Chapter 12: A Hard Taskmaster

The Honourable Ferdinando Stanley held out his hand for me to shake.

“Should you ever resign from the army, contact me for future employment, Jack. You have all the attributes required for a top civil servant.”

It was the 21st of December, 1822. The British delegation had left for England a week previously, although Ferdinando Stanley and I remained to clear paperwork. He intended staying with family friends in Toulouse over Christmas, while I was going to be spending Christmas with Mimi.

I thanked Ferdi for his offer, but assured him I was a career soldier, enlisted for life, and would remain in uniform until no longer required by King or Country.

Mimi and I were leaving for Claudia’s house in Lazise – Villa Arco – later that day. and I confess I felt nervous and apprehensive at the prospect of spending the next week with Mimi in a lakeside villa, owned by the woman with whom I had enjoyed extensive carnal knowledge of only a few months previous.

We had not met since the day of the concert. Chloe, Armand, and she were staying at a villa several miles to the west of Verona, and Ferdi had kept me busy, from early morning to late evening, compiling and finishing off reports. With little free time to visit her I did manage a hastily scribbled note explaining the situation at work.

The Villa Agostino was emptying of guests, and all in all the scurrying and hurrying precluded any quiet assignations between us.

We had barely touched each other at our encounter at the concert, only exchanging a hug and one kiss at that meeting.

Did she really love me, as she had professed, or was her recent illness still putting strange ideas and fancies into her head?

Did I really love her, or was I merely reacting to her vulnerability, and feeling sorry for her?

So convinced had I been that Woodrow Allen was the only man she loved any other emotion, other than gratitude and respect, I felt for Mimi Renoir in the past had been hastily banished from my mind.

Mimi bore Woody’s son, and I had firmly believed her heart held him and Woody only. However, at the concert, I learned it was only infatuation Mimi felt for Woody, and it was I, along with her son, who held pride of place in her heart.

Mimi had saved my life, and was special to me, as was Amy Fairfax, Annette Blanchard, Caroline Ashford, and Lillian Skinner.

All those females had aroused feeling of love in me.

Could a man really love more than one woman in his lifetime?

Amy was now the Countess of Monmouth, Annette and Caroline were dead, and Lillian was a whore in London. Mimi was here and now, and I was going to be in her exclusive company for a week.

The probability I would really fall in love with her was high, now the brakes were off my emotions towards her, knowing she loved me – or was it but a manifestation of her illness to think herself in love with me?

The more I thought about the coming week the more anxious and agitated I became. By the time the carriage arrived to take us to the village of Lazise I was a bag of nerves.

I climbed into the coach with my valise. Mimi was already seated, and we embraced quickly and nervously.

I sat opposite her, sensing she wanted her own space, and wondered if she was having second thoughts about the coming week. For the first five minutes of the journey a blanket of silence hung between us. Then I had a brainwave.

“How is Jean-Woodrow enjoying his stay in Nice?”

Mimi gave a beaming smile, and from then on she regaled me, practically non-stop, with the doings, sayings, and intelligence of her son. In fact, everything a proud mother says about the apple of her eye.

I sat back in my seat, feeling rather pleased with myself. She visibly relaxed as she enumerated the many virtues of Jean- Woodrow while the carriage rumbled its way towards Lazise on Lake Garda’s shore.

We finished the excellent supper, and the housemaid cleared away the empty dishes, leaving Mimi and I seated at the dinner table.

“The maid informs me there is a blazing log fire in the withdrawing room,” Mimi announced.

A few minutes later, we stood facing each other in the withdrawing room of Villa Arco. A fire crackled in the hearth, sending heat radiating throughout the room. There was an equal heat pulsating between Mimi and me.

During the carriage ride from Verona we had sat opposite, only occasionally looking at each other. Now we locked eyes, as if discerning the others intentions through the mirrors of the soul. Then, without conscious effort on either part, we were embracing, not kissing but close holding, feeling the warmth from our bodies, and relishing the nearness and tranquillity the moment brought.

Our kiss was at first soft, mellow, soothing, and immensely pleasurable. We drew back, each gave a satisfied sigh, and then our lips came together in a passion unequalled by any of the other women I have ever kissed. When eventually we drew apart, and breath, I knew I loved Mimi Renoir and that she loved me.

I took her hand. “Let us go to bed, sweetheart.”

She gave a wet lipped smile.

“I cannot wait. I want you here and now, my darling.”

She made a graceful descent to the carpeted floor, and seconds later I joined her, minus my breeches.

