Mrs Grainger's Gift 1

By Ritchie Moore

(I'll forward it to the author)

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Mrs Grainger’s Gift

A Romance

By Ritchie Moore

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The action takes place in the late spring and summer of 1925.

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Prologue Sunday 3^rd May 1925

As she sat with her friend in the warmth of the drawing room, she eyed the pretty girl who had brought in the tea. She was about twelve or so, with neat black hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head, shy black eyes that she kept lowered, and a rosebud mouth. Lydia Grainger looked her up and down, and spoke to her peremptorily.

“What’s your name, girl?”

The maid coloured and stammered out, “Martha, madam.” She kept her eyes on the ground.

Mrs Grainger looked over at her hostess. “That’s a rather plain name for a pretty thing like her. You should think of something else, Maude.”

Maude Crossley laughed. “Oh, I might, but frankly I can’t be bothered. Actually I never use her name, not even her surname. Why should I have to remember it? She’s just a housemaid. She doesn’t need a name at all.”

The girl heard herself spoken of in the third person, and resolutely betrayed no emotion. She knew her place in this autocratic household, and it was not high.

“Yes,” continued Mrs Crossley, “she’s quite a stunner in her own little way. The whole family are quite good-looking. The mother, who had the impertinence to die last year, in childbirth I think, turned a few heads in the village. She married a strikingly handsome labourer, just before he came to work here about sixteen years ago. He’s in the stables right now, and I find him a good hardworking fellow. He interested me because he has educated his family, though God knows why, they have nothing to use it on. Martha here can read and write and do arithmetic very nicely, and according to Milton, the other maid, she always has her nose in a book. A book, for God’s sake!”

Lydia laughed. “All right, I expect the only book anyone in service needs is Mrs Beeton’s Household Management!” She looked again at the young girl, who kept her eyes on the carpet. “So,” she said in a musing tone, “she reads. I wonder what? Girl! Martha!”

The startled maid lifted her gaze to the face of her interrogator. “What sort of books do you read? And where do you get them?”

Martha coloured again at being the focus of attention, and stammered, “My father, madam, he buys me a book every so often when he can—“

“What sort, I asked!”

She swallowed at the signs of impatience, and muttered, “Mostly stories, m-madam. Sometimes about historical events—”

“All right, all right.” Lydia shifted her gaze to Maude, and continued to converse, ignoring the girl, who had gone from red to pale in being dismissed.

“She’s pretty, yes,” said Maude, “but as I say the whole family were handsome. The brother is a fine young fellow – he’s the footman you may have seen earlier. He’ll be a bit older, fifteen I believe.”

Lydia’s eyes brightened, and she spoke in an offhand manner. “Hmm, do you think I could see him?”

“Certainly, certainly. Martha, run along and tell your brother to present himself.”

The girl quickly bobbed her head and left the room. The others looked at each other knowingly.

“Lydia, my dear,” said Maude with some amusement in her eye, “I get the feeling that you have something in mind. I don’t want to know what it is, ignorance is bliss, as Gray says, I think. But till he comes, tell me about your school.”

“Ah yes. It has been very successful this past year, since you visited. We have girls of twelve and up, and the enrolment has gone from a few dozen to about two hundred or more. We’ve had to build another wing to house them all. You may remember the builders being around at the time of the dinner. The parents seem well satisfied with what some have called a transformation in their girls’ behaviour. You know my methods, don’t you?”

Maude smirked, and said drily, “Oh yes, dear Lydia. Oh yes. But don’t you think sometimes that some honey would be appreciated on the bitter pill? What do you do to amuse them?”

“That is precisely—“ She broke off when a boy entered the room and made a little bow of his head. “You sent for me, madam?”

“Yes, Matthew, I did. Come over here and let us look at you.”

He approached them and stood at easy attention before them, his hands by his sides, his eyes fixed between them on a spot on the wall. Lydia arose gracefully and went over to him to examine him with minute attention as she might a thoroughbred horse. He had his family’s dark hair and eyes, and a pale skin that flushed a little at the close scrutiny. He came up to Lydia’s eye level, and so had to be about five foot six. His hands—

“Show me your hands.”

Looking a little puzzled, he held them out and she seized them to scan them, finding them soft and delicate, with long fingers. What about his feet? Lydia looked at her friend and said: “His feet?”

“Take off your shoes, Matthew, and socks.”

More puzzled than ever, he obeyed. Lydia looked down and admired the shapeliness of the exposed feet, and smiled to herself. “Thank you, Matthew,” she said, “put them back on, and off with you. Well, Maude, I do think he’ll do nicely.”

As the boy dressed himself again, she sat in her chair and looked over at her friend. “Yes, Maude, let’s talk about it.”

Maude made a motion with her hand, and Matthew bobbed his head and withdrew, wondering what on earth his strict employer and her imperious friend were intending. Lydia smiled a little cruelly and said, putting her hands together under her shapely chin, “Maude, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“I have an idea what it is, but…”

“I want you to lend the boy to me for a month or so.”

“I don’t see why not. He isn’t actually needed all that much. A month, you say?”

“Or so. Perhaps longer, it will depend on how things turn out. Will you?”

Maude looked at her with amusement. “My dear Lydia, I’ll give him to you with the greatest of pleasure, and hope you enjoy his services, for as long as you like. It’s not quite a gift, though, we’ll want him back sometime. The end of term, perhaps? Undamaged and unchanged, maybe? I doubt it. I’ve changed my mind, though, about ignorance. I do hope you’ll tell me how he suits you. Promise?”

“Of course my dear. I will say that he seems a little sensitive – modest, shy? I do hope he is.”

Maude eyed her friend quizzically, and answered, “Oh yes, I suppose he is. Does that suit you?”

“It suits me admirably. He seems well-formed, and very nice looking, as you said, and I do believe his blush will be adorable.” Maude laughed out loud. “I do begin to follow….”

Her friend interrupted her. “Now let me see. You can send him to the estate in two or three days’ time, I think. Say Wednesday, the sixth. That’ll be enough time to make all the arrangements at this end – I suppose he’ll say goodbye to his people and so forth – and at my end. Getting a room ready for him, et cetera. I think I’ll send our own coach to convoy him. I like using it for special occasions. It was a great favourite of poor Henry, you know. Besides, a train, or series I should say, would take too long. One thing, though….”

