Chapter
One
| Four leather
bound classics and what appeared to be a diary. That’s all I had
to show for four hours of work. One classic per hour. I stared at what I had brought out of the box. The books were first editions, so I had that to show my boss. I hadn’t wasted my entire morning. It wasn’t the books, but the diary that held my attention, though. It was not a bound diary but a gathering of foolscap, tied together with ribbons. I started untying the ribbons gently, stopping when the dust from it clouded the air. The cover page declared the papers contained “The Diary of Celeste DuBois, 1882.” I ran my hands over the words and a slight chill ran through my body. Who was Celeste DuBois? Was she a governess or maid in this household? The man who now owned the house was named Sherwood, and that had been the family name for hundreds of years, according to my boss, Professor Joseph Went. It was because of Professor Went that I was here, in England, helping catalogue the contents of a 200-year-old manor home. I’d graduated from the University of Colorado at mid-term, four months ago, with a degree in archeology. My attempts to find a job in a museum had been unsuccessful. I had always dreamed of uncovering hidden temples in Egypt and finding sunken treasure in the Caribbean. At the very least I had wanted to work in a museum and care for the objects that others had found. I had just resigned myself, at the age of 27, to a life of serving pizza and beer to other college students in Boulder when Professor Went had called. “Hey, Abigail Foster, you got a passport? Then come on down,” he’d yelled over the phone in a parody of a game show. “I know you don’t have a job yet or you wouldn’t still be asking ‘would you like extra cheese on that?’,” he’d said with a chuckle. Before I could answer he’d continued quickly. “I have a summertime job in England, cataloguing a house for possible auction. It doesn’t pay much but it will help with your student loans. Plus room and board are included.” I’d quickly agreed, told my roommate she had the apartment to herself for the summer and headed to London. It might not be digging up bones in Scotland or uncovering temples in Egypt, but it was looking at the past, and it was something I could add to my resume. There were four of us working to uncover the house’s secrets and treasures. Professor Went and Nadine Moore were working in one of the four rooms that were loaded with filled boxes and covered furniture. Scott Childs was working in the library, and I’d been banished to the attic. At first I’d been royally pissed about being sent up here. And as I’d opened more boxes that contained old clothes and papers my mood hadn’t improved. But when I found the books I’d brightened considerably. I loved books, and had wanted to catalogue the library, losing that assignment to the more experienced Scott. But the box that I’d uncovered seemed to be the first of many containing books. I couldn’t wait to rub my discovery in his face. I finished unwrapping the pages from the ribbon that held them together. The pages were brittle but not so much that you couldn’t handle them. Celeste DuBois’ writing was firm, her words filling the pages with swirls. I wondered again who she was. Hoping to find a clue to her identity I skimmed the first few pages, where she described her arrival at Sherwood Hall. Obviously she wasn’t a member of the family, I thought. The first few pages did not give a clue to what she was doing at Sherwood Hall but there was one word that leapt off a page and caused me to sputter. I reached for my water bottle, took a drink and looked again at the word. “Quim.” I suppressed a giggle. Quim was the old English word for pussy. I laughed out loud. Whoever this woman was she wasn’t afraid to say what she meant. I backtracked somewhat and read the paragraph that contained the q word. I met Lord Sherwood today, and he sent my quim quivering. He is an amazingly handsome man, tall and muscular with dark brown hair. His eyes are brown and very intelligent. He looked at me as if he knew all my secrets, and could made me climax with only one touch. I caught myself glancing at the bulge between his legs and blushing. It has been so long and I am not a young simpleton. I am a widow who enjoys a man’s company. And his bulge looks very inviting. .I wonder if Lord Sherwood liked my curves. He stared at my breasts, covered as they were, before his sister claimed his attention. I smiled again, laughing out loud as I thought of what was supposed to be a proper Victorian woman taking about a man who was obviously her new employer and how he made her wet. And she wanted to fuck him. So much for Victorian ideas about sex. I set my new treasure aside and looked in the box again, finding three more books, all of them unknown authors of the time. Pulling another box toward me I quickly rummaged through its contents, finding books and another gathering of pages with Celeste’s writing. The third box contained another and the fourth contained two. Whoever had