Page 22 of The Songbird of Wychwood
PERCY
Saturday finally arrived and at six p.m the carriage promptly pulled up outside Blackwood Hall. I informed Bentley that I would not be home tonight and if she enquired on my whereabouts, he should pass the information onto my mother. For the past week mother had taken to her bed, apparently suffering from nervous exhaustion. It was poppycock of course. Mother was in the rudest of health, but I had rejected her attempts to secure me a bride and she was embarrassed. Maybe she believed that by removing herself from society she would punish me, make me feel sympathy and then I would acquiesce to her demands. But no, I would not let my mother’s ‘funny turn’ manipulate me into changing my mind. My mind was quite set and I knew exactly whom I wanted to court.
I travelled to Wychwood bubbling with anticipation, wondering what colour of fine gown Miss Georgette would be wearing tonight, and if she would direct her saucy looks at me as she sang. Would I be permitted a dance? I knew Mr. Joshua would have his eagle eyes on me to ensure I did not renege on my promise to abide by the house rules.
“Ah, 36, so pleased you’ve returned to us. Let me take your coat and hat,” Mr. Joshua addressed me cordially when he opened the door. It was a quarter to eight and a group of at least fifteen gents was already in attendance. I supposed that, if this was the only place some men could be their true selves and find an outlet for their desires, they would arrive swiftly and enjoy every moment!
“Thank you, Mr. Joshua. I do hope you are well. It is good to be back.” I stepped into the tiled checkerboard foyer and Joshua helped me out of my coat. The scent of cigars, mixed with Eau de Cologne found my nostrils. A lilting voice lifted high in song made my heart stutter. The sweet sound of Miss Georgette’s pulled me into the dining room and I was again impressed by the display of foods from the continent. I was rather partial to French breads and cheeses, and so I fixed a plate with a selection of foods, then poured myself a glass of claret and took a seat in the music room. As soon as Miss Georgette saw me a rush of heat near set me aflame. She was in a turquoise gown and wore a russet wig of curls piled atop her head, dressed with pearls and feathers. It was a delightful confection. She finished her song and those viewing applauded. I’d taken a seat beside three gentlemen who were also enjoying their repast. We introduced ourselves by our numbers, they were 7, 14 and the final fellow was 29. Mr. 29 told us how he adored hearing Miss Georgette sing.
“Ahh, to sit back with my eyes closed and listen to our songbird, sometimes tis a pleasure better than sex,” he waxed adoringly.
Mr. 14 spoke then, “Well, if that’s what you think I’d suggest that you’re not doing the sex correctly!” We guffawed like schoolboys. I took a bite of bread spread with fig jam and topped with cheese, while watching Miss Georgette and her pianist Mr. Hugo in anticipation as they decided what tune to play next.
“I say Miss Georgette, would you sing, Among the Crowd I saw you ? I do love your rendition,” 29 called.
“No trouble at all, sir,” Georgette gave Mr. Hugo a nod and he rifled through his manuscripts to find the correct page of music. Georgette then launched into a romantic ballad about a fellow spying his secret love in a crowd, expressing his longing to be with her. By my side Mr. 29 let out a sigh of contentment and sat doe eyed enjoying the performance. I enjoyed it too, for when George sang the world faded away and all I could see was him. I realized then that I had truly lost my heart to this wonderful, mercurial actor.
As the night moved on, I spent some time in the games room, enjoying billiards with another new acquaintance whom was at least ten years my senior. He introduced himself as 12. I noticed how his eyes sparkled and he leered each time I leaned over the billiard table to take a shot. After I’d won a well fought game, he offered to gamahuche me as my prize. I was still not used to invitations of this nature and was deeply embarrassed to be approached so openly. I’d only conversed with the man for thirty minutes. I hope I managed to hide my shock at the nature of his approach. I was relieved when the fellow did not take offence when I declined the invitation. I took my leave and joined a game of Faro, which took up an enjoyable hour and even though I lost my stake, I’d had fun.
In need of refreshment once more, and wishing to be away from the unpleasant clouds of cigar smoke, I returned to the dining room where I spied Mr. Joshua.
“I say, Mr. Joshua. I wonder, could I have your permission to ask Miss Georgette to dance?”