Maude looked at her friend questioningly. “Yes?”

“He looks a perfectly amenable young man, but maybe you would impress on him the necessity of following all my orders.”

“My dear Lydia! Naturally, I’ll order him to obey you just as he would me. And I’ll also remind him of the position of his family. If he doesn’t please, they will suffer. That’ll keep him in check.”

“Thank you, then. I suppose he has his own clothes, apart from that livery?”

“Oh, I think so, but I can’t remember what they’re like. Some old rags from before. But we’ll find something, so he won’t travel naked.”

Lydia smiled and her eyes twinkled. “No, never! At least….”

She left the rest unsaid, and her friend joined her in a laugh. “More tea?”

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Wednesday 6^th May

A new place

Matthew stood before his mistress and wondered what was in store for him. He had been told he was to visit a friend of hers for a little while, and take up some duties on her estate. He had said goodbye to his father and sister, and was instructed to dress in his own old clothes to travel. He was rather ashamed of the shabby figure he cut, but brightened when told he would be given new clothes where he was going.

“Matthew,” said his mistress firmly, “I want to impress upon you that Mrs Grainger is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I expect you to serve her fully, and obey her every command – even her every whim. Do you understand? You may be asked to do some things which are distasteful to you. No matter; you are her servant. You will obey her to the letter. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, madam, I promise. I understand—”

“And may I remind you of your family here? I do not wish to be told of any shortcoming or misbehaviour on your part. Your young sister and your father might be saddened to hear of it too, for they might be put in a painful situation.” She looked at him meaningfully.

Matthew gulped and saw exactly what she meant. Any slip on his part might mean their being dismissed. “Madam,” he stammered, “I promise to give satisfaction in all things.”

She smiled coolly, and said, “The carriage is at the door. Goodbye and good luck.”

She left him alone, and a moment later the butler looked in and said, “Come along, young ‘un. It’s time.”

With a last look round he followed the man out to the gravel drive where the old-fashioned private coach was waiting. He climbed aboard and settled himself for a few hours’ journey. No one saw him off; it was as if no one cared.

On the journey he mused over what his new duties would be, and what the estate was like. He realised he had no idea of what he was walking (riding) into. Mrs Grainger had seemed nice a couple of days ago, though what she wanted with his feet, or even his hands, was a mystery. Ah well, all would be revealed in the end….

He woke with a start to find the coach stopped. Poking his head out, he saw they were changing horses, evidently, and nipped out to stretch his legs. He realised suddenly his bladder needed relief and entered the dilapidated inn (really just a large shed) at the roadside in quest of a privy. Asking a morose-looking potman for directions, he was shown round the back where a fragile-looking hut leaned against the inn wall. He entered it hastily and lowered his trousers in preparation for a piss in the hole in the seat before him. He had just begun to urinate when the door was flung open and another boy ran in. Seeing Matthew peeing into the hole, he stopped and blushed, looked round in dismay, and danced on the spot, evidently holding himself in. Matthew for his part couldn’t stop peeing, and the two of them looked at each other, blushing in embarrassment, till Matthew was finished and backed away from the hole.. The other ran to the hole and tore down his trousers to sit, looking up at Matthew in shame as he put himself in order. Matthew didn’t wait to observe in his turn, but quickly walked out back to the coach, whose driver was looking impatient. He climbed in and the coach was off again. Again he dozed, only rousing when a rough hand shook him and a rough voice said “Wake up, cully. You’re there.”

Night had fallen, but it was clear and moonlit, so he could see a large and imposing house even grander than that of Mrs Crossley, which was of a size commensurate with her husband’s status as a Member of Parliament. This one even boasted turrets and what looked like castle battlements. Matthew guessed it was a fairly recently constructed pseudo-Gothic sham mediaeval imitation of a fortress, and smiled to himself. The driver threw down Matthew’s trunk and whipped his team off again, round the corner of the vast building, leaving the boy to wonder what would happen now. But the noise of their arrival had alerted the inmates, and a young girl appeared with a lantern. “Matthew Raven? Come with me. Leave your things there.”

He followed her into the open door and caught his breath at the size of the room, the entrance hall he surmised, panelled in wood that looked like oak, lit by a single lamp hanging from the high ceiling. She led him through to a door at the back of the hall under a grand staircase and knocked. A voice answered “Enter!” and she opened the door and ushered him in, closing the door behind him.

Lydia Grainger sat at a desk across from him, seemingly writing letters. She looked up and smiled coolly, saying “Matthew Raven. A good name, it suits your hair. Come here.”

He approached her shyly, wondering whether to bow or say anything, and she motioned him close. He looked in her eyes and blinked, startled by the deep blue colour. She herself was what they called voluptuous, he thought, with a cinched waist and a high bosom; her hair was the colour of ripe corn, and altogether she was beautiful, probably about thirty years old. He wondered where Mr Grainger was, but didn’t have time for cogitation. She asked abruptly if he had eaten, and hearing he hadn’t, rang the bell-cord by the chimney to summon the girl who had met him.

“Grace, take Matthew to the kitchen and see he gets something to eat. Then bring him back here.”

When they left, she returned to her letter, and after a while paused, the pen against her teeth. He’s here! she thought. He is under my roof, ready (or not!) to do what I say. My, this is going to be interesting. So when will the business get going, when do we start? Wait till the girl arrives? Why not this evening? But we’ll take it easy, one step at a time, before we take longer strides and show him what we need. Yes. Tonight.

Grace was maybe fourteen, or a petite sixteen year old, with curly brown hair and a cheerful face. She led Matthew down some stairs to the kitchen and offered him some soup and bread and butter, which he downed with relish as she looked him over with interest and a sort of mysterious amusement and filled him in on some facts about his new situation. “Mrs Grainger is a strict mistress,” she said, “and she doesn’t like it if you talk back to her. Just say, ‘Yes, madam’, and do as she asks. You’ll find out she wants you to do some odd things, and you have to do them, with no arguments. She’s got some funny friends, too, and between you and me some of them are really awful. But you have to put up with them. And then there’s the school next door.” Matthew chewed and looked a question. “There’s two halves to the house, and the other one over the wall is an academy, she calls it. It’s a girls’ school, and they’re all about our age, I mean the young ones are eleven or twelve and the oldest are sixteen I think. Anyway they keep themselves separate, they’re not allowed over here, except by special invitation, and we don’t go over there much. Our cook manages their meals and things but they have their own staff.”

