Date: Wed, 8 Mar 2017 00:53:04 +0000
From: h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 8

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors

Chapter 8
Decree Absolute

"Is Glass still up?  If so, then I think we should have some cocoa.  Or
would you prefer tea, Martin?" asked Uncle Alfred.

"Yes, tea please.  Make it Indian," said Martin who was prostrate with
shock on the bed.

Glass responded to the electric bell and appeared at the door in his
dressing gown. "Glass, a pot of Darjeeling and the whisky please."

They sat in Martin's room for ten minutes without talking, but their minds
were racing with questions and possibilities.  The tea arrived and Martin
arose from the bed and put a on a dressing gown.  He checked the doors to
make sure no one was listening.  "I do not want even Carlo and Glass to
hear this...not yet," he said.  He sat on a chair and poured the tea-- no
one wanted whisky.

"Do I understand this correctly, Uncle Alfred: If the date of the marriage
of my great-great grandfather--Lord Thomas Poole--to my great-great
grandmother, Charlotte What's-her-name, took place on the first and not the
thirty-first of September..."

"October," corrected Uncle Alfred, "and he was only an `Hon.' at that point
because he was just a younger son of the Earl."

"...October, 1808, then their child born on the 16th was illegitimate?"

"He was baptised on that date.  We have the record from the Church of Sao
Pedro de Penaferrim.  They did not have to register births in Portugal."

"Why were they married in the consulate in the first place?" asked Stephen
who came closer and sat on a chair backwards with his chin on his folded
hands and resting on its back.

"A divorced person could not re-marry in a Church, of course.  They were
obviously in a mad rush..."

"They couldn't have been in that much of a rush," said Martin, "or they
would have married on the first and not waited--after all he was free to
marry again."

"That's true," conceded Uncle Alfred.  "I can only think that there was
pressure from General Cavendish-Bentnick who was there in Cintra and would
want his niece to be legally married by the time she came home with the
baby, but that it wasn't urgent enough at the time to be too particular
about the order of the thing-- they were in a war-torn country and a long
way from home.  There is one compelling reason, however, to make it appear
all right..."

"And that's because he learned that he would succeed to the title,"
interjected Stephen. "His older brothers were dead already perhaps, or
dying, and what he had never imagined would happen, suddenly loomed," said
Stephen.  "When did Thomas' older brothers die?"

"I don't know," said Uncle Alfred.  Mildred and I never thought to look
that up.  We could easily find that out at Somerset House."

"Does Mrs Polk-Stewart know about this, Uncle?"

Lord Alfred paused for a minute and chose his words carefully-- not from
motivations of concealment but from trying to recall with fidelity.  "I am
not sure," he began slowly.  "She was with me when the ledger was opened.
I was sitting down at the desk because I was a bit puffed from the walk and
she was somewhere behind me, over my shoulder.  I looked at the entry.  I
blinked and looked again.  I ran my finger along the line to make sure.  I
was sure, but I bit my tongue.  I looked for a third time and closed the
volume-- it was a very large book.  I did not say anything except to remark
that I had seen the entry and I thanked Sir Gregory and asked him some more
about the visit of Lord Byron in 1809.  I don't know if Mildred saw it, or
if she did see it, if she comprehended its meaning.  She never said a word
and we were to leave in a few days so we had other matters to attend
to--seeing Mr De Souza our researcher for one.  But she's an intelligent
woman, Martin."

"This was all so long ago, Lord Alfred," began Stephen, trying to put
things in a more helpful perspective, "and no one could mount a challenge
to the status quo now from some error made a century ago.  Why, that's like
saying King George the Fifth should give up the throne because James the
Second's son was stillborn and replaced by one smuggled into the Queen's
bedchamber in a bed pan."

"Warming pan, Derby."

"Oh yes, that's what I meant."

"You're quite right, Stephen.  Any such challenge mounted so long
afterwards would be very hard to prove and the courts surely would dismiss
it," said Uncle Alfred, and he and Stephen looked to see if Martin had
relaxed--he had, very slightly.

"Even if so, what is the worst that could happen?" asked Stephen.

"Well, the titles and the entailed part of the estate could pass to someone
with a stronger claim.  Quite possibly the title would simply be declared
extinct.  This often happens when there is no male heir."

"The Earldom and the Marquisate?" asked Stephen.

"Yes, both require a male heir-- it can't pass to a female.  Of course,
your personal fortune and this house, for example, would be unlikely to be
forfeited.  They are not part of the entailed estate."  This was of some
consolation.

"And who would benefit from usurping me?" said Martin suddenly.  "It can't
be a woman and Lord Philip and any male children he might produce with
Charlotte Polk-Pigsty would be in the same boat as you and me, Uncle," said
Martin feeling some weight lifting.

"That's quite right," said Uncle Alfred, "He is descended from Thomas and
Charlotte Cavendish-Bentnick too."