packed these boxes had not wanted to put the pages together, but they had not wanted to destroy them either. There looked to be about 100 pages per bundle, with a total of five bundles. Approximately 500 pages of Victorian sex, or at least one woman’s thoughts about her quim. I had just rewrapped the first pages, deciding that they would make a little bit of light nighttime reading when Went’s voice boomed up the stairs. “Foster, lunchtime! Found anything interesting?” When I hesitated to answer his footsteps echoed through the stairwell as he headed my way. I didn’t want him to discover the diary so I quickly took the bundles and stuffed them inside a large hutch that I’d yet to explore. “Here,” I said. “I’ve found some first editions. Dickens and Austen, Jane Austen that is.” He nodded his approval and grinned. “Childs is going to be pissed that you found these here instead of in the library, where he’s been toiling all morning making lists and lists of unknown authors. Of course those will raise some money for Lord Sherwood, as will what you have found.” Lord Sherwood, the name send a chill down my spine. I wondered if he was darkly handsome and would make my quim quiver. I laughed and quickly covered it up with a cough. Went slapped me on the back, commenting on how bad the dust was and heading toward the stairs, gathering three of the books on his way out. “Let’s go, Foster. The cook has promised us a cold lunch, and then Sheppard’s Pie for supper. Sounds delicious, huh?” I looked back at where I’d hidden Celeste’s writings, deciding to leave them until I could get them to my room without being noticed. I didn’t want anyone else to see my find until after I’d had a chance to read it, and discover if Lord Sherwood had done anything else to Celeste’s quim besides make it quiver. ********* It hadn’t been easy to get to my treasures again. Scott was indeed furious that the attic had brought forth such finds when all he’d found was “boring books of unknown poets.” He demanded that he and I switch places and I had to fight to keep my spot. As it was he’d followed me upstairs after lunch to see what I’d already unearthed. “Look at his, a first edition Pride and Prejudice,” he practically screamed. “Hidden in an attic.” Then he’d begged me to switch places with him, since his demands had not worked on Went. “Look, Scott, I’m rather enjoying it up here,” I said, looking at hutch. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you the boxes I’ve already opened and we’ll carry them downstairs. Any other boxes of books I find I’ll give to you.” After I’ve gone through them myself, I said silently. “You can catalogue them while I go through the dresses and other things stored up here.” The bookworm had agreed with an unhappy face that brightened considerably when I told him I’d carry the boxes downstairs myself. Scott’s pudgy form was not exactly conducive to carrying boxes of books. He finally left carrying the Austen and two other tomes with him. I carried the other five boxes downstairs, sweat making my long red hair damp as a result of my efforts. I quickly attacked the boxes, searching for more books. I found several books but no writings from Celeste. The remainder of the boxes held dresses and ribbons, knickknacks and dishes. Most of the things I ran across looked uninteresting. The dresses were all in the Victorian style, and were in remarkably good shape. I wondered if they’d belonged to Celeste, but quickly disputed the idea. Celeste had been an employee, a servant of some sort. These dresses were too fancy for a servant. They had been worn at some sort of ball or other soiree. And then I sat down and started to think. If Celeste had been a servant what was she doing with paper and pen to write, and why were they hidden in the attic. Perhaps she and the handsome Lord Sherwood had been more than employer and employee and he’d hidden the writings upstairs. But how did a servant know how to write. Most of them did not during that time period. But maybe I’d jumped to conclusions. Maybe Celeste was not a servant, but a guest in the household. She’d mentioned she was a widow. Perhaps Lord Sherwood was a distant relative who’d given her shelter when her husband had died. I resisted the urge to quit working for the afternoon and curl up with the diary. If Went came upstairs and found me loafing he would be furious. And if he saw the diary he would confiscate it and I wouldn’t get to read about Celeste’s quim and how Lord Sherwood affected it. I unpacked several more boxes of differing items, carefully making a list of them and their possible age and worth before repacking the box and taping the list to the lid. Around 3 p.m. I began pulling covers from furniture. I found three overstuffed chairs, one with a footstool and one very pissed off spider tucked inside; one dresser and two tables and one full-length mirror on a stand with very ornate carvings. The mirror looked as if it came from the early 1800s, the wood a dark maple. It was absolutely stunning. I stepped