“What do they get, I mean what subjects?” asked Matthew interestedly.

“Ooh, I don’t know,” said Grace, “there’s English and drawing and science and things. Mrs G will tell you all about it. History, French, I’m sure. There’s a very nice young French teacher called Mademoiselle, she’s really pretty—actually all of the teachers are fairly young, I suppose. Maybe you’ll see them when they have their yearly concert.”

“I don’t expect I will,” said Matthew, “I’m only here for a little while. My own employer, Mrs Crossley, sort of loaned me to Mrs Grainger, it’s only temporary.” She looked thoughtful, as if she didn’t believe him.

“Anyway, then there’s St Mark’s,” she said. “It’s a boys’ school several miles away. There’s another one, St Vincent’s it’s called, in the other direction. They sometimes come here, and sometimes we go there. So maybe you’ll see some more boys, you might like that. I think they’re due to come for a sports day or something. Do you do any sports like football or tennis?”

“Not really,” said Matthew. “I’ve played football, but not in an organised way, and I’ve never played tennis. I’m active enough, you might say, I mean I’m limber and all that. I can swim and dive. But the servants don’t play, do they?”

“Oh, no, we just stand about and carry things. Or run and carry things. But I’m not sure, frankly, where you’ll fit in. You’re maybe going to be helping in the kitchen here, or in the stables, looking after the horses or that coach we’ve got. Isn’t it a funny old vehicle? Mr Grainger evidently liked it, it belonged to his grandfather, Cook says. There’s another one, the open one, they call it a landau, and the cars. Do you know anything about cars or machinery? Well, maybe you can help with the girls’ academy somehow. Are you educated at all?”

“Well, I read a lot,” said Matthew in a shy way, “and I suppose I know a few things. I tried to teach myself French, and even a bit of German. I brought some books with me. But I don’t know a lot.”

“Well,” said Grace, “in that other direction--” again pointing vaguely, “quite a bit away, there’s another girls’ school. It’s not a rival, really, but we sometimes have hockey matches and so on. Oh, and of course at the end of the school year we’ll probably have a joint dance with all four of the schools taking part over two evenings, it’s a sort of special weekend. That only started last year, and it was a big success.”

“What’s it called?”

“What, the school? Miss London’s School for Girls. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? Anyway, you probably won’t see any of them, you won’t be here long enough.

“Tell me about Mrs C., then,” said Grace, and Matthew described his former household, painting a picture of a large imposing edifice and a large staff, presided over by a large major domo and a fastidious owner. “Mrs Crossley is about forty, I think,” he said, “she’s a pretty woman, with dark hair she wears long. Not in a bun, for instance, or a chignon. She’s quite tall, as tall as her husband. He’s a Member of Parliament,” he said impressively. “I don’t know how important he is, he’s not in the Cabinet, for instance, but he hopes to get something from Mr Baldwin soon. The house is really nice. There’s a ballroom, for instance, that must be able to take a couple of hundred people, I think.”

Grace’s eyes grew wide. “We’ve got nothing like that here,” she said. “Not now anyway. I think maybe we did but it was made over into something else for the school.”

“Anyway, we’ve got a great big cellar with a fine collection of wine, they say. Let me tell you, Grace, the master likes his bottle. I overheard one of the guests saying one time that he was trying to get through it as fast as he could because he supported the teetotaller movement in the Commons. Then again he was quite rabidly against giving women the vote. But actually he gives in to his wife all the time. It’s quite funny really.” He added, “By the way, where’s Mr Grainger? What does he do?”

“Oh,” she replied, “he’s dead.”

“Really? Mrs Grainger is very young to be a widow….”

“Oh yes,” said Grace, “Mr G died suddenly quite a few years ago, so they tell me, in a funny accident.”    He drained the last of the soup and looked at her expectantly. “Oh, don’t ask me what happened,” said Grace with a frown. “Cook was telling a friend about it and I overheard some of it, that’s all. Now don’t say anything to madam about it, for goodness’ sake. Now I’m to take you back to her, and I’ll run a bath for you.”

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“Ah, Matthew,” said Mrs Grainger, “you had enough to eat, did you?” The boy nodded. “Yes, madam, thank you. Can I ask you, what happened to my trunk?”

“Oh, it was brought in, and it’s up in your room. That’s the one to the extreme right up the stairs out there, two flights. What did you bring, some clothes perhaps?”

“No, madam, I’ve just got these,” he said, indicating his poor apparel. “I just brought some books—“

“Ah of course, you’re a reading family. We’ll have a chat about books sometime, and you may like to see our library here. It has some very interesting material,” she said with a mysterious smile. “Is that all?”

“No, madam” he said shyly, “just a keepsake from my mother.”

She looked at him and said “Of course, your poor mother. I’m so sorry. But it’s good to have a memento of some kind from the dead.” The boy flinched a little. “I, you must know, am a widow. My dear husband passed away ten years ago.” It was his turn to say sorry, but she dismissed the sympathy with a stoical smile and murmured, “It was a whole ten years ago. Now, what shall we do with you? A bath and bed, I think, but a chat in between. Let me ring for Grace, she’ll show you where everything is.”

Grace led him up two flights of stairs and indicated a room at the end of the corridor. “That’s your room, and this is the bathroom.” She opened a door nearby and steam swirled out.” It’s nice and hot. There’s the soap and towels.” She left him there and returned downstairs. He entered and shut the door, but was dismayed to find no lock on it. Hoping that the chances of anyone barging in were low, he took off those shabby clothes and stepped into the large bath that awaited him. Five minutes later, he was standing up soaping his behind when the unlocked door swung open and a girl appeared. In a panic he sat down suddenly, sure that she’d seen his naked back, and looked up to see her smiling at him as she picked up the discarded clothes from the floor.