"You know, what strikes me as odd," said Stephen suddenly as he stirred his
tea.  "Why didn't your father or mother say something when they went to
Cintra in 1880?"

"Yes," said Martin, "that's right, Derbs.  And I think that document they
had drawn up states the first of October.  I can't be sure, but I think it
did because I remember it was Mother's birthday.  Oh, I wish I had it here
right now and we could check it."

"Well you must search it out when you go to Croome.  Whoever certified it
must have seen the erasure if it was there in 1880, unless they were quite
blind or else your father bribed the consul and two witnesses.  And why
would he do that?  Even if he did know the date of the birth--which I'm
quite certain he did not for I never knew it myself-- why would he draw
attention to it with a false document and a series of bribes; he could have
just left the dusty volume to keep its secret?

"Martin, I would like you and Stephen to go to Cintra one day and see it
for yourself. Perhaps I just made a silly mistake.  I am old and poorly and
not quite right in the head.  I felt it was a great burden to carry this
dreadful knowledge around with me. I suppose I have passed some of it on to
you now, I'm sorry.  I'm almost sorry I started digging."

"That's quite alright, Uncle," said Martin, half-thinking that his uncle
had been right. He kissed him on his forehead.  They fell to talking about
Desideria-Luiza and then Uncle Alfred saw that it was 1 o'clock and took
himself off to bed.



For the next few days Martin looked troubled.  He was anxious to go down to
Croome but also wanted to stay in London to hear if there was any further
news about Uncle Alfred's condition--it was cancer of course--and quite
advanced.  There was also Hélias to visit.  In the hospital he had
been placed in traction in a plaster cast. The surgeon was sure that there
was no infection where the bone was sawn and reset. Hélias was happy
enough, but complained that the plaster cast itched and was glad for
visitors, male and female, to scratch him.  Stephen, Martin and M. Lefaux
took it in turns to visit and to help him write letters home to his wife.
The Plunger also popped in one day.  Martin was longing to share the news
about Cintra with his oldest friend, but thought it best to follow his
uncle's advice and keep the knowledge limited to just a necessary few.

Stephen busied himself with his engineering but also tried to take Martin's
mind off these weighty matters in the best way he knew how.  Carlo too had
noticed the mood of his master, but was not in a position to know its
cause.  His lordship seemed distant, he thought, as he watched him.
Obviously he was worried about Lord Alfred, but he hoped that that was all.
Most of all he was fearful of some sort of falling out between the two
boys.  That would be very hard to bear indeed if it were true.  These
thoughts occupied him below stairs.

He had had a frustrating morning.  He had been folding his masters'
half-hose and there always seemed to be one stocking missing.  How could
that be?  He paired them and sorted and resorted.  These were his
Lordship's; these were Mr Stephen's.  He was just taking the troublesome
brood up to the dressing room to be laid out in the mahogany cabinet with
its glass-sided drawers, when he heard the most frightful, but familiar,
din emanating from the bedroom.  He entered holding the tray of
half-hose. There was his lordship, naked and all fours with Mr Stephen also
naked and ploughing him brutally from behind.  His lordship had his face
pressed into the satin counterpane, which had been dragged from the bed and
spread over the table.  It was on the table that these endearments were
taking place.

When his lordship lifted his head, long strands of drool suspended
themselves like icicles.  They emerged from his nose and his mouth, from
which also came animal groans and grunts with every brutal thrust of Mr
Stephen's hips.  These narrow hips flexed athletically above his widespread
legs with their muscular thighs dusted in black hair.  His buttocks were
taught and dimpled and his straight back was running with sweat down the
spine.  His heaving shoulders were soaked and his black hair was slicked
and plastered down over his left eye.  Carlo could see a considerable
length of his terrible cock and his merrily swinging balls as he repeatedly
assaulted the vulnerable, noble arse.  His lordship took the entire length
but seemed to have little choice in the matter.  The thrusts were hard and
brutal.

"You're hurting him, Mr Stephen!" cried Carlo in alarm.

"No... he's... not," huffed a tearful Martin and he made a noise like an
emptying bath as he attempted to suck the mucus back into his nose and
throat.

Stephen turned and looked at Carlo and then motioned with his eyes to the
Spong's on the floor.  All the time he didn't release his vice-like grip on
Martin.  Carlo dropped the half-hose (they would have to be resorted) and
swept up the tube.  He squeezed out a goodly amount onto his fingers (Oh to
have shares in that company!) and applied the cooling unction to Mr
Stephen's cock as it slid in and out and he rubbed some around his
lordship's dilated aperture, despite getting his fingers slammed as Mr
Stephen picked up the pace again.  Mr Stephen suddenly freed one hand and
wrapped it around Carlo's neck, pulling him in for a scorching kiss at the
same time as he gave a great thrust with his groin.  Carlo felt the breath
go from his body.  He went to wipe Mr Stephen's forehead with a towel, but
he was pushed aside, so he just watched with sustained interest until,
finally, there was a point where he knew Mr Stephen had spilled inside his
lordship's bowels.

