Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2002 20:28:31 -0500 From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com> Subject: Terms Of Living - Chapter 8 Gay/Bi - A/Y Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ Terms of Living By Tom Cup Chapter 8 Diplomacy Gillian Stewart loved her husband more in death than she ever had in life. I have met her sort a number of times in my life. When one is in the domestic lines of work one often meets women, and men, so absorbed with themselves that even their spouses are chosen to ornament their lives. This is not a condemning judgment. It is simply a statement of truth. Gillian's life was full of social events. Charles Stewart traveled extensively, which suited Gillian's lifestyle. If the truth were known (and it most certainly was) Gillian much preferred her life when Charles was away; when he was home, he was in the way. Not being a man of many pretenses -- except those gained of necessity where Andrew was concerned -- I found the mournful widow tedious. I realized that the death of her husband provided Gillian with the largest social event of her life. Her thespian and narcissistic natures couldn't help but compete for center stage; and of course, she demanded that all that knew her, those central to her life and those on the peripheral, stand and applaud her grieving performance. "John, John, John," Gillian wined, "So good of you to come. I feel absolutely dreadful, just dreadful, that Charles and I were not able to come and see you when Constance was ill. As you know he wasn't feeling quite himself at that time either. Well! There it is!" I must confess the entire process intrigued me. Gillian Stewart didn't need my help to deal with `her grief' over the death of her husband. As I said in all respects, except for the lifestyle he provided her in life and the means he provided to continue the same standard of living after his death, Charles in Gillian's eyes was a nuisance. `As clumsy as a bull in a china shop,' as the saying goes. This act displayed the lord of the manor dispensing drippings to the poor at holiday time. Even the good Reverend was put in his place. He was chastised for not coming to see Connie and me, and then praised for the graciousness to think to bring me along on the visit. The message was clear. Charles may be dead but from priest to pauper, in this social circle, Gillian was queen. And so it was, with a mild admission of neglect and an excuse given for that neglect the dignity and grace of social standing floated down from heaven and once more crowned the head of Mrs. Gillian Stewart. No doubt being the furthest on the periphery than most I would be the last (if not last certainly so close to it consideration hardly is in need) penitence for the wrongs others perceived that she committed against her now dead husband. Certainly Gillian did not see herself as being capable of committing wrongs; she was simply misunderstood. And so she held audience with the misguided, and misunderstanding, of her social circle under the pretense of grief. With this task removed from her mind, she would now be free to remove Charles from her thoughts. "So tell me John," Gillian asked -- she took my arm and led me out of a group of French doors, which led to the patio. We began walking along the pool towards the gardens below. Father Reynolds maintained a respectful distance behind us -- "What is keeping you at your present employ? Surely you have gathered a nice nest egg over the years, have invested properly? -- I am positive that dear Constance would have seen to that. She was rather thrifty. I did take note! -- And (forgive me for mentioning it) there must have been some relief from insurance." "You are correct," I sighed at the double talk, "I do not stay with the Major's for financial reasons." "Then John what ever on earth could keep you there?" "They have become my family, Gillian. They were family to both Constance and I." "Well, I hope you are still receiving remuneration for such loyalty!" Gillian guffawed her shock before regaining her composure, "John, a man of your age, social standing, means, breeding should not spend his final years -- in my opinion his best years -- running after the children of persons too young to know the proper use of money. It's beneath you John. Really it is. You should be spending these years with those that can appreciate your intellect and experience, benefit from your years to travel, and challenge you in your growth. Isn't that correct Father?" I had nearly forgotten that the priest was with us. I'm still not sure whether or not he heard what Gillian said to me. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was still wondering when he had been demoted -- or was it promoted? -- to deacon of social affairs. I looked with pity on the confused priest. He was prepared to console a grief stricken widow, social politicking was far out of his reach. I imagine that he will remain a local rector, never moving further up the ecclesiastical ladder unless Gillian, or someone like her, needs a more powerful religious ally. "Of course. That's quite correct." Gillian ignored his response and leaned in closer to me. "Birds of a feather, John. Birds of a feather," she whispered and then added, "Oh, I so love this garden. Should we pray, Father?" "Oh yes, yes indeed. Let us pray." ************ Andrew wasn't happy. He sat on my bed, arms wrapped around the knees drawn tightly to his chest, scowling at me. "I told you what they were up to," he mumbled and pouted. "Andrew, you thought that Father Reynolds was trying to set me out with Gillian. You were wrong." He rolled his eyes. "Technically, yes," he conceded. "And there is little chance that Gillian is interested in me as a potential mate. So you can scratch that off your list." "Already did." "So I won't be going back to see her, you can relax." "Relax! John! My God, it's worst than we thought not better! One, Gillian did want to see you. Two, if she is not interested in you for herself -- and I think you are right, she's not -- then she is interested in you for other reasons. Three, that bitch is the kind that is determined to get what she wants! You know it!" "Just because people are determined doesn't mean they get what they want." "No, it only means they are more likely to get what they want. I don't trust her. You have to go back and see her again." "What?" "Don't you see John? If you don't, she will keep snooping around until she sniffs out what is really keeping you here -- namely me -- that's what bitches do! "Andrew, I really would prefer if you did not refer to Gillian as a bitch." "OK, what would you like me to call her? Her royal whoreness, the meddling rich trollop, minx, slut, Jezebel, what would you have me call her? `Cause believe me she is no Lady Godiva, she could give a shit about anyone but herself; though I wouldn't put it past her to ride naked through the street on horseback if it would get her what she wanted!" "That's enough, Andrew! I won't stand for this kind of scandalous speech!" "And what do you think she was giving you? It was bullshit on a silver platter and you ate it happily." I had never seen the boy behave so rudely. He hopped off the bed, glared once at me, and left the cottage, slamming the door as he exited. I sighed and sat down on the bed. I have learned that despite his years Andrew was quite perceptive. I believe that Gillian was simply making the communal statement that the pecking order had not changed because of Charles' death. That made the most sense to me and effected me little. I was never one of the inner-circle anyway, being a domestic, albeit a well-to-do domestic, put me outside that fold. Nevertheless, Andrew's statements troubled me. Perhaps it wasn't Gillian's attempt to re-establish her social status. Perhaps she meant to exercise her status, strengthen it. By what means? By loading the inner-circle with a few of her hand picked chosen ones? That was a possibility. Perhaps Andrew was correct that if I simply declined any further invitations she would make it her business to find out my reasons. He had reasons for his suspicions that I could not ignore. But at the moment I could care less. I wanted to find and comfort him. ************ Andrew was walking back across the greens, toward the cottage, when we spotted each other. He gave me a wiry, bashful, apologetic, smile as we neared each other. We sat together on the carved marble bench. I put my arm around him and he nestled close to me. "I'm sorry John. I shouldn't have said those things." "I didn't object to what you said Andrew, only the way you choose to express them." "I know. I just lost my temper. I apologize." "Apology accepted." "So what are we going to do?" "I don't know. Perhaps you are correct in assuming that there is more to Gillian wanting to see me than I believe. I can't say. But, I think, you are correct that I should take the initiative. Perhaps issue a thank you note for her kind invitation and hospitality, remarking that I am at her disposal. Then we wait and let her play the next hand." "And we go to church regularly." "Church? We?" "Yes, because it is expected that you rejoin their little community and because I am not going to let you alone with that... that... with Gillian anymore. If you she wants to invite you anywhere again, she'll have to invite me along also or be thought of a rude." "Andrew," I laughed, "I pray you never turn your skills of subtlety against me." He relaxed and began to glow. "Do you think I could be a diplomat one day, John?" "Andrew, I can't think of anything that is beyond your reach." He sighed. "It's been a stressful day." "It has," I agreed. "I bet you could use a back rub." "I wouldn't refuse." "Neither would I." "Are you practicing your diplo-speech with me Andrew?" "I'm trying to get you to take a hint." "Oh," I smile. We retired to the