“You’re Matthew, aren’t you? I’m Mabel.”

He didn’t know what to say – what do you say in a situation like this? “I’ve come for your old clothes. Mrs G has got something else for you to wear. It’ll be in your room.”

She left, and he found his heart thumping like mad. Had she really seen his behind? Hurriedly he left the bath and began to dry himself, but fearing another interruption decided to run along to his room and finish off there.

The room was quite large and had a sort of Spartan comfiness about it. A big double bed, dressing table, with mirror, wardrobe and chest of drawers, a couple of chairs and a little table were the furniture. A small window without curtains looked out onto what seemed a large garden and another wing. He set about drying his legs and feet, one foot up on the bed. Then the door was pulled open – there was no lock there either – and another girl came in to look brightly at his naked body, abruptly half-covered by the inadequate towel. She came in and laid a garment on the bed beside him, saying “There’s a smock for you to wear. Put it on and I’ll be back to take you down to the drawing room.”

He was now red with embarrassment, and hurriedly dried his upper body and genitals. Then he went to put on the smock and was dismayed to find it only came down to mid-thigh, but had no time to think before the girl came back and escorted him downstairs. He followed her, admiring her carriage and shapely behind. Like Grace and Mabel, she was young and might be seventeen or so. She herself wore a smock, quite a bit longer than his, but he could make out some sort of underclothing, which he (suddenly remembering in anxiety) didn’t have. He was led into the drawing room and presented to his new mistress.

“There now, Matthew, you look better. I’m sorry about the smock, but it’s a very handy sort of dress for everybody. We’ll see about some underwear too. But in a day or so we’ll have some new clothes specially made for you. My friend Mr Jackson is a very fine tailor. Sit down and have some lemonade.” She indicated a chair nearby and he sat down in it somewhat gingerly, thinking that the short smock he had on might not be long enough to cover him in that position. Mrs Grainger however seemed to be untroubled by his lack of modest cover and poured him a glass of liquid that was pleasantly cool and sweet.

“Now Matthew, a few words perhaps about this household. In this part of the house we have eighteen servants of various sorts, all girls – all young girls, really – and one man, that is Bryden, who is the butler and nominally in charge of the girls, though I must tell you he is quite old and infirm these days and doesn’t stir from his pantry much. The head girl, so to speak, is Abigail Hughes. She’s nineteen years old. Our cook, Mrs Ponsonby, is in overall charge of the kitchen here and that in the school next door. Yes,” she added in answer to a look from him, “we have an Academy here, for girls. It was a dream of my late husband, and I have endeavoured to realise it these last several years. I’ll take you over there before too long. I understand you’re a reader.” He nodded and opened his mouth. “It’s not impossible,” she murmured thoughtfully, “that you might enjoy taking a lesson or two with the girls, of your own age I mean. Would you like that?” He thought it politic to make sounds of agreement. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that too. Ah well. Now off to bed with you. Breakfast is at eight; I’ll send one of the girls to wake you. All right then. Oh by the bye, please don’t sleep in your smock, keep it nice and tidy. Good night.”

He mumbled a goodnight and found his way back to his room, frowning at the lack of a lock on the door. He remembered Mrs Grainger’s last words, and removed the short smock, hanging it up in the wardrobe, wondering when he would get his new clothes. Then he put out the light and looked out the little window at the night. What would life be like here? He took a deep breath and told himself he would acquit himself properly and not shame his family. In a mild state of drowsy curiosity he crawled into a comfortable bed and was soon asleep.

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Thursday 7^th May

He awoke to find himself face down on the bed and the sheets all crumpled up at his feet. He’d been wakened by a voice calling “Matthew! Wake up! Breakfast is in twenty minutes.” Groggily he raised himself to his knees, then in horror scrabbled about for a sheet to cover him from the gaze of the girl who stood in the open door. She looked at him pleasantly and wished him good morning. He swallowed and replied shakily; and she, with what seemed an appreciative look at his hastily covered body, departed. Damn it, he thought, that’s going to keep happening! I just know it! Why are there no locks? Maybe I can take advantage of that too (he thought in lascivious resentment) and catch a girl in the bath or in her bed, naked! Ah well, get that silly smock on and wash face. And pee too.

He hurried in the bathroom, fearing interruption, and came downstairs to the kitchen, to be directed by a gruff older woman, who had to be Mrs Ponsonby, to a little room next door. There he found a number of girls, all of whom seemed to be in their teens. He felt rather self-conscious in his short smock, and greeted them nervously as they were introduced and he was told their various positions in the household hierarchy. He flushed a little as he met the gaze of Mabel, and the girl who brought the smock, who was Jessica, a nice-looking brunette of seventeen. Then there was Jennie, who had woken him up and seen (he was sure) his bare behind. She gave him a knowing look, and announced that she was fifteen. “How old are you, Matthew?” He stammered “F-fifteen and a bit.”

She smiled in a strange way and said “Welcome to the household. It’s nice to have a boy around.” The others agreed enthusiastically.

“Old Bryden isn’t much use, and nothing to look at, silly old fool,” said Mabel, “while you look useful, and you’re much nicer looking.” He blushed at the compliment, particularly remembering that she would be thinking of him in the bath, but wasn’t able to reply before the introductions continued. He’d never remember all their names, and he might not distinguish them by looks either, for without exception they were all good-looking in their respective ways. Mrs Grainger evidently liked to surround herself with pretty young people. Matthew thought it was probably a way of keeping herself young. Abigail, the head girl (as if she was a prefect at school, Matthew thought) was a tall rangy girl with a rather large bosom who looked at him with what seemed a mixture of suspicion and interested appraisal. She had a long nose and piercing green eyes and ginger hair in curls down to her neck. Matthew felt a bit shy under her scrutiny, and knew she was eying the hem of his short smock. She herself wore a long gown of rough brown material gathered at the waist (trim, as were they all) and what they called sensible shoes with white stockings. The rest of the crew wore variations on this outfit, some in smocks similar to his, some in gowns of various drab colours like Abigail’s, some in black maid’s frocks, as he thought of them, with white aprons. None wore headgear, which he thought unusual. Their ages ranged from thirteen (Georgina, assigned to the kitchen) through all the teens to Abigail, nineteen as Mrs G had said, though she herself said “Nearly twenty.”