He saw Mr Stephen pull out with a squelching sound and his lordship roll
over, exhausted but smirking.  He had spilled on the counterpane.  Mr
Stephen was heaving and dripping.  He stood with his legs apart and with
his hands on his hips, slightly bent forward as he tried to catch his
breath.  "I still want more, Mala."

"I'm too sore, Derby; ask Carlo."

"You want some of this, Carlo?" he asked roughly, looking down at his huge,
slicked member that was still oozing.  Do you want to feel my seed running
down your leg like he does?"  Carlo looked at his lordship.  It was as he
described.  This was one of those questions that don't require an answer--a
rhetorical question-- Carlo believed they were called as he slipped off his
coat and slid his braces aside.  Mr Stephen lent a hand by roughly pulling
down Carlo's trousers without their being first unfastened and with two
hands he ripped his shirt open, leaving his tie strangely isolated, and
scattering buttons to the four corners.

With shaking hands Carlo tried to apply as much Spong's as was left in the
exhausted tube as quickly as possible (Why, oh why had they not got the
larger size? And it was so much more economical) while Mr Stephen roughly
pushed his lordship off the table.

"It's such a convenient height," said his lordship cheerily as Carlo
climbed onto it.  Mr Stephen used all his strength to push him up and turn
him over--like a child's doll, Carlo thought.

In little more than one fell swoop Mr Stephen entered him.  Mercifully his
cock was already slicked and the pain would be quickly forgotten-- he
hoped.  Mr Stephen moved in and out, gathering pace like a train.  Soon the
table was shaking and his own body was writhing.  Mr Stephen held him fast.
The big cock was sending electric thrills through his spine.  His body was
beyond his control and it was wonderful feeling.  Mr Stephen's sweat
dripped from his chest and forehead and mingled with his own.  He could not
see his lordship, but he knew he was watching.  He felt the rise in
excitement in his own being.  Mr Stephen flicked his head and a stream of
sweat rained from his black hair and lashed his face.  The smell and the
sensation--all the sensations--precipitated him over the edge and he
spilled on his own chest.  "Good load," Mr Stephen grunted in approval and
he increased his concentration.  Soon he could feel Mr Stephen's seed being
ejaculated inside him.  He had slowed to a stop and held himself in deep to
make sure Carlo got the good of it.

He pulled out gradually.  All was messy.  There was a pause and then his
Lordship came from nowhere and started to suck on Mr Stephen's hard-worked
member.  Carlo found his muscles again and joined him.  The taste was
interesting. "Let's see if we can bring him off again," said his lordship
and it took half an hour but it was accomplished.  There was much for the
servant to clean up, but Carlo was pleased to observe that Lord Branksome
looked more relaxed than he had for some days.





*****



Uncle Alfred also made a great effort.  His sleep was poor-- probably due
to the medicines that Sir Thomas prescribed -- and in the daytime he tired
very easily.  He usually spent the mornings in bed, so it was Higgins who
was sent down to Somerset House, which stood between the Strand and the
Embankment and housed the birth, death and marriage records for England.
He returned with the dates of the death of the Hon. Thomas Poole's brothers
and Stephen and Martin had joined Lord Alfred in his bedroom where he sat
up with the papers spread about him.

"The younger one--named `Martin', Martin--died first.  He had been in the
Army also and was apparently killed in Roleica on the 17th of August in
1808.  He was probably fighting alongside Thomas under Wellington.  Thomas
would therefore certainly have known of his brother's death," said Lord
Alfred.

"Could he have killed him, Uncle?"

"I think that's going a bit far, Martin.  It has been done before, but it's
unlikely-- think of your own brother."  Martin agreed that this was a bit
macabre.

"Now, William, Baron Purbeck, who was the oldest son, died in February
1810.  It says here that he died of consumption.  It is quite likely that
Thomas may have heard of his brother's failing health, perhaps in the same
post that brought his decree absolute from home. Their father, the Earl,
wasn't a young man and he died in 1832, it says here of Bright's Disease.
That was also the year that the `baby'-- who was also called William--
married my grandmother.

"So what do you conclude Lord Alfred?" asked Stephen.

"Well, as they say in detective novels, Thomas had a motive for making a
hasty marriage and for altering the date to make his son legitimate.
Perhaps the fact that it was a son and not a daughter was an added
inducement.  His father was old and ill, his brother was dying and he was
heir presumptive as neither of his brothers had produced a male heir."

"Could the `baby' William have altered the date when he grew up; he had a
lot to lose?" suggested Martin.

Uncle Alfred shrugged.  "We have no evidence.  We don't know if he even
went to Portugal."

"We're going to Croome tomorrow, Uncle.  I will telephone when I have found
the document."



