Notebooks of the Young Wife (3 page)

No, all I knew was that there was very probably a large mass of disreputable materials up for grabs. The Everett name was a byword for aristocratic depravity but my acquaintance with the history of the house was sketchy. To be honest, I wasn’t very sure even where it was. However, I decided that any research into these matters would keep until morning. I was too spent even to contemplate banter over a jar or two round the corner at the
Hellfire Tavern
. Instead there was the remains of a bottle of Bruaichladdich in the flat that would send me pleasantly into oblivion, and to that end I let myself out of the back door and headed up the stairs.

The morning had started well. Ardingley End was easy to find online in the Country House Index, which delivered the basic facts. Begun in 1610, it contained a Jacobean core that was later flanked by wings with rooms by Robert Adam. The Everetts came into the picture by acquiring the property in 1695, and stayed with it from generation to generation until Monty popped his clogs and brought the line to an end. But then my luck ran out. I searched the usual sources like Ashbee, Porter, Hitchcock and so on – any commentary I could lay my hands on that was indexed – only to find they contained no mention of the family name. It was common, of course, for disreputable items to appear under a false name or no name at all, but the pen names of particular eighteenth-century enthusiasts like Perry or Ireland had often been cracked. Not so with Everett, it seemed, if indeed there were any original materials to be had.

I ground up a quantity of beans and set the coffee machine hissing and bubbling while I racked my brains. We knew about the interests of the present – or rather, late – Sir Montague, and through him of the fact of likeminded ancestors. Had any of them published flagellatory erotica copies would be preserved in his own collection, and it was unlikely that they’d have been left to lie in scholarly oblivion. Not at least by one of Monty’s aptitude for self-promotion. I glanced again at the clutch of books I’d hauled upstairs from the basement. At the bottom was the imposingly titled
Organum Venereum
: a recently acquired nineteenth-century reprint of the 1787 original. I had put it aside for reason of its lack of index, but now it occurred to me that it may be worth a quick scan, since it contained material from an earlier period than the rest. Earlier, and therefore thinner on the ground.

Coffee poured at hand, I settled to the task. The main body of the book was a dissertation on the medical or pseudo medical works that purported to explain why a good whipping of the buttocks inflamed lechery, while in the process dwelling lasciviously on all the bodily details. At another time I would have been diverted, even titillated by evidence of preoccupations like my own two or three centuries in the past. That day, however, they were a source of irritation and I skimmed hastily through on the lookout for names. I saw there was an appendix entitled
Incident & Anecdote
, and without any real expectation turned to it. And struck gold.

The third entry ran to four pages under the heading
An Educational Use of the Servant
, and at the end of it I found,

A–––– E–, in the County of ––sex.

The Month of June in the Year of 1728.

Uxor studiosa scripsit
.

It had to be. Academic caution always goes out of the window when I think I’m on to something and I just
knew
the piece was from Ardingley End, Essex. But the last three words made me gape. I was familiar with
scripsit
, meaning literally ‘wrote’, and for use after the author’s name at the end of a letter or document.
Uxor studiosa
, though, was a turn up for the book. Wife, of course, and not merely studying, but keenly so. ‘By the zealous wife’ might do as a translation. With a slightly unsteady hand I turned back the pages to read what she had written.

I am scarce one Month wed and my Husband’s Course of Lessons is underway in earnest. This Day we are gathered – that is my Abigail and I – in the Morning Room where a Space has been cleared for an Article of Furniture that I am most desirous of viewing in use. At last the Footmen enter – it is they shall play a vital Rôle in the Drama we are to witness – and bowing under its weight bring the Item to the Centre of the Floor. At first Sight it could be taken for a kind of Seat, possessed as it is of a slatted wooden Top curved as might fit the Shape of an Arse. Yet a Glance at the festooning Straps and the Timbers enclosing the four Legs that extend a Yard fore and aft suggests otherwise. Indeed, the Apparatus is concerned with posterior Matters, though not in the Mode of Sitting. One may rather be sure that when its Function has been discharged, that very Position will be one best avoided. For the thing is a Whipping-Bench, no less, made out of the finest Oak to a Plan drawn up by Sir Montague’s own Hand. It is unique to the House and I hope to see it become the Envy of the Circuit.