cottage. ************ My letter to Gillian was short and to the point. I reaffirmed my regret over the loss of her husband, thanked her for the warmth of her hospitality and offered her any further assistance that I might be able to provide. The response came more rapidly than I had expected. The following Sunday, as Adam and I entered the sanctuary, we were greeted by a warm wave from the widow Stewart. Gillian had come out of mourning. Her smile was as bright and radiant as her eyes. She motioned us to join her, which we did much to Andrew's dismay. As we stopped at the pew, I noticed that Andrew went through the motions of genuflection. The boy was a quick study. Gillian quickly entangled her arm with mine, glanced around at several others, nodding and smiling at them. I spied Andrew narrow eyeing the configuration of arms. I rolled my eyes. Once the anthem began Andrew leaned over and said, "I told you." "Behave yourself," I whispered. "You never told me she was a looker." He was determined to have the last word. I let him have it. As we stood to receive Eucharist, Andrew waited for me to exit the pew, and me likewise for Gillian. Gillian bowed and gave thanks to both of her gentlemen. I am still not sure how Andrew wound up with Gillian hands on his back, like a gentle mother leading him to the altar. We were the perfect family, father, mother and son, kneeling before the cross of the savior. Father Reynolds was taken aback to see Andrew kneeling at the rail. I couldn't be sure what he whispered to Andrew -- most likely asking if he had been baptized Episcopalian -- he had no need to answer as Gillian's arm was placed around him, she smiled and whispered to the priest, "Of course." Andrew received the body and blood of Christ. The service ended and Gillian guided us through a maze of introductions. I am sure most of which formed her power base. Andrew was introduced to a flock of young men and ladies of his age group who were warned -- not asked or told -- to make him feel at home. True to his word, Andrew was courteous and receptive to courtesy but he never left my side. I found myself more than thankful for this forethought on Andrew's part, as I was cattle-walled by various eligible women, divorcées, and widows. "To be truthful," I said annoyingly to Andrew as we left the church parking lot, "I think you were rather enjoying my torment. And why in God's name did you let Gillian pull me away." He laughed though I failed to see the humor. "What was I going to say John when she so politely and publicly asked for a word with you? Should I have thrown myself between you? Should I have started crying and screamed, `he's mine and you can't have him!' I know she's not after you, I'm sure of it." "As am I! Did you see that herd of deceased cattle she is trying to pawn off on me?" Andrew laughed again. "She doesn't want you to marry any of them either. She just wants them to know that you are available and that they have to go through her to get a blessing. That's all." "What? Andrew that is absurd!" Andrew shrugged and nestled close to me in the front seat. "Suit yourself John. But I think she believes that you are still in love with Connie, which you are, and will not marry again. I think she knows you are the respectable sort -- which you were before I seduced you -- that will not stir up the hornet's nest by bedding any of the women in the group. They will have a reason to remain loyal to Gillian because they believe she controls you, which she does but only by mutual agreement. I think I like Gillian. I was wrong about her." "My Lord." "What did she want to speak to you about?" "You." "Me? What about me?" "She found you quite the gentleman, well spoken and mannered. She'd like to see more of you." "Ha! I told you. OK, I'll play along. She can catch the old hags with you and the parents of the kids that I bring along!" "This is not a game Andrew." "Oh, but it is, the best kind. Everyone's a winner. It'll be fun too. We'll get to parade around in public together with Gillian Stewart's blessing. All we need to do is let her know what we want from this favor. We already know what she wants. Of course we'll have to be diplomatic. Wouldn't want to shock the genteel folk." I sighed and shook my head. "Maybe so. But it won't be fun." "Sure it will." "Easy for you to say. You haven't been to their blessed cotillion, those merciless debutante balls." Andrew eyed me devilishly. "When we get home, I'm going to give you a nice hot bath. That should put you in a better mood." I felt better at the mere suggestion. ************************************************************************ Send Comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other stories by Tom Cup, become a memeber of the Tom Cup Library at: http://www.tomcup.com Now Available, "Calvin: A Coming of Age Story" by Tom Cup. Ask for it at Barnes and Nobles Booksellers, Borders Books, Amazon.com and your local independent bookseller.