Martin put off all other business and had Chilvers and Stephen help sort
through the papers in Martin's desk and certain cupboards.  "It was not
with the other papers in the Library, I'm quite sure of that.  I had it
with some photographs of Mother and Father and some of the letters they
wrote at the time of their wedding.  You know, Chilvers, I could hardly
believe it was my father writing in those letters.  He seemed so soft and
romantic-- not as I remember him in my lifetime."

"It happens with us all, sir; we put on a mask and the mask becomes the
real us."

"That was nicely said, Mr Chilvers," said Stephen.  "Don't become like
that, Mala; being the Marquess of Branksome isn't worth losing your soul."

"I'll try Derbs.  I think this is it-- it was down the bottom of this box
of old Valentines and Christmas cards.  Thank you, Chilvers, that will be
all."

When the door closed they opened the manila envelope.  Inside was a single
folded sheet of paper.  When they unfolded it, they skimmed down past the
British coat of arms and the preliminary wording, which was neatly and
legibly penned, probably by a secretary, to the details transcribed from
the ledger.  There were the names: Thomas George, Allerdyce Poole and
Charlotte Elizabeth Cavendish-Bentnick.  The date of the marriage was in a
box.  It read: `1st day of Oct. 1808'.  Underneath there followed other
details such as the names of the original witnesses and then there followed
he names of the witnesses from 1880; one was the consul, one was probably a
secretary and there was a Portuguese one too.  It was as Martin had
remembered it.

Martin and Stephen looked at each other.  "Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,"
said Martin first.

"Perhaps the ledger was altered subsequently.  This," said Stephen shaking
the paper with its wax seal, "can't be a forgery."

The news was telephoned to Branksome House.  Glass, who was busy with a
footman carrying the broken Sheridan table down the stairs from Martin's
bedroom, answered the instrument.  He took the message down carefully,
repeated it back and promised he would pass it on to Lord Alfred directly
he awoke.

"I'm going to take this to Sir Danvers in London, Derby, and get him to
deposit it in a bank vault and to witness also what it says."

"Very prudent, Mala.  Just don't misplace it when we clean up all this
mess."



 *****



A few days later in Martin's morning letters was an invitation to spend the
weekend at cousin Philip Rous-Poole's country house.  Miss Polk-Stewart, of
Denver, Colorado, whom the Morning Post had announced a few weeks before,
was his betrothed, was also staying there, chaperoned by her mother.

The invitation to Tetbury Park was one that could not be politely turned
down, save by Uncle Alfred on the grounds of his health.  Stephen had been
invited too and the two boys were rehearsing their little speeches of
congratulations, with many humorous asides, as they journeyed in Martin's
Rolls Royce into Gloucestershire. Carlo sat in the back with their luggage.

The countryside was very picturesque, with lovely honey-coloured stone
houses in the villages.

Martin found the gates with their pair of cream stone lodges and turned the
car into the drive, which ran through a small park and up a slight rise on
top of which stood the house.  Tetbury was as how Martin had recalled it: a
pleasant Elizabethan manor house with steep roofs and stone mullioned
windows.

The engine was turned off and the sound of gunfire assaulted their ears,
but it was difficult to tell from which direction it came.  Carlo alighted
and was just about to reach for the luggage when there was a shot and a
dead moorhen fell at his feet.  Lord Philip came racing up.  "Martin,
Knight-Poole, I'm very pleased to see you."  He thrust out his hand, but
then retracted it.  "Oh, sorry.  Blood.  We were just eviscerating some
hares down by the stream and having a few shots before tea."

`We' was explained in the form of a chap in corduroy trousers and a tweed
hacking jacket.  On his feet he wore Wellington boots and a deerstalker sat
atop a ruddy face. He must have been around Philip's age.  He was
introduced as Hatchett.  Two setters came bounding up.  They had been in
the water and were soaking wet and promptly jumped on the three visitors
making their clothes filthy.  The two dogs then discovered the dead moorhen
and set upon it, nearly knocking the valet over in the process.  They each
took an end of the lifeless fowl in their teeth in ghastly a tug of war and
were pulling it apart.

"Leave it alone, you mongrels!" growled Lord Philip and hit the nearest one
over the skull with his rifle butt.  Then he turned to the visitors and in
a different voice said: "Shall we go in and have tea with Constance?  She
said she was looking forward to your visit."  And to Carlo: "Peel will be
out directly to help you with those bags.  He's butchering one of the pigs
at present."

Hatchett and Philip removed their boots in the hall and wiped their gory
hands on their handkerchiefs and proceeded into the drawing room where sat
Constance, Mrs Polk-Stewart and another women, Harriet, who appeared to be
Hatchett's wife or sister--it was never explained.

Congratulations were extended.  Philip beamed and put his arm around
Constance who managed a smile but did dart a quick look at his hands for
traces of blood.  Mrs Polk-Stewart began talking non-stop, only pausing
when a worried look crossed her visage as she was compelled to pour the
tea.  She got into a terrible muddle about the milk being in first or last
and in the end asked Stephen to do it.

