Notebooks of the Young Wife

by Tara Black

  The lad brushed his fringe away from a forehead creased into a frown, while I frowned back. Then I made myself go over to the workspace, retrieve the silver letter-knife and with a show of calm resolution slice cleanly up through the top of the flap. Inside was a single sheet with a single sentence in a large, bold font.

  Dr Greene, it read, now you’ve got this far it is time for us to come clean. Under the scrawl of a signature was the name of Belle Torman, c/o Queen Mary UL.

  ‘The American. Came for the book.’ He jabbed a finger at the print.

  ‘Yes, and more, it becomes clear.’ I was thinking hard. If she was, as the message put it, coming clean, it didn’t sound like a simple case of theft. Plainly I had to make contact as soon as possible. It was already after four but I might achieve something by quick action. I looked over at the receiver on the desk, but it was an extension without any means of dialing out.

  ‘Kitchen,’ said the boy, divining my intention. ‘Cook orders stuff on it.’ I left him perched on a stool, apparently no longer troubled by the effects of the sharp six. Mrs Beaton waved me on to the wall phone by the door where I dialled the number I knew for London University, and negotiated my way through the arcane telephone system. Eventually there was a reply.

  ‘History Department.’ The voice was brisk but not unfriendly.

  ‘Hello. I believe you have a Dr Torman with you. Is she in, please?’

  ‘Ah, we do, but no she isn’t. And I’m afraid won’t be until the end of next week.’

  ‘I see. Is there a contact number? I do rather need to get in touch.’

  ‘Sorry, but Dr Torman is out of the country.’ I could have banged the phone rudely down in its holder in frustration, but then I had a thought.

  ‘This is Dr Greene from the British Library. I don’t suppose there was anything left for me?’ I held on as instructed, through a brief silence save for the rustling of papers.

  ‘Actually there is; a sealed envelope that you must collect in person. She was very clear about that point.’ I detected the tone of an English secretary resenting a dictatorial American academic.

  ‘Oh dear. You see, I’m not in town myself this week. However, I could have my assistant pick it up for me.’ There was no immediate response so I plunged on. ‘Tamsin Bingley is her name and she would be carrying the Library’s full accreditation.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can—’

  ‘Tamsin is utterly reliable,’ I said firmly. ‘I shall receive the item as surely as if you had placed it in my hand yourself. And Dr Torman will never know the difference.’ There was a noise that could have been a small chuckle.

  ‘Very well, Dr Greene, please tell Ms Bingley that I shan’t be in myself till noon tomorrow, but any time after that will be fine.’

  It was as well I hadn’t asked her to wait for Tamsin to do a quick dash before five, because I couldn’t reach her at our own place or on the mobile. So I left a voicemail to say I’d ring in the morning and tried to curb my impatience. After all, we now knew what had happened to the writings we were chasing, and that was surely the first – if small – step towards getting them back.

  Closer

  At dinner there was a buzz about the likely acquisition of a new Master.

  ‘Well, it’s not all signed and sealed yet, but I’m hearing that it’s as good as.’ Mrs Beaton leaned on the table, forearms bulging out of the rolled-up sleeves of the once-white tunic. ‘He’s coming early next week to look the place over. And that means the staff too. Us.’ There were sceptical looks amongst the lower ranks that I guessed were at the inclusive nature of the pronoun. As if confirming it, Sally piped up.

  ‘Pardon me for saying so, Cook, but there’s staff and staff. You and Mrs Jencks, now you aren’t the ones to be worrying.’

  ‘By my reckoning that’s just where you’re wrong, girl. Who’s to say the man will take to what I can provide in the kitchen, and he could well bring in a body to run the house the way he’s used to. A maid, though, is a maid. There aren’t too many different ways I know of cleaning a room. Of course, there is one quality I’m told will be an asset. But that’s only what you should be familiar with from the old Master, if you take my meaning.’ I followed her glance round a circle of blank looks before Molly chipped in.

  ‘I get it. He’s another of these disciplinary types. Am I right or am I right?’ She made a sour face. ‘Though, with what’s happening first thing tomorrow I could do without being reminded of the subject.’ Mrs Beaton wagged her head sympathetically.