back and looked at myself, turning this way and that as if I were inspecting a new dress in a store dressing room. I’d tied up my curly hair after sweating it up carrying boxes downstairs. I wasn’t exactly model skinny, I thought, staring at my curves. I had large breasts and a cushiony, but not overly fat, fanny. If I could lose 25 pounds I would look great, I thought. A few more boxes of books and I might melt off a few of those pounds. At 5 o’clock exactly Went yelled that it was “quitting time at Tara.” Went was very fond of movie lines and TV shows. I debated whether I should take the diary downstairs with me now, or come back later in the evening, when everyone had gone to bed. I had planned on taking it to my room earlier in the afternoon but Went and Nadine had moved up to the second floor, exploring unused rooms before actually doing an inventory. Most of the house was unused. The current Lord Sherwood lived in London but still kept “rooms here,” according to the housekeeper. There were several servants, including the housekeeper, cook, butler and stablemaster. They had rooms toward the back of the house on the third floor, right across from the attic. Sherwood’s “suite” was in the north wing and our rooms were in the south wing, where most of the unused rooms were. So getting the diary past Went and Nadine would be tough, until after everyone had gone to bed. We all took turns using the one bathroom before we ate the promised Shepp MNard’s Pie and then Went decided it was time to “go to the pub.” Realizing it was my chance I declined and when the other three were out the door I ran upstairs to the attic and took the diary to my room, cleaning out space in my suitcase so I could hide it and lock it up, if necessary. Then I took the top bundle and made myself at home in my chair by the fireplace. I opened windows and a cool breeze moved the light curtains. I certainly hoped that Celeste’s diary would prove to be entertaining. ******** It’s hard to go into a new household. Richard’s cousin Mark had been responsible for finding me the post at Sherwood Hall. He’d said the current Lord Sherwood was looking for a companion for his 18-year-old sister, who had yet to snare a husband. He’d given her two seasons and she had not lifted her head out a book long enough to receive, much less accept, an offer. She is a very pretty girl, with long dark hair and brown eyes. But she is very interested in her reading and writing. During the two weeks I have been here we have only been to two tea parties in the village. She has declined all other offers, despite my insistence that we accept a few. She told me quite firmly that she did not need a companion. She is, after all, 18. I let her know that her brother thought otherwise, and that was why he had employed me. She gave me a blank stare and stuck her nose back in the book she was reading. Twice I have convinced her to go horseback riding, something I have always enjoyed. But she has resisted all my other efforts at outings. During the afternoons while she sits and reads I write in my dairy, and think of Richard. He has been gone for one long year. My mourning is over, and I need to find another husband. Unfortunately Richard left me penniless, and in debt. I sold all the household items to pay the debts and lived with his cousin Mark and his wife before taking this post. I never thought to find myself a servant, someone who had to work for a living. Richard’s post as a clerk at a local business would have kept us through the years, if he hadn’t died. I miss him greatly. We were friends as well as lovers. I have never understood my friends who say they don’t want their husbands to share their beds. Richard and I did not have servants, so we had the house to ourselves and we always made good use of it. He loved to take me in the kitchen, bending me over the table where we had just eaten breakfast. As he entered me he would say that it was “his morning exercise. And he always made sure that I enjoyed the experiences. I’m sure that’s why my friends never enjoyed their husbands’ attentions. Maybe they did not climax. Richard always made sure I climaxed. In fact, he showed me how to do it myself, and enjoyed watching me while I did. ‘Finger yourself, Celeste,’ he would whisper some evenings as we sat in front of the fireplace. ‘Show me your pretty little quim.’ So I would raise my skirts and lower my drawers, spreading wide enough for him to see while I did as he had shown me, pinching and probing the little button that brings me so much pleasure. Richard always controlled the events. He would tell me how fast, or slow to move my fingers. Sometimes he would tell me to stop altogether, to start again and build on our excitement. Sometimes Richard would stroke himself to climax. Other times I would finish him with my mouth, loving the taste of his seed as it spread down my throat. Whoa..... mutual masturbation, in 1882? And a blow job. Celeste, you little ho, I laughed. Of course they couldn’t exactly watch reruns on cable TV at night, could they. Well at least they’d enjoyed a good relationship. I took a drink of water and turned the page. Celeste described her home with Richard and their desire for children, lamenting that it was not to be. When she described his death my heart went out to her, tears filling my eyes. He had left one morning and never returned. His boss had come by to say there had been “an accident,” never giving the full details. After reading of the money problems I wondered if Richard had really left her in debt, or if unscrupulous money collectors had fabricated the loans, seeing a quick way to make money from an unprotected woman. Richard’s cousin Mark had finally stepped in, taking Celeste into his household for some time until his wife had objected. I wondered what Celeste looked like. Could the wife have been jealous, wondering if her husband was bedding his cousin’s widow? Was he? Marie is a nasty sort. She hardly ever smiles. She and Mark have three children and the governess sees to all the discipline and raising. Mark would go off in the mornings and not return until well after evening. I’m sure he has a mistress. Marie would sit in her study, working on needlework. Occasionally I took a ride but later I took to reading in the afternoons. Something must have happened, however, that Celeste did not put on paper. Four months after arriving at her cousin’s household his wife demanded that she leave. Mark had found her the post as companion to Lord Sherwood’s sister, the Lady Amanda. I will miss Mark and the children, but not Marie. She is a witch who deserves her unhappy life. I shuddered at the hatred that ran through Celeste’s words. Something had happened, obviously. I read on to see if I could discover what it was. Perhaps I can be happy here for a while. It seems a peaceful home. The house itself is huge, of course, as befits a manor house. Lord Sherwood keeps it decorated with warm inviting colors. The servants are polite and go about their business without disturbing the residents. I do feel very lonely, however. I wonder if sometime I could interest Lady Amanda in a game of backgammon, or chess. At night I miss Richard the most. I was quite used to physical contact and I have been desiring it more and more lately. I used to love the feel of Richard’s manhood. He would let me stroke it and lick it for hours, it seemed, although it was surely not that long. And so daring was he. Once while we were picnicking at the park he had me lay my head in his lap and lick his staff while I caressed his sack. He stroked my hair and acted as if we were talking and the other couples in the park didn’t seem to notice. I loved it when he was daring. Of course that was after he had brought home the book of erotic writings. Most of them had been about spankings and such, and Richard had loved to read them to me at night. After one such tale he took me over his knee, raised my skirts and lowered my knickers, so my backside was bare, and applied his hands to my fleshy orbs. At first I detested the sharp swats he was giving me, but shortly thereafter I began to enjoy them. The sharp slaps sent heat spreading through me, which went directly to my quim. He would have me count the slaps and would never stop below 25. After my “discipline” was over Richard would take me, making sure I went over the top before he did. We carried on this way for some time. I would do something that would make Richard “mad” and he would punish me, either bending me over his knee or over the table or a chair. Once when he had disciplined me while I was bent over the bed he had leaned over me and rubbed his cock into my backside. In the erotic stories a person was always putting his cock into a woman backside. Richard had told me that event would come soon, after he had given me time to become used to the idea, but it was not to be. I stared at the words in front of me. Of course I knew that erotic writings were all the rage in Victorian times, but it was amazing to me that this young woman and her husband had read them together, and then put them into practice. Reading about her experiences had made my own pussy wet. It had been sometime since I’d had an erotic encounter, although I’d never been spanked, or given a blow job in a park while others strolled nearby. I put my hands between my legs and rubbed. I’d changed into a skirt before dinner and I felt my wetness on my panties. I had started to slip two fingers inside myself when a knock came at the door. “Foster,” Went screamed. “Kitchen, now.” I got up from the chair and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was flushed and I needed an orgasm, badly. I looked at the clock. It was after 10. I’d been reading the diary for 2 1/2 hours. I pulled my hair back into its ponytail and started down the hallway, wondering why I’d been summoned in such a harsh fashion. Entering the kitchen I opened my mouth to make my displeasure at being interrupted known when a man turned round from the refrigerator and smiled at me. And I felt my quim quiver. |