side of the world. It was an adventure to be reckoned with but one that would take her far away from scandal and troubled memories. As Mrs. O’Shea she could begin a new life free from care in distant Australia.
About the Authors
Bryn Colvin is a British author with a passion for all things strange. This is her first foray both into joint writing, and to working with the lovely people at Venus Press. She has other work published online, and in paperback anthologies.
Novelist, essayist and poet, Emy Naso's work ranged from beautiful love laments to erotic short stories and novellas, and full-length novels. Writing in many genres, Emy's distinctive voice covered humor, fantasy, contemporary, myths and historical work. Emy was a true Celt, born in the mountains of Wales, then living in London and finally on the remote coast of East Anglia. In April 2005 Emy died in the love of his friends and family. His stories were submitted before his death, some afterwards from his family.
