I’m sitting on the path out of Jockum Wood weeping bitter tears when I meet him. From the long rod in his hand, and his tackle basket slung over his shoulder, I’d say he’s returning from a little sport at the mill pond.
The ‘he’ of whom I speak is Sir Roger Tiffing, the Duke of Netherswell, and this is his land: the path, the wood, the pond, the mill, and every village and farm for miles around; all are his. If I were to walk until my feet bled, I would still be on His Grace’s land.
He likes to keep his estate — and his tenants — in good order, so when he sees a young woman in distress on his land, he’s honour bound to inquire as to the cause. Noblesse oblige, as the nobs say.
“Oh, Your Grace, I am in such a pickle! Reverend Coxwell will join my mama and I for supper this evening, so she gave me half a crown and sent me to the market to buy a salmon. I did as she requested, but as I left the woods, I was accosted by a vagabond. He snatched my fish from me!”
He is clearly touched by my tragedy. “Oh, my dear! If I had any salmon I should give you one, but I caught only a monstrous pike this morning, and that I returned to the water.”
“Then I am lost, Your Grace! If I go home with neither supper nor money, Mama will lift my skirt and my petticoat and bend me across the kitchen table, that she may whip my bare bottom with a birch rod!”
His neck flushes scarlet as he pictures my bottom doing the same.
He recovers himself enough to ask, “But what do you have clutched in your hand, my dear?”
I open my clenched fist to show him the single copper coin therein.
“It’s only the meagre change from two-and-six, Your Grace. Before he plundered my victuals, the beggar searched me for a coin purse. He thought I might keep one in my short stays, but no matter how much he rummaged around he found nothing but my diddies, for I had remembered my grandmama’s advice to always hold on to my ha’pence.”
His Grace smiles condescendingly. “My dear, your grandmother surely meant… You have no inkling of what she meant, do you?”
“No, Your Grace. She did not mean a ha’penny?”
“You sweet, innocent girl. How old might you be?”
“I might have turned twenty last October, Your Grace.”
“Oh my! For such a pert beauty to be nigh on twenty-one, and yet still be so pure! Do you know anything of men, my dear?”
“No, Your Grace. My poor papa passed when I was but a babe, and I have no brothers.”
“But you must have swains courting you? Lusty farmhands, mayhaps, eager for your close acquaintance?”
“Mama has forbidden me to speak to young men, Your Grace.”
The flush in his neck rises to his jowls. “I believe I may have the means to resolve your troublesome situation. Have you ever handled a rod, my dear?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Then come into the woods with me, and I’ll show you how to clean my tackle. If you do it to my satisfaction, I shall gladly give you half a crown.”
He leads me under the dappled shade of a spreading chestnut, where he instructs me to remove my bonnet, that I might perform my task without hindrance.
I do as he directs, unpinning my hat and setting it in front of me, among the sweet daisies for which I am named.
His jowls are scarlet now, and his voice has grown hoarse. “You ought to take off your dress too, my dear. The cleaning requires you to kneel, and it wouldn’t do to return to your mama with a stain upon your gown.”
I strip to my stays and petticoat, folding my dress carefully and laying it beside my hat.
He nods his approval. “Perhaps I should remove your stays, my dear, to be certain of leaving no mark on them.”
As he fumbles to untie my stays, he snaps the ribbon I frayed to a thread while I waited for him.
“Oh no! That ribbon cost a pretty penny, Your Grace! Mama will—”
He has had enough delay. “Yes, yes, you shall have another penny. Two pennies! Now take off your stays!”
I comply with His Grace’s demand, but his ardour is enflamed by the sight of my dainty dugs, and he steps forward to crush them under his hands… and my hat under his foot.
“Oh, Your Grace, I am undone! That was my best bonnet. It cost Mama four shillings, she will be furious with me when I tell her how I lost it.”
He steps back in panic and tries to mollify me. “Now, now, my dear, there is no need to say anything to her, nothing at all. Four shillings, you say? I shall give you six, and you can tell her you sold it at market for a tidy profit. Now come, kneel upon the ground, there’s a good girl.”
“But I might tear my stockings, Your Grace. They’re silk. Ten shillings a pair.”
“Yes, yes, you shall have a pound note, my dear, and all will be made well. Now please, for the love of the good Lord, will you kneel!”
As I do, he pushes his britches down to his knees, lifts his shirt, and suggests I might bathe his rod with my tongue.
His cock is as inadequate as I’ve been told, but I grasp its puny shaft gingerly as though it were my first, while my left hand takes a good grip of his whirlygigs.
“Tenderly does it, my dear! That aspect of a gentleman’s equipment is most delicate!”
I tighten my grip. “Yes, Your Grace. And if you want to maintain your equipment in good order, you’ll give me five pounds, please.”
I believe I may have angered him. He tries to step away, but my hold is strong.
“You conniving hedge whore! That is an outrageous price! Why, I could get my cock sucked by a London bawd for a shilling!”
“And that is my usual rate, Your Grace. It’s twice what I charge your son, but he treats me like a lady and so I make him feel like a king. Nevertheless, I shan’t be playing your silent flute at all, you old goat. Five pounds is not the price of your pleasure, it’s the cost of me not telling your wife what you tried to do.”
His scoffing laughter would wound me, if it had any merit. “She would never believe you! And how would one as low as you even speak to a lady of such standing?”
“By lying down, Your Grace. Each time you require her to perform her marital duty she retires to her chambers afterwards, where she sends a maid to fetch me so I can give her what you could not. And when I am done kissing your wife’s quim she’d believe me if I told her the moon was one cheek of the Prince Regent’s flabby arse. Now, five pounds, if you please.”
“You damnable wench! Amorous congress with my wife? I shall divorce the wicked strumpet!”
“You would shame His Majesty by divorcing his cousin, Your Grace? No, I do not believe you would. His son would delight in ruining you, and all society would know you were cuckolded by a common cat.”
Even his forehead is crimson now, and I believe his brainpan might boil. “I… I… I shall tell your mother of your wickedness!”
“Very good, Your Grace, but please don’t wait until this evening for fear you’ll embarrass the good reverend by apprehending him in flagrante. Go directly, and my mama may lick your little sugar stick for sixpence.”
* * *
Mama was so pleased with my prize that she promised me a guinea to spend as I will, and she told me, as she sewed my stays together, that I might have the evening for myself and she would satisfy the reverend alone. Knowing full well his peculiar tastes, I accepted her offer with alacrity and departed to the inn. I returned home at midnight, merry as a skylark, with an aching jaw and two pounds more for the kitty.
My mama and I may not be aristocrats, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the finer things in life.
I wrote a version of this story for Medium three years ago, and I’ve had the title of, and cover photo for, a potential sequel sitting in my drafts ever since, just waiting for a suitable story to attach itself to them. Inspiration finally arrived, so expect The Duke and the Daisies next week.
I love how your choice of words helps to set the scene. I could actually see it in my mind's eye like a movie 😊
What I particular like is the archaic word choice, such as stays and dugs.