Of course even I from a distance could see the vanquished secretary might have a broken leg and, from his one arm hanging limp, also an arm. But attended to by a sensible chap who was closing gates the secretary was now being helped to his feet. While his horse, still running and stumbling in its reins, did a complete somersault over the next wall as if to demonstrate a victory roll to the new Master. And gracious me those American ladies, heading for the same gap, both trying to stay on the Master’s tail, crashing together, their mounts both thumping to the ground and throwing them flying. So marvellously entertaining. Both ladies of course in search of titled husbands. Perhaps if one could rid them of their awful whining accents, one would be tempted to marry one of them for her money.
The huntsman and pack had put the fox to ground on a rise of furze bushes. And I was pleased to see approaching the blond tressed lady who had offered the secretary assistance, and who had mentioned the jolly good scent.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
Somehow I could not, racking my brains, put a name to this attractive face. And so stunningly pretty. Large eyes, and long lashes. And one was quite taken aback when she smiled and without the merest of introductions called to me from a couple of lengths away. And O my god I know now. Dear me who it is. Those blue eyes. None other than Baptista Consuelo. Of course I’m sure she doesn’t recall after these few years seeing me as she lay on her back with the hairy arsed Mental Marquis pumping between her legs when one unavoidably had to jump the pair of them prostrate upon each other aisle centre down an overgrown avenue of lime trees.
‘And how are you, Darcy Dancer.’
‘I am fine thank you. And how are you.’
‘I am bored thank you. And I’m beginning to think you don’t know who I am. You don’t, you don’t, do you.’
‘Well as a matter of fact, I do. And it was sporting of you to offer assistance to our downed secretary.’
‘People are so bloody selfish aren’t they. I simply could not put my pleasure before coming to the aid of another who might need it. Of course I know you’re only pretending to remember me. I am Baptista Consuelo. You had a tutor, such an amusing man I thought. A Mr Ireland or something.’
‘Mr Arland.’
‘Yes that’s it. Arland. Couldn’t ride, could he.’
What could one say as she smiled again, the steam of her horse rising round her. Amazing how one could have been such ardent enemies once. And now out hunting to adopt a friendliness forced upon one by one’s impossible randiness. Further inflamed of course by that scene. Of the Mental Marquis’s perspiring skull. His very hairy cheeks of his arse. And pounding away between her flailing legs. Qearly she has lost some of her aloof stuck up nature with which she had tortured my dear Mr Arland. Who never in his desperate unrequited love for her, had a single cheerful moment to be amusing. She does have indeed a pair of good strong thighs.
‘I hope you’re coming to the lawn meet.’
‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away Darcy Dancer.’
O my god. I am rather sucking up to her. But what is one going to do for a lady. Someone to whom one could make naughties without suffering the gnawing pangs of love. Perhaps knock her off her horse down some ravine after this fox is dug out of its earth. And the two of us could sensibly on my coat do some things together. But to now want to reach to place my squeezing hand on one of her thighs, is a total shock to my sensibilities. When one thinks of all the revenges one should take for her treatment of Mr Arland. Of course the Mental Marquis of Farranistic does have vast estates. Does rather make ladies open their legs. And my poor Mr Arland had not a pot to piss in. And she must be back from England, by the sound of her. One could get the gossip from Sexton. One is sure she has across the water been madly attempting to meet someone of social stature. In her desperation to get married. But clearly the sort who would finally succeed in doing so will be a less socially acceptable type but considerably rich. A merchant perhaps considerably much older than herself. Showering her with gifts of jewels, houses and racehorses. Her quarters if anything are enlarged somewhat. But what an awful shockingly ambitious urge they give one in their pneumatic moundiness peeking out under her flapping coat, to plunge in there between them. Deeply. Just as our fox has gone to ground, dug in as the field waits for him to be dug out.
‘Of course I am now Mrs O’Shawrassy McFlynn O’Toole. My husband is in textiles.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s back in Manchester. I absolutely hate Manchester.’
‘O dear.’
‘One can’t see one’s hand held in front of one’s face for the smoke.’
‘I see.’
‘In fact you can’t see. Ha, ha. Ah but let us ride together. Darcy Dancer. You are aren’t you I believe the namesake of that racehorse.’