  ‘This one doesn’t have my approval, remember. And you give me the chance to remind everyone that we are not going to attend. I can’t stop the Housekeeper from what she’s set on, dear, but I can deprive her of the audience she’ll be hoping for. Anyone with other ideas will answer to me.’ There were nods of agreement all round, but I suspected that the two young men were less than pleased at being deprived of the sight of a particularly comely rear gyrating under the birch.

  ‘So what else do we know about the American, apart from him being well to do?’ It was Molly again, and Cook seemed to be weighing up her answer.

  ‘All right, since you’re involved I’ll tell you what I was told. But it’s not much more than gossip, coming as it does from that young clerk at the solicitor’s office. She’s far too excitable for her own good, if you ask me. So let’s not have any wagging tongues.’ After a pause for effect – she needed no lessons in how to play an audience – Mrs Beaton bent forward with a conspiratorial air. ‘It seems he’s what they call a Southern Gentleman, getting on in years and old-fashioned with it. There’s a lot of them never really got over not having their slaves any more. I had an aunt – no longer with us now, I’m sorry to say – who was married over in that part of the world so I know what I’m talking about. So how he’s going to take to our Ama is a question. Which reminds me, I haven’t clapped eyes on the girl since the day before yesterday.’ Alarmingly, she looked directly at me as if somehow informed of our session.

  ‘I think she’s keeping to herself for a day or two.’ I didn’t add that it might be until she could sit comfortably with the rest of us. ‘Perhaps she wants to have the cars looking their best for the man’s arrival.’ I was clutching at straws but it seemed to do, for Cook resumed her exposition without comment.

  ‘The story is he’s unmarried now, but there are two daughters from the wife that was. What happened to her we don’t know. Twins they are, these girls, and only just twenty years old, too. And rumour has it that they are rather more to him than daughters rightly should be, if you get what I’m driving at. We’re not a run-of-the-mill household ourselves, it has to be said, but this is a new one.’ I pricked up my ears. We were back in the world of domini puellae; one where the distinction we would draw between a master’s daughters, servants and concubines counted for little. All were there for the taking. The coming of such a patriarch to Ardingley End promised to be interesting.

  There were more bits and pieces of information, including a taste for vintage cars that could provide a means for Ama to break down barriers. But I was in a restless mood and slipped away as soon as was decently possible from the rather familial gathering. The mechanic in my thoughts, I wandered over towards the workshop to be met by the view of a pair of legs sticking out from under the Bentley. Stiff and sore as she certainly would be, she was not the sort to let that stand in the way of work. Nor, in that case, should I. The idea made me all at once reluctant to engage her in talk, so I turned before my presence was detected and swung out of the yard in the direction of the tree-topped rise.

  I leaned on a gate at the edge of the wood to take breath. In the fading of the day high clouds to the west were tinged pink, while behind me starlings jostled for space in the branches. With its hedgerows and small fields, the area was a small corner of gently rolling countryside spared the depredations of large-scale farming. As a light in the house below c
ame on, and then another, the tranquil setting seemed oddly appropriate for the hotbed of perverse pleasure to which I’d become party. There was, however, one item of unfinished business that would not give way to the peace of the evening, and it turned my thoughts back to the note in the secret compartment.

  Had it been planted in the expectation that I’d be led to it? The answer had to be: possibly. But then again, possibly not. Planted, rather, in case I was. The notion gave me a small feeling of achievement, of having overcome a hurdle, thanks of course to the boy’s help. It made me wonder what the next stage in the game might hold in store and whether there might be a test more specifically targeted. As I was to find out soon enough, there was indeed to be. And it was perhaps as well I didn’t know it then, for that was not of a kind to prove amenable to a little detective work.

  But this is to run ahead of events. When I made my way back in the gathering dusk, by the kitchen phone I found an instruction to call our PA on her mobile. When she answered her voice was competing with the babble of pub or club, so I kept it brief. There was no problem, Tamsin assured me, in doing what I asked: collecting the communication from the College, opening it and reading its contents to me; all of this to happen as soon after noon as she could manage because I’d be waiting by the phone. It was all that could be done until the following day, and I went upstairs pondering how to fill the remaining hour or two of the present one.