“And what about Mr Bryden?” asked Matthew.

“How old he is, you mean?” said the one called Christina, laughing and shaking her blonde pigtails. “We’ve been wondering for years, haven’t we? I reckon he’s about seventy. What d’you think?” she asked the others, and there was much discussion. The consensus was that he was at least sixty-five, and probably older, but nobody could say because he kept to himself and crept about the place slowly on creaky legs, half sober and half intoxicated on gin. The girls didn’t seem to dislike him, but they evidently did despise him.

They filled Matthew in on some of the other employees – the stable-boys and coachmen and the head chauffeur, Rawlins, the gardener, Wilson, his daughter Rachael and son Ezra and four boys, the odd-job men and boys, the young folk serving apprenticeships of a kind. “We don’t see them much,” said Christina, “they’re all housed outside this main building, some in cottages, some in a bunkhouse. Some of them come in from the village a mile or so that way,” pointing vaguely.

After a hearty breakfast, he was told that Mrs G wanted him to familiarise himself with the house and grounds. Accordingly he began to explore, first on that floor, which contained the kitchen, the little room where the girls and he had eaten, a bathroom (no lock, he noticed), a pantry, and what turned out to be the butler’s rooms, where he found a decrepit-looking man in shiny-shabby clothes seated in a large armchair snoring softly. A glass tumbler stood on a little table by his side with some clear liquid in it. Matthew could smell gin, he thought, and was about to steal away when Mr Bryden suddenly roused himself and spoke in a slurred West Country voice. “You’re this new boy, hey? What’s your name?”

“It’s Matthew, sir, Matthew Raven. You’re Mr Bryden, aren’t you?”

“What if I am?” the other said belligerently. “It’s a good name, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew hastily, “I didn’t –“

“And what about Raven, then? I knew a Raven, once,” he said with a grimace, “a dirty rascal he was too.” He peered at his visitor and wrinkled his nose. “You’re not related though, I can see that. You’re too pretty-looking.” The boy blushed and couldn’t think of how to respond. “No,” said Bryden, “this other fellow was an ugly bugger, in more ways than one. He had black hair, though, like you. Only not so glossy, just dead black. The raven bird always looks glossy, doesn’t it? Yes. Did you ever see the birds at Windsor Castle?” he asked, changing the subject slightly. “Or no, it’s the Tower. You know, they say .…” He seemed to lose track of his thoughts. “They say ….”

“I think I know, Mr Bryden,” said Matthew helpfully. “They say that if anything happens to the ravens, the Tower will crumble, and England will fall.”

“Yes! That’s right, that’s … right,” Bryden muttered sluggishly. “Where was I?”

“You were saying,” said Matthew boldly, “that you knew a Raven who was an ugly bugger.”

“Oh yes, he was!” Bryden broke out. “He was! In more ways than one, boy, let me tell you. It was more than thirty years ago, before the war. Thirty, thirty-five years,” he murmured reminiscently. “How old are you, lad?” he asked wistfully, looking with owlish eyes at the young man before him.

“I’m fifteen, sir, fifteen and a quarter or so,” replied Matthew.

“Oh dear, so young. So young, so …. Listen, what’s your name, oh, Raven, yes. Well, I’ll tell you, he was an ugly, unpleasant, malicious bastard, who took away – took away –” his voice rose, “took AWAY the dearest person I ever knew.” Incredibly, tears began flowing down his withered cheeks, and Matthew didn’t know what to do or how to respond. Gradually Bryden ceased to weep, and closed his eyes. In a minute Matthew could see he had gone back to a drunken sleep, and he tiptoed away.

=====================================================================

On the next floor, which was the main ground floor, Matthew found the drawing room, the morning room, a locked door which must lead to private apartments, and a dining room of some dimensions, with an elaborate chandelier in the ceiling and a fine-looking grand piano against one wall. Hatches at the side proved to be dumbwaiters from the kitchens below, and a door at the back, covered in green baize, led to a rather large room fitted up as a … what? Matthew looked with puzzlement at benches and leather seats round the sides, what looked like a chopping block in the middle, and a number of hooks in the low ceiling – evidently there was another room just above. Yet another door at the back admitted him to a bathroom complete with washbasin, lavatory pan, bathtub and a shower head. He came out again to find a spare bedroom with a bare mattress, a lavatory, with no door, and a library. This interested him as a reader, and he admired the tall cases packed with books, which covered three of the walls. The fourth, besides having bookshelves up to his head height, bore several paintings of some age, judging by the dress of the subjects, and French windows leading out onto a grassy plot with an old sundial in the middle, part of the lawn and garden that surrounded the house, and the sun blinked in cheerfully. He thought he would definitely come back here, but for now he’d only take a glance at a book or two. A large world globe was to the side, and a couple of reading tables were in the centre, with several comfortable-looking chairs beside them. Another bigger table stood close to the wall, and a movable set of steps, to access the high shelves, was in a corner. He wondered why the place seemed little used, and resolved to ask the mistress. Perhaps he could help with the catalogue or something? Was there one? Meantime though he could browse through the shelves. The books looked to be venerable things from the past century, with a sprinkling of modern stuff throughout. Begin somewhere. He pulled a book off a shelf and found it to be in French, which he wasn’t good at. What was the title? Contes Drolatiques, by Balzac. He’d heard of him, a famous novelist. What was the book about? Funny stories? Unless the “contes” meant something rude. He riffled through it and paused at an illustration that gave him a little shock of excitement. This was evidently a rather risqué set of stories, but he couldn’t read it. The next book was in English, The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, printed in 1746. A long time ago. But though the racy title was promising, it looked rather boring and too old-fashioned. Perhaps, though, there were interesting travel books or such. He found quite a few to satisfy him, large folios with fascinating maps and engravings of exotic scenes, and time flew by as he investigated them. Hauling a tome from a shelf, he was disappointed to find it was in Latin, which he recognised but couldn’t read. Another, however, had little text (also in Latin) but many pictures, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. They were old coloured engravings, depicting people making love (as he phrased it to himself) in several positions, showing details of their bodies in evident arousal, which made his own body stir. A flush came to his cheeks and he closed the book in guilt, wondering how it came there, for anyone to read. He took a deep breath and continued to explore, promising himself that he’d definitely come back to see what else was available, and the flush stayed with him for quite a while.