“Sir, I am not the keeper of her virtue, or her dance card. Miss Georgette can dance with any fellow she fancies. However, do be aware that the membership is protective of our songbird. All I ask is that you do not monopolize her time.”
“Understood,” I nodded. Our conversation ended abruptly when there was a loud rapping on the door which took Mr. Joshua away to do his duty.
“45, welcome sir,” Mr. Joshua greeted the man just as cordially as he greeted all members. I poured myself a glass of claret while the newcomer, who was, by the sounds of his gruff greeting, already well in his cups. He wrangled his way out of his greatcoat, and tossed it at Mr. Joshua. I was shocked by his appalling lack of manners. He barreled towards where I stood at the credenza laden with bottles of wine, brandy, and spirits. I collected my glass and stepped aside as the rude drunkard grabbed a bottle of red wine by the neck and, with his teeth, he removed the cork that was half in the neck of the bottle then spat it out onto the floor, as if he were playing the part of a pirate. Goodness, I’d thought that the clientele at Wychwood were of far better breading than this!
“Is he here yet?” the man bellowed to Mr. Joshua. The aggressive raised voice made Mr. Hugo and Miss Georgette pause their song. The silence that fell was deeply uncomfortable.
“27 has not yet arrived. Your room is ready if you would like to wait for him there.”
“Yes, yes, good idea,” the man said and then, with his bottle of wine in hand, he staggered through the doorway and towards the stairs walking like he was in a storm.
“Please continue songbird, let’s lift the spirits, aye!” Mr. Joshua called. Miss Georgette gave Mr. Hugo a nod and he began the introduction of a very jaunty waltz. Then, to my delight, Miss Georgette began to sing in French!
It was another half an hour before I got the chance to approach her and ask for a dance.
“Miss Georgette, may I say how beautiful you look tonight. Your frock is lovely,”
“Why, thank you kind sir,” she said as she fluttered her fan and flashed those autumn brown eyes at me.
“Would you care to dance?”
“After our turn at the last party, I am quite dizzy with delight that you want to take me on the floor again,” Miss Georgette purred, taking my hand and leading me onto the dance floor surrounded by other gents locked in intimate clinches.
We moved off and spun in time to the waltzing melody and having George in my arms again was a joy. He leaned in and as we twirled together said,
“Hello lover, you look edible tonight.” Those words went straight to my groin and made me half hard.
“As do you! Are the arrangements in place?” I said to George’s ear.
“Yes. Go to the stage door after midnight and when you knock Harold will ask ‘Who is it?’”
“What do I reply?”
“Lord Dickey’s brother.”
We shared an amused look and then twirled our way back towards the piano. Suddenly there was an almighty roar of rage and a door upstairs slammed. The piano music stopped, and alarmed by the interruption the other dancing gents halted. Then we heard the inebriated bellowing of a man,
“Damn your eyes, boy, where the devil are you? An hour, you’ve kept me waiting for a bally hour. Joshua, where is he, where did you hide him?” It was the rude man from earlier. George and I hurried through the dining room to a commotion in the foyer to see other members watching the drunken debauchee with distaste writ large in their expressions. Mr. Joshua stepped out of his office.
“Joshua, where is he?” the brute called as he came barreling down the staircase, lost his footing, then slid down the stairs on his arse and slumped at the foot of the stairs in a heap.
“What’s happening? Are we being raided?” an effeminate voice screeched in alarm.
The drunkard was trying to pull himself up to stand by grappling with the balustrade. This kind of behaviour was not acceptable.
Mr. Joshua raised his hands and pacified,
“18, there is no need for alarm, we are quite safe. Gentlemen, apologies for the interruption please continue to enjoy your evening. Mr. Hugo, music please,” the butler added. Then he turned to the fellow who had caused the trouble.
“45, up you get sir,” he said offering his hand to pull the man to his feet. “If you would accompany me to the kitchen, I’ll make you a cup of fine Jamaican coffee, and we’ll have a little chat, aye,” Joshua then guided him down a short flight of stairs and through a doorway to the kitchen.
“Good grief. No wonder his boy never turned up if. I’d bet he was going to get pounded into next week by that drunken pig,” Miss Georgette commented. I shuddered at the thought. How awful it must be to have a disagreeable, brutish lover. I was indeed lucky to have met a gentle man, in every sense of the word, with whom I shared more than my bed preference.
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