  Then, in my room, I found the boy sitting on the bed with the extract from uxor studiosa he’d found for me, and looking rather down in the mouth. I sat beside him and squeezed a thigh.

  ‘Don’t worry; we’re going to get the whole thing back. And I mean we. Once I get the message at lunchtime, right?’ I don’t know quite what made me say it, but it was odds on there was going to be travel involved. At least it was clear to me that the Notebooks were not going to come to us. In any case, the statement seemed to cheer him up and I got him to his feet in front of me and unbuttoned his trousers with a sharp pang of desire. They dropped to the floor and his cock stiffened as I took it in my hand and worked the shaft. When in full flower I eased him down across my lap and looked at the dark lines left by the afternoon’s caning. ‘I’m just going to bring these up a touch, lad. Feel free to yelp if you want.’ He twisted his head round with a grin, and I weighed in with a series of smart slaps that were just short of what one could properly term hard.

  He was ‘ow-owing’ quite lustily when the door opened and Molly’s head appeared.

  ‘Sorry. If I’m interrupting—’

  ‘On the contrary. Come and join in. I’m sure the boy won’t mind.’ He lay compliant while I caressed his neck. I could feel a rock-hard erection poking into me. ‘He was given a lovely six of the best earlier. Have a closer look. Mind you, I don’t think he enjoyed it quite as much as we did.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, he’d get used to it if done regularly.’

  I parted the newly pink cheeks and the anus responded at once to my touch. ‘See this, Molly. We have an arse begging to be fucked. And if you wanted to help out...’ I waved at the strap-on that lay on the bedside cabinet, and she picked it up.

  ‘Well, I could certainly use something to take my mind off what’s pickling in the tub.’

  I pointed out the movable spur at the root of the life-like phallus. ‘This thing here will get you well sorted, girl, while you’re on the job of sorting him. Just try it out.’ It took only seconds for the device to be strapped in place and adjusted, and seconds more to position the boy hands on knees with bum out. I supervised the lubrication and initial insertion, then on an impulse I hunkered down in front of him and shifted his hands onto my shoulders. I looked up at him and touched my lips to the wet tip of the organ.

  ‘I have to say this is not my absolutely fav’ritest thing to do with a cock, but I do get the urge from time to time. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.’

  What a gem. I devoted myself to the task, moving in tandem with Molly’s thrusts from the back, and in a short space of time little fluttery cries told me the end was near. I wish I could say it was a creamy mouthful as tasty as the boy himself. The mouthful part of it was never in doubt, from a teenager at the peak of his powers, but however appealing the productive apparatus, what it dispensed was the usual salty, unappetising goo. But it would have been uncivil to spit, so I swallowed dutifully and moved on to the altogether sexier task of sucking the cock back into full-blooded form.

  Thankfully Molly had hit her stride with the appendage since I was in dire, seeping need. So it was over the bed rail, legs apart, and the black thing was into the wetness at once from behind. She pulled the lad in close and I reached back to pump his erection until I felt his hand taking over. The ridged head of the phallus prodded insistently at my clit and I was suddenly at the point of no return. Rocketing skywards in a fizzing rush of sensation, I was dimly aware of the boy’s grunts and a hot spattering from the sperm factory on my bum. It was good. Bit by bit we were getting closer to where I really wanted him.

  I awoke in the middle of the night alone, though I was able to retrieve a moderately clear memory of intertwined bodies before sleep had blotted it all out. Molly I’d expected to disappear with the event of the morning weighing on her, but I thought – hoped, even – that the boy might be moved to stay. I knew he had accommodation in a one-time gardener’s cottage, though there had been no call before to track him to his lair. Now, I thought, was as good a time as any, and unless he had a secret assignation elsewhere I was likely to find him in.

  Robed and shod, and blessed with the light of a full moon, I padded down the staircase of the silent house and made my way through to the back. As I expected, the kitchen door was unlocked so I turned the handle carefully, eased it open and shut it quietly after me. A few paces took me onto a short path, dark under trees. Small gusts of wind were rustling the branches with their new foliage, and I was glad to emerge from the shadow into the clear space in front of a low-roofed building. It was bright enough to make out some hoes and a rake through dirty leaded glass, so I passed by the entrance next to it. Then came the curtained window of what could be a dwelling, and beyond it a door that stood invitingly ajar.