The Housemaid arrives who is to be the principal Subject of our Staging and casts a nervous Eye over the Frame. We ready her for the Event by removing the outer Garments, with the Observation that while there may be some trying Minutes, they will become as nothing in the final Consummation. From the Calves and Shoulders that have come into view, Martha is a well-built Girl and I tell her that having survived, as she has, the Strictest of Upbringings there will be nothing in today’s Exercise to cause her undue Alarm. She is reassured, it seems, and stretches over to embrace the Frame. I send Nabby to the left and together we cuff the bare Arms to the forward Struts. At the other end we take the hem of the linen Smock at each side and between us fold it up until it is able to be held under the broad Belt that I buckle tight across the lower Back.

What a Moon has risen on the Scene in response to our action! I catch my Servant’s eye and make with my Hands the form of the two resplendent Hemispheres that lie uncovered, but we stifle our giggling. I do not wish my Husband to surprise us in a state of foolish Levity, so we bend again to our Task. Now the Refinement of the design becomes apparent in the placing of the Straps that circle each Thigh close to the Knee. The Distance between their fixing Posts is such that when they are drawn tight the Legs pull apart into an inverted V. The Consequences of this are, it seems, apparent to our Volunteer who gives out an ‘Oh’, while her Muscles strain to undo what we have just done. It is to no avail. Despite the ripeness of the Buttock its lower portion is split wide to expose the pink Folds of the Quim.

‘Don’t fret, Martha,’ I say, ‘it is a pretty sight. And the Master tells me that once a young Woman has been warm’d she forgets to be shy.’ The words are opportune, for no sooner are they uttered than the double Doors are flung wide and Sir Montague himself is among us. He greets me with formal gravity and hands to the Footmen a Parcel wrapped in greased Paper. My Curiosity is great but he chides me gently with a wagging Finger.

‘Patience, my dear. Once you have seen the Action and Effect of these Items you may inspect them at your Leisure.’ Bending over the Hindquarters we have rendered at his disposal he is moved to express satisfaction at their Size and undoubted Resilience, all to the Confusion of their owner. He chucks Martha’s Chin and promises that the splendid Nether Cheeks will soon blush as brightly as the ones on her Face. ‘And then,’ he announces to the company, ‘it will become clear that the Whip may prick into Venery not only those who inflict the Lashes or suffer them, but those too who are mere Spectators of the Event.’ At that point he directs at me a Look of such Lechery that it is my turn to colour, being left in no doubt of his Intention once Martha is dispatched.

Now, though, it is time for the little Play to begin, and he sets himself down amongst the Cushions of an Arm-Chair as befits a Peer of the Realm. We humbler Mortals, the Wife and her Maid, stand forward for a closer View and a little to one side in order not to obscure his. The Footmen have taken up their Positions to left and right of the bench’d Figure, each holding in Readiness his Taws. Fine things, we think, seeming to consist of a long Slab of Leather cut into Tongues, and our judgment is confirmed when the first three Strokes are deliver’d. Crack! Crack! Crack! they sound, reverberating from the Walls of the room and almost at once the Imprint appears vivid across the whole Breadth of the Orb. The second Man replies in like Fashion, and the two-pronged Attack is then reprised. One Dozen delivered, and at each the Recipient squeals and wriggles, diverting us with the most lewd Gaping of what we cannot, in Conscience, continue to term her private Parts.

They repeat the whole, then on Instruction from the Chair finish in rapid alternation. We close in around the Tether’d Form, and while Nabby wipes away the Tears with a Handkerchief I put a Hand to the radiant heat of the Whipt Globes, marvelling at how the once snowy spread has been turned a flaming Scarlet. And below, there is what could be Sweat from the force of her Writhings, but I venture to believe it Juice of a different kind.