Hatchett was busy describing the wide variety of birds that had met their
death and tried, without success, to interest the ladies.  Martin took the
opportunity to look about the room.  There was a great display of the
taxidermist's art to be seen, with creatures great and small staring down
on the party with their glass eyes.  On one wall was a display of shotguns,
ancient and modern, arranged in an attractive pattern.

"I see you're looking at my guns," said Philip.

"Yes, they're very interesting.  That one must be quite old," he said
indicating a blunderbuss.

"Early seventeenth century.  Works though.  I tested it in the fowl yard.
The servants had to eat chicken for a week and pick out the shot," he
roared with laughter.

"Do you like fishing, Mr Knight-Poole?" asked Hatchett and then went on to
describe the best way to remove a hook from a young trout.

"Constance likes to fish, don't you Connie?" said Philip.  "She looks very
beautiful in a pair of waders.  Not many chaps can say that about a girl,
but I can.  She netted a very big pike only last week.  Had to stun the
brute with my prayer book--we had stopped off for a spot of fishing on the
way back from morning service-- and I was thinking of getting it mounted
for our bedroom--it being the first one my fiancée caught, you see."

"You are a true romantic, Philip," observed Constance, sourly.

There was a tour of the stables and then there were cocktails and then
dinner for which they dressed.  Lord Philip's sister, Sylvia and her
husband came.  There was an excellent pheasant whose siblings they had seen
hanging on iron hooks until they were `gamey' in a stone-floored room off
the kitchen.  The talk centred on fox hunting and the use of kelp as
fertilizer.  Martin was able to describe the new flower garden he was
constructing, but Sylvia said, rather shortly, she thought it sounded
better suited to asparagus and seakale and opined that flowers were a waste
of time.

"You are going to have a three heap system for your compost, Lord
Branksome, aren't you?" she almost demanded before describing how at
Twyching, her place nearby, she ground her own bone meal.

They did some killing on the Sunday after church and there was some bridge
in the evening, although Philip kept breaking off to clean his 12 bore,
which he had brought into the drawing room.

Martin and Stephen said goodnight rather early and departed for their
respective rooms at either end of the house.  They left at half past eight
on Monday morning, regretting to their hosts that they would miss going out
for young hares with the ferrets.



It was in some weeks after this that they were able to transfer
Hélias from the hospital to Branksome House and then, taking him by
motor, down to Croome.  The plaster had come off by now and Hélias
had been visited by a doctor twice a week and given exercises to do.  Carlo
was a magnificent help and Hélias was too scared of Martin and
Stephen to slacken off.  He now walked with a limp and was using a stick,
but his foot was no longer twisted and he seemed to have regained more
control over its muscles.  It could be envisaged that the limp would
gradually fade and that he would make a complete recovery.  The move to
Croome was the result of this.

As they came up the drive, Martin and Stephen both watched Hélias
slyly as the house hove into view on the bend in the elm avenue.
Hélias' jaw dropped and he almost climbed out of the car.  "I cannot
live there!"

"Of course you can Hélias, you'll love it.  Just don't get lost,"
said Stephen.

Hélias was introduced to Chilvers and this time he did not go to
shake the butler's hand.  He was put in the Chinese room-- usually only
reserved for the most distinguished guests.

"The Prince of Wales slept here in 1914, Hélias," said Martin.

"Mon Dieu!" replied Hélias, not daring to walk right in.

Hélias was driven down into the village. "Est-ce le vôtre?"

"Ah huh," said Martin smiling at him and trying not to grin.

He was introduced to Titus Knight, and Stephen explained that this was his
home and that Titus was his stepfather.  This caused Hélias to kiss
the old man on each cheek. He then hugged him for good measure.  The four
of them then repaired to The Feathers.  Hélias liked it better than
the pub in London.  He attracted some attention and the barmaid flirted
with him, for which Stephen was tremendously grateful.

Despite being full of beer, they stopped in at Miss Tadrew's.  Her hand was
kissed and Hélias sat carefully in her tiny parlour where he managed
a teacup and plate with great skill.  "You could be an Englishman,
Hélias," joked Stephen looking at him as he stirred his tea and ate
a scone.

The burning question, which was put to Chilvers, was: should Hélias
be admitted to membership of the Branksome Big Boys' Club?

"Oh why do you ask me such things your lordship?" asked Chilvers with
irritation.  "I can't believe that you have got me sunbathing on the roof.
If he's your friend he probably already enjoys taking his clothes off.  I
suppose he must become one of us."

Thus Hélias emerged onto the roof with Carlo and Stephen (Martin had
gone up to London to see his uncle) and he had suffered so many surprises
over the last few months that seeing Mr Chilvers come through the low door
and take off his dressing gown and lie down naked alongside them didn't
seem to even register.  Stephen explained the rules and Hélias
agreed to be a good boy.  Unfortunately on his inaugural visit
Hélias was driven inside with the others by a sudden
shower--although Stephen said he would like to lie in the rain and get his
balls wet, but Carlo told him not to be so silly and dragged him in.