  Visited by a touch of apprehension, I told myself there was no harm in simply taking a look, and pushed it wider. There was no sound as it swung back and I stood on the threshold waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. After a bit I became aware that to the left another door lay partly open, and I pushed at that one too before I could think better of the whole thing. It clunked against some obstacle, the noise painfully loud in the hush, and I held my breath, but there was no reaction. Now in front of me I saw against the far wall a bed, the bed I supposed, and it was empty. The covers were thrown back into an untidy heap that suggested a hasty leaving of it, and I advanced a few steps into the room... and froze rigid. It was one of those reactions where the alarm signal reaches the brain ahead of the information that triggered it, and for a fraction of a second there was only the panicked lurch of the heart. Then I knew that in the space behind the door, at my back, there was a figure standing.

  ‘Thought I’d pay a call.’ My voice rasped in a dry throat as I forced myself to remain still.

  ‘Heard you coming.’ He was right behind me, his breath on my neck. Then two hands reached round for the waist tie and the bathrobe was off my shoulders on the floor. He fondled my bottom and I thrust back at him, feeling his cock hard against my hip. We moved forward as one body and in the pale light I saw laying on a bedside table the leather paddle I’d used before. Only this time I handed it to him. I felt his eyes probing mine, though the face was in shadow against the lit window and I could read no expression in them. Then he took the instrument and I went forward onto my elbows. We were in his domain and I was going to submit.

  He hit hard, with stinging smacks that made me catch my breath. He was thorough too, ranging up and
down and from side to side until my whole arse was on fire. This was not punishment though, it was lovemaking, and I burned for him.

  When done with the paddle he spread me wide, and scooping juice from my sopping cunt he fingered it into my anus with a firmness that made me gasp. I was ready for, no, aching for the act that, however consensual, carries with it a frisson of violation. The boy could be doing it with a boy: there was no need of one of my gender for the purpose of buggery. It could well be the case he would rather do it to one of his own, and perhaps it was desirable to him only to the degree that my female differentia could be passed over in the dim light and the heat of the moment.

  But I didn’t care. Not then. For when he pressed the head of his cock into the ring of muscle it yielded, and it was as though from the top of my scalp to the tips of my toes every cell of my body shivered in a dark ecstasy. He fucked with a force that drove my thighs into the wood, and all the while his hands squeezed the flesh he’d paddled hot and sore. When the orgasm broke it came from deep inside, deeper even than the extent of his rough penetration. Once he pulled out I lay panting while the pounding of blood in my ears fell slowly away. When I hauled myself up the boy was nowhere in view, and I felt disinclined to search. A wave of tiredness hit me and I ached front and back. Suddenly I wanted out. At the door I steadied myself and summoned the energy to negotiate the short distance to the big house. Clouds had gathered in a freshening wind and I had to concentrate to follow the line of the path to the safety of the kitchen door. I was in and up the stairs in less time than it takes to tell it, and in seconds flat, in my own bed asleep.

  Après Birch

  Morning came too soon in the determined beeping of my pocket alarm, and when I heaved myself up to shut it off the pain made me cry out. What the mirror showed was a gaudy band of discoloration across the front that quite eclipsed the decorous hints of bruising left by the paddle at the back. I sat down on the bed, queasily unnerved by the bodily evidence of the night’s little expedition. To put it bluntly – and it seemed time for bluntness – what the fuck was I doing? It was one thing to offer up one’s arse to the rituals of the cane, but rather another to invite a buggering that mashed thighs into rough wood. The former was an exercise in endurance with its own rewards: painful, at best keenly so, yet methodical and controlled. The latter, on the contrary, was given over to the unrestrained violence of passion, and the thought of it made me shiver. I had revelled in such treatment from a lad half my age when I ought to know better. That is, the grown woman who took pride in the exploitation of the male organ for her own purposes, she ought to know better. Or could it be that that persona was beginning to slip?