The next floor contained a full bathroom (again, with no lock on the door), and several rooms seemingly used for storing old rubbish, like the attic in his home. Here there were more books, evidently old novels and such, in several languages, children’s books, and what looked like textbooks of various sorts, such as one titled Memoria Technica, which promised to teach you history by a complicated code (he wondered how anyone was expected to remember a phrase like “Crothf Deletok Exafna Tembybe Cyruts” which told you the dates of the Creation, the Flood, the Exodus, the Temple Building, and Cyrus the Great), and an old edition of Euclid, which he knew as a basic geometry text. There were costumes and footwear, pictures and kitchen vessels, a spinning wheel (he immediately thought of Sleeping Beauty), a big violin – no, wait, that had to be a ’cello – with no strings, and all sorts of fascinating stuff he’d have to come back to if he were allowed.

He found a little music room with a dusty piano made by a company called Bösendorfer. Sheet music was scattered around, besides many bound volumes of music, mostly it seemed with German titles. Matthew regretted he couldn’t play. He could sing, he thought, pretty well, but reading music, let alone playing it, was beyond him. And evidently no-one in the house cared for music; this room hadn’t been entered in ages. He felt the need of a pee, and got back to the ground floor, but didn’t fancy using a toilet with no door, so wandered outside and decided it was more urgent than he thought. He found a large bush by a stone wall and got behind it, and lifted his smock to relieve himself, with a thankful sigh.

He was just shaking off when an excited voice from above called out “Oh! You were pissing! I never thought I’d see—“

He looked up in scarlet embarrassment to see a young girl of twelve or so laughing down from the top of the wall. This had to be one of the girls at the academy, he realised, and ran off in confusion, walking about aimlessly till he calmed down. Oh God, he thought, it’s a young girl from the Academy, she’ll be telling her friends about the new boy next door, how he pulled up his smock to piss, how she could see his penis…. Cursing himself for being so thoughtless, he went back into the house to continue exploring. He was about to start on the top storey of the large building when he was spied and summoned to lunch.

Grace told him over a salad and soup, with brown bread and butter and tea, that Mrs G was not satisfied with the smock he’d been given, and it should be changed as soon as possible. “That’s fine,” said Matthew, hoping he’d get something more modest. “And maybe I can get some underclothes?” he asked plaintively, flushing slightly at reminding this girl he was naked under the smock.

“I don’t know about that,” she said with a grin. “Let me tell you, Mrs G kept me without knickers or anything for the longest time when I got here three years ago. Frankly, I think it gives her some sort of thrill to think that the person she’s talking to has nothing on underneath. Besides—.” She stopped and said “You’ll see.” The few others at the table nodded, some with mysterious grins, and he wondered in some trepidation what they meant.

In the afternoon Mrs G was reading a magazine when Grace announced the arrival of Mr Jackson. “Oh, good,” she said. “Take him into the morning room, and send for Matthew. He’s to be measured for new clothes. Perhaps his smock can be changed at the same time.”

“Yes, madam,” said Grace, with something of a sparkle in her eye, and went off to instal the tailor and seek out Matthew.

In the morning room bright sunlight still flooded in through the French windows as Grace showed the tailor in. “There you are, Mr Jackson,” she said. “I’ll fetch Matthew – he’s the boy you’ll be measuring – right away.”

“No hurry, miss,” he said with a bored look, which changed to an interested stare as his eyes followed her bottom out the door.

Matthew was produced in a minute or so, and the tailor looked at him and abruptly said “Stand over there, boy, in the sunlight, and take off that shirt thing, we’ll need to get proper measurements.” Matthew looked at Grace, who looked at him with a laugh, and left. He quickly removed his one garment and let it drop at his feet.

“Stand up, hands stretched out to the side.” Jackson got out his tape and notebook, and looked over the boy’s body. The door opened suddenly and one of the girls came in, making Matthew quail in his nudity.

“Stand up straight! Arms out!” the tailor barked, and Matthew had no recourse but to stand totally exposed before the girl, who eyed the boy’s groin as she said “I’ve come to pick up his smock, we’re going to exchange it.”

“Very well,” said the tailor, “there it is.” She went over to where the naked boy stood blushing and picked it up from his feet, looking directly at his near erection, he flinching under her gaze, and went out with a satisfied smile. He was in some panic, knowing he had now nothing at all to wear. Jackson bade him stand astride to get leg measurements, then put his hands up in the air to get the length of shirt from cuff to thigh – at which point another girl entered with another smock. She stared at him and his now full erection with a pleased smirk, and said simply, “Here’s the smock.”

“Fine,” said the tailor, “ put it down there,” indicating a chair. She left with an unconcealed grin, and Matthew knew he was beetroot red. Feeling faint with embarrassment, he breathed heavily and looked at the tailor, who was finishing his business with a nonchalant air.

“Oh, young man,” he said, “I can see you’re ashamed, you’re as red as a rose, and hard as a rock! You needn’t be ashamed of your body, it’s fine, and the girls seemed to like it!” He frowned and looked at him and clicked his teeth. “Wait, one or two more measurements. Top to toe. Stand up straight. Hmm, can’t get the tape properly. Aah!” he said as another girl came in, “How handy! Miss, come over here.” It was Laura, a very pretty blonde girl of about sixteen, who approached and looked at Matthew with a twinkle in her eye, he meanwhile trying to hide behind his sweating palms.

“Mrs G sent me,” she said to the tailor, while keeping her gaze on the boy, “to see if there’s anything you need. Can we offer you a cup of tea, for instance?”