On his return, Martin made one of his frequent inspections of his new
garden that was slowly taking shape according to the plan that Miss Jeykell
had approved and for which she sent a planting scheme and an invoice.  It
was very comprehensive and detailed.  There were to be mirror-image beds
with catmint spilling out over the paths and tall hollyhocks and gladiolus
against the walls.  Jackman clematis and white Chinese wisteria were to
clothe the pergola walk to the tennis court and Miss Jeykell had called for
old-fashioned pinks, lavender and delphiniums to emerge through grey
santolina.  There were to be some old China roses and rosemary for
remembrance. Along the narrow waterway, which was not more than a foot wide
between its brick borders, there were to be irises and also sagittaria and
butomus-- two plants that Martin had never heard of.  These would have to
be looked up.

At the moment, however, it was still being paved and the pillars of the
pergola had yet to receive their crosspieces.  Martin cast his mind back to
Tetbury Park.  Sylvia was probably right about the manure, compost and
blood-and-bone.  He was going to get the soil perfect before he planted
anything so he went to speak to the head gardener, Oldham, about what he
needed to do.

Hélias was also quite interested in the construction and, although
on a stick, he helped the bricklayers and stonemasons with some of the
cutting.  Martin was pleased for his sake.



The weeks passed.  The pavilion and the tennis court were completed.  They
had lunch there on fine days and played some tennis while Hélias
looked on.  There were visits to London and The Plunger came down twice.
Stephen wrote to Donald Selby-Keam and he came one weekend.

"I'm sorry we haven't seen you, Donald," said Stephen.  "Before I forget,
will you come with us to Antibes in August?  The Plunger will be there."

"Has he found a boyfriend yet?" asked Donald.

"I don't believe so," said Stephen giving him a wink.

It was inevitable that they all ended up in Martin and Stephen's bedroom
one night. Martin turned the key in the door and they fell to talking about
their happy holidays in Antibes in those far off days before the War.
Donald again promised to come.  For a minute they silently thought of
Christopher.

Donald then told them all about coxing for the Cambridge rowing team.  Some
of his duties were very pleasant indeed, although it is doubtful if these
alone were responsible for the three victories in a row over rivals,
Oxford, since the War.

"I will be going down at the end of term and I've been promised a position
in the Foreign Office-- it's just as a junior clerk, but it will be fun to
be living in London."

These things were translated for Hélias who seemed exited for Donald
too.  Then Donald fell to recalling how he used to masturbate Stephen under
the desk in the middle of lessons at school.  He demonstrated and Stephen
acted with great exaggeration how he responded while trying to answer
questions from their lady teacher.  There was laughter and Hélias
wished with all his heart that he had gone to an English public school.

Stephen then felt it was time they were all naked and in bed.  The bed was
a large one and Donald did not take up a great deal of room, but with four
young men in it there was little need for warming pans-- with or without
smuggled infants.

When Donald was stripped he was found to be wearing cotton drawers. Stephen
frowned but proceeded.  Then when his privates were revealed it was quite
obvious that he had been shaved smooth--the fate that Hélias had so
feared.  The three stared.

"The boys like me to be like this," explained Donald.  "If I don't do it,
two of them will hold me down and a third will do it.  I quite like it
actually."  There had not been much hair on Donald's chest to remove in the
first place and the hair on his legs and arms remained, but everywhere else
was glabrous.  Stephen parted his cheeks.  Here was smooth too.  "I let
them do me there; it's too hard to do it alone."

Stephen spent some time on his knees, running his hand over Douglas in some
wonderment.  Donald was getting hard.  He was passed around to the others.
Hélias ran his top lip over the shaved regions and pronounced them,
"Très sympa."

"Show us how you can swallow cocks, Donald," said Martin getting excited.

So he did, taking each in turn for a very pleasant sucking.  Stephen and
Martin urged Hélias to pay attention--as if he needed urging.
Donald slicked up Stephen's organ for some time and then climbed onto
Stephen's chest and, with his head facing Stephen's feet and his mouth
positioned convenient to Stephen's urgent erection, he took the organ into
his wide-open mouth and sucked up and down.

"Wait for this, Hélias!" said Martin giving him a nudge.

Donald then opened up his throat and took Stephen down, down into his
gullet.  He breathed through his nose and didn't gag.  The boys could see
Stephen's cock distending Donald's throat in its passage.  Soon he had his
nose completely in Stephen's pubic bush and the entirety of Stephen's
manhood was inside Donald.  He held it there for half a minute and then
slowly drew himself off.  It was the sword swallower's trick from the
circus.  There was applause all around.