Her thighs parted like the Red Sea, and I entered a Promised Land over flowing with milk and honey.

Later, much later, we made our way to bed and repeated the exercise.

In fact during the following days we made love in every room of the villa, sans servants of course, and on most of the furniture therein, including the kitchen and dining room tables. On the stairs, against walls, on and in beds, on chairs, windowsills – there was no end to our inventiveness.

I say ‘our ‘, although Mimi was the originator of most of the more bizarre places, and positions, for coupling.

We did not spend the entire time in carnal embrace in the Villa. We went for walks along the lakeside, and found places in the great outdoors to further express our love. Although the sun was bright, the wind cutting across the lake was as sharp as a whetted knife.

One such time, as I impaled Mimi against a pine tree, with my shirt tails flapping in the breeze, I was reminded of galloping Patsy, a housemaid at Hatfield House, out in the bitter wind of March during the 2/69th’s journey to Belgium and Waterloo. I sniggered in remembrance.

“What?” Mimi, said, as finely attuned to my moods as Caroline had been.

I explained why I had a feeling of déjà vu.

“Lawks, Sir Jasper.” Mimi said, in a remarkably accurate London accent.

“I ‘opes you ain’t putting a bun in me oven else I will lose my position.”

I carried on reaming her, but joined in the charade.

“You keep your position exactly where it is, Miss Hoity Toity, otherwise I will be putting you over my knee later tonight and tanning your hide.”

“Yes please, Sir Jasper. I knows ‘ow you likes to see a reddening bum, coz it gives your puny John Thomas extra girth and vibrancy.”

By now we were going at it like knives. Mimi squealing in pleasure as I galloped her in a frenzy of passion, until we came together in a welter of secretion and laughter.

That is how it was when making love with Mimi. Laughter and lewdness, playful and passion, fun and fornication.

Walking back to the villa afterwards we talked, and I learned more of her early life and she learned more of mine.

“I do not wish to know how many, or how often, you galloped other women, any more than you wish to know of my former lovers,” she said, a serious expression on her face. “But I do wish to know if I give you pleasure any way near the like of Caroline?”

“You give me as much, if not more.”

She smiled sweetly. “You could not say anything else and keep your nugs secure, but I believe you. This may sound bizarre, or even perverse, but at times when we are making love I feel Caroline and Annette are within me. It is as if they too are enjoying the pleasure I feel.”

She glanced at me anxiously. “Do you think I am still slightly unhinged to imagine such things?”

I hugged and kissed her. “I sometimes sense Annette and Caroline are watching us when we make love. Applauding that we two are together. Happy for us both, and pleased with themselves.”

I did not say that just to make Mimi feel better, it was the truth.

You note I say ‘make love’? Each time Mimi and I made the beast with two backs it was an affirmation of the love we had for each other.

This affirmation ranged from slow, sensual, and comfortable to wild, noisy, and passionate. Mimi was the amalgam of every woman I had known, in the carnal sense. I knew not, and cared less, from where she acquired such skills.

All I knew was the young woman gasping, panting, squealing, shrieking, biting, sucking, licking, kissing, convulsing, and writhing, in my arms, gave me more pleasure than received from any previous lover.

It was on the penultimate day of our stay at Lazise I determined to ask Mimi to marry me. We were returning to Villa Arco from an afternoon walk, and an outdoor session of love making, when I stopped abruptly and knelt at her feet.

“Ma’mselle Mimi Renoir. Will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife, and thus make me the happiest man in the world?”

Her face lit up in a wonderful Mimi smile, which puts the brilliance of the sun in the shade.

“Gladly, Jacques, and I will then become the happiest woman in the world.”

We shared a long tender kiss, and then hurried back to the villa to plight our troth in the most rumbustious and enjoyable of ways. Sometime later that evening after regaining our breath, and me my strength, I told her I would resign my commission from the army and return with her to Château Blanchard.

She was astounded. “But you love the army...”

“I love you more.”

“The army is your life...”

“You are now my life.”

“What about your duty to your King and...”

“My duty is to you.”

“Your family, especially your sister.”

Mimi had hit the spot I had conveniently forgotten, but I made a reason not to stay in Italy searching for my sister.

“Rebekah is a writer, yet she has not taken the time or trouble to write to her family or friends for over two years. She can stay out of touch, as that appears what she desires.”

“Perhaps she is ill, or unable to write. She could be a prisoner, or anything. She is your sister, Jacques, you cannot just abandon her.”