Dear me. She seems to have no timidity. And seems to know considerable personal about me. I wonder does she know that I have actually seen her bare arsed in a Royal Hibernian Hotel bedroom whipping the besaddled Marquis crawling before her across the floor. Ye gads. Tally ho. We’re off. I shall burst my fly open with the present obelisk one sports. O god what a mercurial lot ladies are. Never bloody well know what they want. Wanting everything. And getting something. Always wanting something else. How shall one ever find a suitable wife with a decent dowry. One to whom one might read aloud of an evening in the library. Whose sensibilities are refined enough that she would know an ode from an octave, and an octave from an orangutan. Yet possessed of nerve on the hunting field. And who did not neigh like a horse like some do. A lady interested in madrigals. The finer things. Paintings and porcelains. Opera and ballet. One to take up the responsibilities of being mistress of an estate. Seeing that one’s housekeeper sees to the linens. Commanding the servants suitably. Putting a stop to the malingering and indolence down every hall way. And to do so in such a fashion that it did not induce the cook to pop deadly nightshade in the cabbage soup. And not to go nuts. As Miss von B used to say. I did I suppose fall madly but not perhaps too fatally in love with her. And my god what tits she had. Her waist I could nearly join my hands around. And slender yet well fleshed strong limbs. She could nearly best me when we upon occasion wrestled together. Indeed she did once pin me to the carpet. Of course I was distracted by her utter nudity at the time. Tussling with naked ladies especially one’s housekeeper, being entirely new to me. Her skin so smooth, and always so freshly clean. Marvellous to witness her sedately squatting to perform her gracefully executed ablutions upon her more intimate bifurcations. And then she would rub cream into her glowing limbs and torso. One does feel that women of this island are so gauche in their intimate matters. And those such as Miss von B from the better families on the continent are so elegant. Of course in that part of the world, they are much cleaner and neater than we are. Miss von B was, or at least her collection of photographs professed her to be, raised in the better and larger castles. She did rather let her superiority be known. More than once addressing me as you dirty filthy Irish little bastard. She was, I hope, merely trying to be charming. As she would go wiping about with her white gloves. The household keys jangling. Vas ist das. Das ist dust. Der dirt. Dee grime. Der stink. One was indeed at times awfully smelly of course. But I don’t think deserving of some of her less flattering references. Dear me when the blood gets up having a gallop, the thoughts one thinks out hunting. One would plunge it up anything at all. Like blind Mick McGinty does up the back of his heifer instead of his wife. But one must never allow oneself to suffer the misery of falling in love again. Shove it in. Bang. Bang. Take that you lovely darling. Bang bang. But leave my ruddy soul alone. When one thinks of it. I have indeed been up many ladies. At least four or so. Maybe five. But who’s counting. As each was nearly more unsuitable than the other. And too many of them by half old enough to be my mother. The married lady I went to bed with on Howth Head had such enormous nipples. Which I tweezed lightly between my fingers on her grand staircase. Not that I hold age or large nipples against her or any mother who had them. But as one is quickly approaching one’s own prime one does definitely choose a mare whose breasts are pinkly budding and whose loins and legs are at their galloping best. So many lying down cows getting up step on their own teats. My dear you’re awfully long in the udder. No. I must put it up a female whose body is stately enough to adore. I shall never stoop so low as to consider a servant. Leila’s luscious lips or even fine legs would be entirely wrong. Her beauties simply wouldn’t be right. Perhaps if she had a decent conformation, pasterns, hocks, loins, quarters, neck and shoulder in the right manner, I would do well to choose someone plain of face but dependable. A parson’s daughter. Found somewhere in England. Raised in a modest manor house on the edge of a village. In short a decent sort. Fond of hymn singing. Who would, when the verger was ill, light candles for her father before services. And whose blemishes might in themselves be attractive. A type who would not be spoiled by the seeming grandeur of a large house. A wholesome steady sort, interested in bee keeping, jam making and gardening. Beautiful ladies do appear in the end to be such a nuisance. They do I suppose give one a cachet while parading in public. While giving one a pain in the arse in private. And damn all they do is to attract the envious attention of other men. And what good does that do the pleasures of one’s own prick. Which after all should have priority in one’s passions.