Stephen then decided to reward Donald by sucking his cock-- thinking that
Donald possibly didn't get enough in return.  He lay on his back and
wrapped his big arms around Donald's slim buttocks and pulled him into his
mouth.  Donald was enjoying it and tugged at one of Stephen's hands and
encouraged him to feel his hairless hole.

"Spill in my mouth, Don.  Spill for me!" cried Stephen when he paused from
sucking for a moment.  Donald did and Stephen drank it all down, smacking
his lips when Donald pulled off.

"I think Hélias would like to fuck you, Donald," said Martin.  "But
be careful of his leg."  Indeed this was so and Hélias slid into
Donald, who was clearly used to being fucked, while Stephen fucked Martin
in parallel.  Hélias enjoyed being next to Stephen and being the
object of masculine attention.  Both their partners were quite satisfied by
the time the lamp was turned out, but at two o'clock Stephen cruelly
insisted that Donald and Hélias must return to their own rooms as he
wanted some time alone with Martin.

Following this weekend, the three were up in London for Hélias'
appointment with Sir Thomas and to see a matinee-- a farce at the Lyric
Theatre, Whirled into Happiness, whose silly plot revolved around a
hairdresser being mistaken for a Marquess at a music hall.  It was very
funny and Hélias `got' most of it.

"Je n'ai pas de cigarettes," said Hélias innocently when he opened
his case.

"I know where we can get some," said Martin who was in an excited mood.

They went back to Branksome house and were puzzled when Martin took his
Rolls Royce from the mews.  They piled in and headed off into the London
traffic. They crossed the Thames and were somewhere near St Georges Circus
at the back of Waterloo Station when Stephen said: "Why are we coming here
for cigarettes, Mala? I don't understand."

"You will, Derby," said Martin as he kept turning left then right until he
apparently found what he was looking for--an ordinary tobacconist's shop.
He parked the car out of sight and they walked back a little way to the
shop.  Some pedestrians passed, there was a brewery dray pulled up opposite
and a motor bicycle and sidecar sat at the kerb.

"Don't you remember?  Armistice night?"

Stephen did!  Those sailors!

The bell sounded as they entered.  The foxy-looking man came out and
Hélias practiced his English and obtained his French cigarettes.
The foxy man looked at them.  "Is there anything else, gents?"

"Is Norman here?"

"Norman?  Why he's out the back."

"Could we see him if he is in business."

"Do I know you, sir?"

Perhaps you remember Armistice night?

"Why sir, how could I ever forget!  Forgive me.  The rum.  My old ship
mates.  We was just setting up in trade, Norman and me.  Yes, come through.
Norman will be on his knees and pleased to see you."

Norman was pleased and patted Stephen through his trousers.  "Biggest I've
ever had," he said with some standing.  "Two bob each.  Tell me how you
like it if you have any preferences."

"Our friend here is from France."

"That makes no never mind with me, sir.  All gents is gents with their
trousers down, if youse takes me meaning."

The cheerful Norman was down on his knees and had Hélias sucked to
hardness in a moment.  He bobbed and slobbered and ran his hands over
Hélias' torso and buttocks. Then he used both his mouth and hands to
really get him worked up and, with nice professional judgment, pulled back
so that just the head was in his lips when Hélias spilled.  He
presented the seed on his tongue for Hélias' inspection and, without
rising from his knees moved on to Martin.

After Martin had spilled Norman excused himself and drank a glass of water.
"We've done all right, the Bos'n and me.  See that motorbike out front?
That's mine.  Paid cash for it, I did, and I took Bos'n down to Eastbourne
last Sunday."

Refreshed he started on Stephen.  Norman began, as Martin instructed, by
chewing and teasing his foreskin until he was hard.  Then he let Norman
make the running, but reminded him he liked his balls stretched towards
spilling.  Norman did a good job and was happy to be battered with
Stephen's seed.

"That was a terrible lot, sir!" said the Bos'n who had come to watch.  "But
ain't that just a beautiful sight: my boy smiling with his face all
plastered with a big gent's seed. That will be six bob, sir."

Here's ten shillings, said Martin.  He's earned it.

"Yes I suppose we should charge extra for something that size," he said
inclining his head in the direction of Stephen who was buttoning his fly,
but Norman enjoys them big or small; on land or sea.  We're taking a little
holiday in Dieppe this year--a friend will take over the shop-- but not the
sucking--and we hope Norman will get some more French cock." And turning to
Hélias, he said rather loudly, as if in the mistaken belief that
Hélias was not French but deaf: "Thank you, sir, for your custom."



As Hélias' leg mended, the letters from his wife became more urgent.
Hélias too became a little homesick, especially after a few weeks of
wet weather which kept them cooped up inside; he missed the southern sun
and so following a final visit to Sir Thomas and the surgeon, Hélias
said goodbye and departed with Stephen and Martin for his home.  Stephen
and Martin also had their secret instructions from Uncle Alfred: they were
to make their return via Portugal to see the ledger in Cintra for
themselves.

