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“I told him, my dear. I told him when I spoke to him. Gallipoli was a fool's errand.”
“You told Mr. Churchill that?” Her youthful voice asked dreamily.
“Lt. Col. Churchill at the time, yes. He had come to visit my father.” Her eyes sparkled at him as he leaned casually against the railing of the grand balcony looking out at the shadowy garden tucked nicely away behind the mansion. It seemed too beautiful a thing to hide, but then some would prefer to avoid the ever-prying eyes of commoners.
“Well I say!” A deep and gravelly voice roared from within the party, the upbeat music stopping suddenly. It grabbed the two's attention, peering back at the curtained access, only to see a curtain explode with a marching young woman who looked quite upset to say the least. She stomped her way to a dim corner of the rounded balcony, leaning heavily on the rail, looking like she was fit to explode. Some voices inside, too quiet to hear, sounded like they were attempting to calm the man that evidently she had offended in some manner.
“Oh dear, what was that all about...?” he hushed to the girl, noting that the woman had not seemed to even notice the two yet.
“Oh my...” she leaned in, bringing a hand to his ear to help block her voice from reaching the newcomer that brooded a few yards off. “She's the Viscountess Goodwin. Emma.” His eyebrows low, he studied her as he nodded slowly, a white-gloved hand adjusting his finely-fitted tophat in the process. The music inside continued, modern and poppy; jazz.
“What absolute vulgarity...” they heard her voice spit poison, just loud enough to make out the words she she stared at the shadows of the garden. “The nerve of him, we may as well all be barefoot and in labour if that's all we're bloody-well good for!”
“What a tongue on her, what's got up her-...” his eyes flicked to the girl he'd been working on, perhaps 20 at the oldest though might very well have only recently made 18. “... rear-end.” She brought a dainty little hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle.
“She's um, well...” the girl's grin slowly died, her hand lowering. “She quite... headstrong.”
“Headstrong?”
“Mmh.” She confirmed with a nod, her elaborate and wide flat-rimmed hat bobbing, her feather waving in the cool night breeze. “She's a few years older than me, inter her 20s don't you know, and unmarried.” His eyes flashed in her direction a moment in surprise.
“Well, at her age, she might want to find something to stick up her backside with all haste.” She snorted a giggle into her hand, unable to keep it back. The girl had been dreading going to speak with him, even upon her mother's request for her to do so, but she was quite enjoying his company, his easy demeanor, and his... somewhat crass but certainly thoroughly adult sense of humour.
“King George’s horse kills brave Emily Wilding Davison, so she 'should have just stayed at home?!’” Her fist pounded on the stone railing, causing the man's head to recoil in shock at her clear anger, readjusting his hat shortly after. It was at roughly the same time as the precious girl's little giggle-snort, which got the woman's attention. She stared daggers at them.
“Ah, erm, evening, miss.” He had been leaning against the rail but stumbled at her sudden cold look, and standing straight, gave a light bow, a touch of his hat's brim. The girl's smile vanished instantaneously.
“Hm. You think murder to be funny?”
“P-pardon?” Her high-heels clacked as she took a step back, meanwhile this 'Emma' woman with far shorter heals took a calm but inviting step forth.
“She walked out before his horse of her own volition, miss. It can be chalked up as a suicide.” He accepted her challenge, taking what his prior conversationalist considered a very brave step towards her, but thankfully he was taking the attention off the one who had made the apparently offensive giggle.
“Suicide?!” She almost shrieked it, and he heard a deep voice beyond those gently waving curtains.
“There she goes again.” Some deep male chuckles followed from those he conversed with, the scent of their pipes and cigars wafting gently throughout the building.
“She had a return ticket!” She stomped, her fists at her sides. “Murder!” He shrugged, looking away from her to the elaborate garden. She was getting quite excited about the matter, too excited, and so he let the matter lie so that perhaps the little spinster could cool her britches “You're lucky I haven't got a drink!” She growled angrily and stomped off, undoubtedly intent on leaving the premises.
“I think you've had a few too many, if anything.” He mummbled to her as she passed the curtain, too quiet for her to hear but loud enough for the girl who had so kindly approached him not long ago. A man with a large grey moustache popped his head past the curtain, the moustache looking in quite poor condition as though it had only recently been dried.
“She's bloody right, ol' chap!” He had a large grin on his face none the less, cheeks red from drink. The fellow a few decades his junior took his wine glass up from where it sat on the balcony, raising a toast to him.
“More for us then, eh?”
“Here here!”
His head rose off the pillow, eyes fuzzy, nearly so much as his head from the drinks of the night before. His arm felt weighted, and peering down found it to be buried in a mass of dirty-blonde curls. That sweet young thing cuddled into him, he could feel her nakedness against his own, her mother won’t be happy to know she had gone home with him without a ring on her finger. Perhaps, in spite of his womanizing record, she suspected her dear girl to have more resilience. Well, nothing some cool words and chilled drinks can’t overcome. Still, he thought of that storm that had blown through the building last night. That flurry of outrage and anger, a wild and untamed stallion that had not yet found a rider that could tame it.
She breathed easy against his hairy chest as he st
oked the silky flesh of her bare shoulder, his sheets subtly moving as he pitched a tent, his eyes gazing amusedly at the ceiling with thought. This girl that lie with him, as precious and cute as she was, assumedly as good a lay as she was though admittedly he couldn’t remember much of the night before, he’d had many like her before. Teen girls, spinsters in their 20s who seemed content to waste their fertile years for the sake of parties and swinging, and the more advanced spinsters in their 30s a few years older than himself. Never before, he speculated, at least not since the time of Caligula in ancient Rome, had there been such easy access of sex. His most recent acquisition may not have been so liberal-minded in terms of sex, obviously not, but she was smitten soon enough.
The poor girl was not at all well once she had finally awoken, in spite of the beauty she held in her sleep. A mix of emotions; embarrassment, shame that she had given her first in a single night, fear of if she had gotten pregnant, and even the bubbling wonder of if she had been good or not, if she’d be able to satisfy him throughout their marriage while she bears him many offspring. Marriage would come next, right? They had a brief breakfast, he told her to drink much water so that she’ll come to feel better later in the day, and she had wept in his arms in her hormonal turmoil while they awaited the carriage to fetch her, crying out that her mother would have her flogged. He chuckled, stroked her hair, told her no such thing would happen though he didn’t entirely know for sure just how brutal her mum might be, and was happy to wave her off as she clumsily and staggeringly crawled into the cabin, her hair a mess. He could practically hear her groan when it began to lumber off with the beating of horse hoofs.
With a stretch in the cool morning air outside his front door, his luxurious robe rising slightly as his arms were brought into the air, he soon scratched his hidden groin as he went inside, closing and locking the door behind him. She’ll likely be good for another night or to, he thought, before she catches on that marriage was not in the books. Not yet, anyhow, perhaps once his 30s comes around he’ll be more interested in settling down and marrying, but not anytime soon. The 20s, he contented himself in thinking, both the decade he found himself in the century and the decade he found himself in his life, was far too enjoyable to settle down for only one hole to shag. Or two, if she were wild enough. Who doesn’t like a bit of buggery from time to time?
“Emma...” he muttered to himself as he slumped into the swiveling chair of his desk. “Viscountess Emma... the untamed and unconquered.” He licked his lips before tipping the cup of tea to them.
