'No, I don't need to be; in my country women have already secured the vote,' said Nancy, a smile playing around her lips. 'But I must warn you, Colonel Mountjoy, that the British suffragettes have my total support and I did in fact join their march to Trafalgar Square last September.' 'Oh Lord,' he groaned, though in fact he was not that put out by Nancy's declaration of support for my mother's cause, for despite his innate conservatism, if pressed by my mother, my father was forced to admit that there was no logical reason to bar women from having their say as to how the country should be run.
The stones crunched under my feet as I walked across to meet Mama who embraced me warmly and I introduced Nancy to her. 'How nice to meet you, Miss Carrington. And I'm so pleased that I have a further ally to support me if the subject of female suffrage comes up in conversation. Although my husband would not gainsay me in company, his support is at best lukewarm and I have had to rely solely upon Rupert to back me up when reactionaries like our vicar, Reverend Forsyth and Mr. Archer, the squire of Wharton, insist on arguing against me on the grounds that women are inherently inferior to men.' How perfectly ridiculous, but then can one really expect more from the stupid sex?' said Nancy, which caused Henry to protest, 'I say, steady on Nancy.
There are plenty of men who back the idea of sexual equality. Rupert and I do, for a start and there are many more besides.' 'Yes, I suppose we mustn't tar you all with the same brush, though it would be hard indeed to find more silly fools than Messrs Archer and Forsyth,' said my mater with a little chuckle. 'But don't let's stand here, come inside the house and have some tea. Don't worry about your luggage. I have left instructions with Polly so that when Goldhill and Frederick arrive they will know into which rooms they should put the various suitcases.' 'Polly, did you say, Mama? But isn't she just a scullery maid? What's happened to Sally?' I asked anxiously, for though I had fucked both girls, I was especially fond of Sally Tomlinson whose ripe, generous curves were admired by a great many male visitors to Albion Towers from our local medical practitioner Doctor Attenborough to my Uncle Algy (Lord Trippett) who always gave the girl a five pound note for services rendered during his frequent stays with us. 'Sally Tomlinson left us after announcing her engagement to Farmer Harrington's youngest son, Edmund, whom she met whilst he was on leave from his ship,' explained my mother patiently.
T)o you remember Edmund, dear? He joined the merchant navy after deciding that the agricultural life was too staid for his taste,' explained my mother. 'So Sally is staying with her parents in Ripley until his next leave early next month when the marriage ceremony will take place.' 'Gosh, that's a step up the social scale for her, isn't it?' I remarked mischievously. 'Though I don't suppose the Harringtons were exactly overjoyed at the match. Good luck to her, she's a sprightly girl and I'm sure she'll be able to cope with her new position as a naval officer's wife. So meanwhile, I presume that Polly has been promoted to the exalted rank of parlour maid.' As we walked through into the hall my father looked at me through narrowed eyes and muttered, 'I didn't realise how interested you were in the running of the household, my lad. Mmph, I think it's just as well Sally's left Albion Towers or both you and she might have found yourselves in a spot of bother.' 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean, father,' I said innocently, but the pater waved away my protestations. 'Don't give me any of that nonsense,' he growled angrily as we followed the others into the drawing room. 'I'm damned sure your Uncle Algy was poking her and I wouldn't put it past you ignoring my advice to keep your hands off the servants.' Wisely, I did not attempt a denial and was careful not to appear to be over familiar with Polly, the pert girl who now proudly wore a smart housemaid's uniform instead of the drab clothes of a scullery maid. I answered Polly politely when she said, 'Good-afternoon, Mister Rupert, I hope you are keeping well.' However, despite my vow to heed my father's warning about the perils of being too intimate with the servants, I simply could not resist pinching her luscious bottom as she brushed past me carrying a tray of sandwiches. She gave a tiny squeal but thankfully held on to her tray which she offered to Nancy Carrington. When she came to me, she leaned forward and though her loose black uniform prevented a look at her firm breasts, she winked at me and whispered, 'Wait till after dinner, you naughty boy, I'll come up to your room at eleven o'clock.' There was no opportunity to speak further with Polly so I nodded briefly although I was now in the happy position of having, if anything, an over-abundance of girls laying claim to my cock during these few days at home. Even as I mulled over the situation, my father informed me that Diana Wigmore and her parents would be dining with us tonight. There was also Nancy Carrington to consider, of course, who during the train journey had already extended an invitation to share her bed later in the day and now Polly Aysgarth had as good as demanded to be fucked after dinner!
Then, would you believe it, Goldhill entered the room, and, after announcing that our luggage was all safely in our bedrooms and was being unpacked by Polly and Alison, another new addition to our household who I had not yet seen, our faithful old retainer turned to me and said, 'There is a telephone call for you, sir. Miss Cecily Cardew is on the line.' Thank you, Goldhill, I'll take the call straightaway. Please excuse me, everybody,' I said as I hurried into the hall. Cecily, as readers of my first book of uncensored memoirs will recall, was Diana Wigmore's closest friend, who joyfully helped my best friend Frank Folkestone through his first ever rite-of-passage on a wonderfully sensual afternoon in the old barn near our freshly laid lawn tennis court. I picked up the telephone and said, Hello, Cecily, are you there? Rupert Mountjoy here. How are you keeping?' 'Rupert, hello, how nice to hear your voice. We haven't seen each other since Christmas, have we?' 'No, not since Diana's Old Year's Night party,' I said, and then I almost bit my tongue, for I remembered that to be absolutely exact, the last time I saw Cecily, she was kneeling on the floor of the Wigmore's dining-room (fortunately Diana's parents had decided to stay out until midnight with my folks at Albion Towers), and she was lustily sucking the veiny shaft of Reverend Campbell Armstrong, the curate of Farnham whilst being fucked doggie-style by young Brindleigh Pearce, the seventeen-year-old son of a nearby landowner, whose shining eyes and speed of spending suggested that Cecily had just taken another young man's unwanted virginity. However, my recollection did not trouble Cecily who carried on, 'Diana has told me all about what you're doing to sell her paintings. You are a good chap, Rupert, let's hope something comes out of all your efforts. And the reason I'm calling is I understand that Henry Bascombe-Thomas is staying with you at Albion Towers. Just before he went to America, Henry and I met at Maureen Waller's coming-out ball and we struck up an immediate friendship although we did not manage to seal our relationship with more than a quick good-night kiss. My parents are away until tomorrow afternoon and I wondered if there was any chance of meeting him tonight?' 'Of course you can, Cecily. Why don't you dine with us?