For the Footmen’s part, their tight-breech’d Condition makes it plain they are thus affected and on the Nod the first moves to unbutton. The Length he draws out stands Proud by its own Means and he eases into place between the open Legs, bending a little at the Knees and pressing forward. Leaning over, I part the Hot Cheeks to observe without impediment the Shaft’s entry into the fleshy Purse, while beside me Nabby cranes her Neck to follow the Course of the Action.

It is no drawn-out Affair of much thrusting, for a Conclusion is upon us almost at once. Martha gives voice, crying Oh! Oh! Oh! and the man pulls out, pressing to the Bum a Head that under his manipulation spouts Copious Milk into the Crack. Now comes the turn of the Second, whose Member swells impatiently in the owner’s hand. Without more ado he brings it forward, and knowing its destination, I open again the Channel between the Mounds where there winks at us a Hole as yet unbroacht. Careless of his Fellow’s Spending that bedews the Entrance, with a single Push he spreads wide the Ring and then works his way by Degrees until the whole Truncheon is gone within. From the Maid there issues a moaning so low it seems to be forced out of the very Depths to which she is Penetrated, and I am transfixed.

A Tug at my Sleeve brings me back. It seems the State of the Master induced by what he has seen requires urgent Attention without the cover of Privacy. My Abigail has bared the relevant Area and a Purple-Headed Beast rises to greet me. It is of a Girth to shame the younger ones that have excited my Lust, and I move quickly. Clutching at my skirts I kneel up on the Seat. Nabby lifts the garments high so that I may lower myself with some Precision on to the Manhood that awaits. It is done, and what shudders begin to run through me! Quim stuff’d with Cock I rock slowly, making the Clitoris rubb’d, and to cap it all my Naughty Servant has a finger up my Bottom-Hole. Of what more could a Young Wife have need?

(I am trapp’d by the form of a Rhetorical Question, for which I beg pardon. The reader who has dallied awhile may be pleased to return at a later date for the Answer to it).

Return? Return
where
? Contained between the brackets was as close as one was going to get to a ‘...to be continued’, and there was no indication in the collection that it was anything more than a one-off. I searched for clues in the preface and for footnotes or endnotes that might clarify the matter, but with no success.

All the more reason to pin my hopes on the late Monty’s collection. If there was more, I thought, that’s where it would be found. Surely the writing of the prized young mistress would be a thing to be treasured, or at least kept safe.
Uxor iuvenis
. I was beginning to think of her in the Latin manner she assumed, though in classical times there was a more likely designation that would have put her firmly in her place.
Domini puella
: the master’s wife, or indeed, slave girl; it said a lot that the language of the day didn’t bother to differentiate. But what a gem! Something of the feistiness and humour made me think suddenly of the Irish girl I met the week before in the place in Soho.

She was a gem, too. I picked up my mobile and scrolled through the directory.

There it was: Niamh. We got on well enough for me to be given her number, which allowed me to distinguish myself by knowing how to spell the name. If she was answering and amenable to the idea of a pub lunch, I might be in the running for something more than a second opinion on a piece of text.

‘Well, I think the girlie’s for real. What a great character. And the q-word is ace.’ The way she looked up from under her shaggy fringe gave me a jolt I remember to this day. I’d returned from the bar with the two plates of goulash aimed at filling our empty stomachs and suddenly I had an ache in the groin that would need to be fixed as well. Later, with a bit of luck, is what I thought. I didn’t realise then how lucky I was going to be that Sunday afternoon. I sat down and we toasted each other with the glasses of claret before tucking in. Niamh had as good an appetite as I, and there wasn’t a lot in the way of conversation until we’d finished the food and started on a second bottle. After a quick canter round some of the classics of early pornography – in which she proved herself to be surprisingly knowledgeable – she glanced at me over her wine and said, ‘I do cunt pics. Fancy a go?’

‘I’m sorry?’ I just stared, no doubt looking completely stupid. I heard the words quite plainly, of course, though they’d been spoken quietly enough not to turn heads at neighbouring tables. But it was a case of the mind refusing to accept the input to the ears.