“No, that’s all right,” he said, “but thank Mrs G for the offer. I have to get away. Right now, though, you can be useful to help with the measuring.” Matthew looked at him in anguish. The girl would help –! Jackson looked at him. “Stand up and put your hands behind your head, boy. Now miss, take this end of the measuring tape and put it to his neck. At the bottom of his throat. Right, hold it there.” He put the other end to the ankle bone, and turned away to make another note.

Laura looked at Matthew with a wicked smile and breathed in his ear, “Oh Matthew, I do like your cock!” He squirmed but couldn’t escape her eyes, and flinched again as Jackson got her to hold the tape at the back of his neck just under his trembling hands, giving her a good look at his behind, while the tailor took another measure to the middle of the heel.

“One more, I think,” he said, “it’s probably not necessary but more is better than less. You can do it easily, girl. Put the tape to his bottom.” Matthew looked at him in dismay. “Yes,” said Jackson, “to the bottom of his bum cheeks. Like that, yes. What’s the length to the floor?” Matthew didn’t hear her reply, for his heart was thudding loudly in his ears, and he was wishing for the floor to swallow him up. Mr Jackson meanwhile grinned to himself and resolved to amuse himself with the naked boy for a bit longer, knowing as he did Mrs Grainger’s style, and being sure what happened would get back to her, if she didn’t witness it herself.

“That’s good,” he said. “Listen, if you don’t mind you could help by checking some of these other measurements for me. Usually it’s my son does this, but he can’t be here, so—”

“Oh,” said Laura with something of a laugh, “I don’t mind at all!”

“Fine then,” said Jackson. “His legs, from hip bone to heel.” Laura knelt in front of him and put one end of the tape to the hip, looking with a grin at his near penis, which seemed to want to thrust itself at her, and Matthew was shivering, knowing it would get worse. Laura measured his other leg, and then was told to do the inseam. “Put one end to the boy’s groin,” said Jackson, “the other to the foot, yes, like that.” Laura was smiling widely at her task, while the victim made protesting noises, but to no avail of course. “Now the other inseam,” said the tailor.

The girl, only a year older than he, a girl, put her soft cool hand to his other groin, his groin, his naked groin, and his erect prick bobbed in salute. Matthew looked desperately at Jackson. “Please, sir,” he moaned, “you don’t need—”

“Maybe not, Matthew,” he said carelessly, “but it’s nice to have a check, and it’s just because Martin my boy isn’t here. We’re lucky we have this pretty miss to help. Now, then, what’s your name, girl?”

“Laura, sir,” she said.

“A nice name! Well, Laura, give me the measure of his trunk. From his breastbone down to his pubic bone.”

“Oh yes!” she said with enthusiasm, and Matthew squealed as she unashamedly put her hand down to his pubic hair to find the bone, smiling in glee.

“Now measure him round the thigh, please. At his groin. Yes, like that. What is it? … I must say, Laura,” said the tailor mischievously, “you seem to be enjoying this.”

She looked a little embarrassed, but replied gamely, “I am, sir, it’s true. It’s not often I get to see a naked boy, let alone touch him.”

“Honestly said! And you, Matthew, what about a girl measuring your body, all the naked parts, hmm?”

Matthew shuddered and shook his head, not wanting to prolong the conversation, but the tailor insisted, and finally the boy, feeling Laura’s hand still in his crotch, began to stammer, as she boldly inserted her fingers into the seam between his ballocks and his arse. “I—I, please, I, I’m not used to it, it’s, it’s, em-embarrassing. I—I h-haven’t been naked in front of anyone, not since I was a child.”

“And now you’re a man, as we can all see. And as I said, your body is quite handsome, and you can be proud of it. Well muscled, not flabby, nice stomach, fine bum on you, Don’t you think so, Laura?”

“Oh yes,” she said, entering into the spirit of the thing, and looked at him critically from head to toe. “His chest,” she said, playfully running her hands over him, “his belly,” and she stroked his navel, causing him to quail, “his hips,” and she put her hands to the sides of his body. “His bum,” rubbing her palms on his natal cheeks. Then of course she went all the way and grasped his scrotum with one hand, and his erection with the other, as the poor boy gasped and groaned, looking for support at the amused tailor. “And this,” said the cheeky girl, “this he can be proud of. Oh yes.”

She stroked his organ and his knees buckled. “For God’s sake, Laura,” he choked out, “leave me be!”

“Oh well,” she said in mock (or real) disappointment, “I’ll go. Mr Jackson, I can’t do anything else for you?”

“No miss,” he said, “I reckon you’ve done quite enough for now! Thank you for your help. Now be off.” She winked at the scarlet boy and went out. Matthew breathed heavily, and glared at the tailor.

“You were just playing with me, weren’t you, having a laugh at my expense! How could you shame me like that?”

“I’m sorry Matthew, if you’re so sensitive to the other sex. As I said, you have a fine body, and more people should see it. And,” his voice dropped to an intimate murmur, “don’t you get a little feeling of excitement when a girl sees you naked, sees you erect, touches you down there? Don’t you?”

Matthew couldn’t answer, for he felt in his heart that it was probably true, for some reason. He lifted the smock in sullen silence and drew it on, only to discover to his horror that it was even shorter than the first – it still covered his groin, but not really by much. He was wondering what to do when Mrs Grainger came in to admire him and instruct the tailor.

“I want a vest, shirt, and trousers, the first two from fine lawn and the third of cotton; the vest to cover his navel at least, the shirt to mid-thigh, and the trousers to be quite tight and form-fitting.”

“I understand, Mrs G.,” said the tailor, “and I’ll have them ready for a fitting by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Excellent, Mr Jackson. We’ll look forward to it. And there’ll be another commission for you soon.”

“Right then, till tomorrow. Oh dear!” he exclaimed looking out the window. “Here comes the rain. Thank goodness the hood on the car is up.”

He left, and Mrs Grainger looked at Matthew critically. “Yes, it is a bit better, I think, but we have others. We’ll have to see. Now off you go for tea.” She left before he could ask about a longer smock, or broach the embarrassing question of underwear.