Hélias was a new man or possibly a renewed man; in his luggage he
had two new suits as well as the cuff links and many little presents to
bring back to his wife and family.  Jean had taken him to Liberty and he
picked out a very pretty shawl and a blouse that he said would go well with
his wife's sealskin coat that was the talk of Vallauris.  He now sat in
their compartment holding his umbrella in his gloved hands. Periodically he
offered cigarettes from the silver case, although he knew neither boy
smoked.  Most importantly, he now had but an imperceptible limp and the
scars on his leg from the operation would soon fade.  A second operation
had not been necessary and his original condition reflected poorly on
French army doctors, Sir Thomas observed, quite bluntly.

Hélias returned in triumph to his family and friends.  There was to
be a church service of thanksgiving where Hélias would walk (without
even the umbrella) into the church with his wife on his arm, both of theme
dressed à la mode Anglaise.

Martin and Stephen had a few days' rest.  They paid their calls on Mrs
Chadwick and the Mission to Seamen (but did not stay) and dined, of course,
in the Bistro de Blezon. They looked at the L'espoir but it was too rough
to take her out.  Stephen watched Martin in the shower as he sat reading a
war novel, Tell England.  "Between your pretty cheeks, Mala!" he called
through the open door.

They departed, promising to return soon, and took the train for Bordeaux.
They were a little tense and tried to talk of other things.  Martin told
Stephen to offer the job of his secretary at Croome to Myles.  He did not
put any other stipulations on it.  He would love Stephen no matter what
eventuated.  He discussed his garden and Stephen spoke of one day turning
the attic in Antibes into a large bedroom for future guests. They talked of
Hélias and of The Plunger and of Uncle Alfred.  Meals came and went,
they changed to a Spanish train at the frontier and, with halts at
Valladolid and Salamanca, crossed into Portugal, with the mountains always
on their left.  They crossed these mountains eventually and descended into
the valley of the Tagus and arrived in Lisbon.

It was a busy and beautiful old city.  There were wonderful old churches
and palaces everywhere but they were constantly told of the damage done by
the great earthquake of 1755, which had destroyed much of what had been
even more wonderful from Roman and Moorish times.  The city was bustling
with trams and ferries and the citizens were handsome and well dressed.
Martin kept looking at the boys; they were all beautiful, with dark wavy
hair like Stephen's and while they were olive skinned, they were fair
rather than dark like Carlo was.  Two or three times strangers spoke to
Stephen in Portuguese, despite his blue eyes, and Martin giggled.  The
women were handsome too and Martin looked forward to seeing for himself the
two portraits of Desideria-Luiza that his uncle had merely photographed.

They left the Avineda Palace Hotel for the twenty-mile trip up to Cintra.
The taxi went beyond the old town and through the suburbs of Greater Lisboa
that stretched out along the Tagus.  They climbed into the hills that
overlooked the Atlantic.  Martin and Stephen both had tight knots in their
stomach.

Cintra, when they reached it, was a most beautiful hill station.  There
were charming old buildings, with terracotta tiles and white stucco.  There
were glimpses of fantastic mansions of the more recently wealthy--reminding
them off what they had seen in Philadelphia and Chicago-- their mad Moorish
domes and gothic spires could be seen protruding intriguingly above
sub-tropical gardens like those behind Cannes.  Even without these modern
intrusions, one could easily see why Byron and the Pooles had fallen in
love with the beautiful town.

With some difficulty they found the British Consulate.  The maid fetched
the secretary who curtly informed them that Sir Gregory had retired back to
England two months ago and a new consul had yet to be appointed, with the
implication that all consular matters would have to wait.  This was a blow.

Martin then explained who he was.  The secretary gave a little bow and
addressed him as `your lordship' and suddenly became more helpful.  Stephen
realised that this must have happened all through Martin's life; people
treated him differently and smoothed away obstacles because he was from the
aristocracy.  He wondered for a moment what that must be like and even if
it were a healthy thing for people like Martin.

"I have the record number here and the volume number.  They were given to
me, so it shouldn't be too hard to find, Mr Young," said Martin.

"I'm quite sure it won't be any trouble, your lordship.  Won't you come
into the consul's office and I will look for the book.  Tea?  No?"

Martin and Stephen were seated where Uncle Alfred must have sat those few
months before.  Mr Young had the maid fetch a stool and he climbed up to
reach one of several large leather-bound ledgers that had to be laid flat
on the shelves.  He heaved it out and passed it down to Stephen.  It was
put in front of Martin who consulted the piece of paper his uncle had given
him.  Stephen distracted the secretary by asking about the Montserrat Villa
they had seen down the road and Mr Young began an account of its builder,
Sir Francis Cook Bt, while Martin opened the book.  Stephen watched him out
of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly there was a cry from the desk.  Stephen and Mr Young both turned
in alarm.

"It's gone, Derby.  The page has been torn out!"

To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.