At teatime with the girls, he felt dangerously near-nude in the skimpy smock, and told himself he had to be careful how he moved and sat. He couldn’t meet the eyes of the two who saw him posing naked, and when he happened to cross looks with Laura he blushed crimson. They of course kept looking at him and smiling to themselves. The end of the tea break came, not before time, and he thankfully escaped their smiles to join Mrs G in the drawing room again. Last time he had been troubled by the brevity of his smock, and now he was even more anxious, but she seemed quite blasé about it, and he remembered Grace’s words.

“Tell me about your family, Matthew,” she said in a kindly tone.

“Well, madam, I’m half an orphan, my mother died you know—“

“Yes, yes,” she said with some irritability, “and the rest of your people?”

He blinked and answered, “My father works for Mr Crossley, in the stables, my sister Martha—”

“Yes, yes. I met her, you know that. Tell me about your education.”

“Well, my father always says that a good education will take a person far in the world, or at least if he’s in a lowly state, it’ll make him a better person, a happier person….”

“Hmm, and so he insisted on you studying and reading and so forth.”

“Yes, madam, me and Martha both. I’m not educated really, I don’t know enough French to read folk like Balzac—“

“Oho! You know him?”

“I know the name, madam, but I couldn’t read the book you’ve got in the library —“

“Ah, you’ve been there? What was it called?”

He flushed as he remembered the volume and stammered “Something about – about ‘contes’, madam….” He mispronounced the word, and a startled look came to Mrs Granger’s face. She drew a deep breath and decided to ignore his obvious familiarity with the obvious English word.

“Yes,” she said, “Droll Stories. One of his lesser-known books. He wrote a great many, you may know. But that one isn’t in modern French, you’d never manage it. What else did you find?”

“Oh, there was a great big atlas by someone called Blue, I think, and a book of voyages by Anson…. I say, is there a catalogue? I couldn’t see one. I was thinking….”

“There is, somewhere,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s up-to-date. Hmm, perhaps you could check it for accuracy? Would you like that?”

“Oh yes, madam, I think I could do that—”

Just then one of the girls came in to tell them that cook’s cat, Tibby, was up a tree and wouldn’t come down. “Oh dear,” said the mistress, “why don’t you take Matthew here and get him to climb after her. You can do that, can’t you, Matthew?” Of course he could, and of course he had to. He ventured out into quite a downpour of rain, with two girls, carrying an umbrella, to show him where the cat was, up a readily climbable tree, which really presented no difficulty. He started up, but stopped abruptly when he heard an intake of breath from one of the girls below him that told him that they could probably see his behind under the short smock. He hoped he only imagined he heard the word “arse” through the rain. He had to continue however, and soon had the animal cradled in his arms to return to where they were looking at him in some amusement, and he flushed at the thought of his exposure. They went in, and several others were in the hallway, the madam looking at him and saying he’d better take off the smock and dry off, or he’d catch his death. He gave the cat to one of the girls, who looked down at his middle and smothered a grin. He realised with a shock that the rain had plastered the smock to his body, and everything was fairly visible through the wet cloth.

Mrs Grainger spoke to one of the girls peremptorily, “Amelia, see him upstairs and get his smock to dry.” Matthew covered himself as best he could and walked quickly upstairs, their eyes following him in his transparent garment, their faces in grins. Amelia had another word with her mistress and came after him, wearing a grin of her own. Once in his room he turned to the girl , who was waiting for the wet smock.

“I – is there a towel, do you think, somewhere, to dry off?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a laugh, “there’ll be one in the bathroom next door.”

She evidently wanted him to give her the smock and go for the towel naked, a thought that made him shiver in unease. “Oh all right,” she said, and went off herself. He was able to take off the wet smock and think about hiding in bed by the time she returned with a large towel, but was still in the middle of the room, and he looked at her aghast, hiding his genitals as best he could. She offered the towel to him, and he stretched out a hand but quickly returned it to his groin, on which she said “Madam said I can dry you.” Matthew gasped but couldn’t say anything, so she unfolded the towel and began to dry his hair, he standing there stupefied and blushing as she proceeded to do his back, his buttocks, his legs, his arms, and his belly, as far as she could reach it, then said “Your hands are in the way!” He looked at her desperately and stammered “N-no, please, Amelia, p-please let me finish myself.” She relented and surrendered to the towel to him, but stayed to watch as he (turning his back to begin) tried to dry his groin and preserve his modesty. But her next words made him shudder.

“– And I’m to make sure you’re really dry, so I’m going to feel your skin, your back and your bum.” Oh God, he shivered as she felt his shoulders, back and his buttocks, smoothing her hands over his cheeks and muttering “Very nice, Matthew,” he once more blushing furiously. Thank God she stopped there! Then she left, taking his wet smock with her.

Now he was naked again, and thinking of the very likely (inevitable) visit of one of the girls with the dry smock, he wrapped the towel round him and sat on the bed in despair. It had been one dreadful embarrassment after another. What else could happen to him in this vast house with no locks on the doors and a gaggle of young girls all too willing to enjoy his humiliation? And oh God, he was here for a month! After a while he felt the need for relieving his bowels, and so went slowly along the corridor to the bathroom. He dropped the towel at the lavatory bowl and sat down dejectedly, resting his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees.

He was engaged in his shit when the unlocked door opened and a girl (sixteen-year-old Liza, he thought) came in to change towels, coming right up to him and taking his too. She looked at him, he squirming, and in nervousness he gave a loud fart. He closed his eyes in anguish as she laughed and said “Oh, there isn’t any paper. But maybe you can use the bidet?” She indicated the device, saying “It throws a jet of water up your bottom. Try it!” She went off and he dithered about cleaning himself, finally getting to the bidet and squatting. The girl entered through the open door with some toilet paper and looked over at him, he nearly dying of shame. She came over to show him the lever that activated the jet, and pushed it, sending the water up his anus, and he stood up in surprise. She laughed as he covered himself, and told him he could use the paper to dry. She left again, and he staggered over to the sink to get some soap, and lather up his behind and anus. She came in again as he was cleaning his bum and looked at him with interest. He didn’t see her at first, then realised he was exposed again. “There’s more paper, Matthew,” she said, and left, hopefully for the last time. He dried his body and crept along to his room. Getting into bed, he closed his eyes and sighed heavily. What a day it had been! And what was to happen to him tomorrow?

(The End)