Deja Vu — Part Three: Soaring
Copyright© 2024 by Rottweiler
Chapter 13: Across the Pond
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 13: Across the Pond - New challenges face Peter as he continues to forge ahead towards his destiny. With new burdens, terrible enemies, and the stigma of his color and disability, he must navigate a treacherous path to achieve his destiny while protecting those he loves from a sinister evil that threatens their very existence. There are some things money can't buy.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Mult Teenagers Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Romantic Gay Lesbian BiSexual Fiction Crime Rags To Riches Tear Jerker DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Paranormal Sharing Wife Watching Humiliation Sadistic Torture Polygamy/Polyamory Interracial Anal Sex Amputee Politics Revenge Violence
Charity appeared three skin tones shy of transparent as Kathy and Peter supported her while disembarking the aircraft. Maggy slipped off the 747 to arrange their transportation, and they found her at the gate next to a sharply dressed concierge who helped them onto an electric trolley and whisked them off to the first-class baggage claim. Despite the mass of humanity that they weaved through at speeds that could injure or dismember pedestrians, they made significant headway through Heathrow, Europe’s largest airport.
“Welcome to London,” their cheerful guide said. “I’m Sebastian, here to help you collect your bags and get through Customs and Immigration smoothly.” He glanced back at the gloomy teenager with a knowing yet sympathetic smile. “You alright then, Miss?”
She glanced at him meekly, then pointed to the female lavatory sign.
Sebastian eased the cart to the entrance and jumped out to assist her as she dashed drunkenly inside with Kathy and Maggy. “Poor lass,” he murmured. “I feel sorry for anyone that air travel doesn’t agree with.”
“We encountered turbulence before we arrived,” Peter commented.
“A little fresh London air will have her right as rain,” the porter replied. The dreary cloud cover beyond the huge glass windows confirmed that he spoke literally.
The only hold-up for the visitors was a supervisory call to double-check the notarized and apostilled letter authorizing the 16-year-old girl to travel with Peter and Kathy Shipley. Kathy was fuming when the officials insisted on taking Charity aside for a private interview but understood the caution to prevent human trafficking. Shortly after returning to solid ground, Charity began looking and feeling more like herself. She assured the officials that her pallor and malaise were travel-related and was promptly returned to her friends.
They were whisked out of the busy terminal and handed over to another chauffeur next to an elegant black Rolls Royce limousine. Monty and Alistair stood beside the man, smiling brightly as the troupe emerged from the massive building.
“There they are!” Monty called out excitedly as they climbed off the cart and exchanged hugs and handshakes. Peter tipped the driver before getting caught in an asphyxiating group hug between the former rugby players.
“Sorry to hear of your plight over the Atlantic, Charity,” Alistair commented across from the girl as they rode in smooth luxury. “Will you be okay for the two-hour trip to Canterbury?”
The Apache girl had regained her mahogany tone and gazed about her in wonder. “Oh yeah,” she breathed eagerly. “A girl could get used to this,” She ran her fingers across the limo’s gleaming wood and leather interior.
“It is rather posh as far as motor coaches go,” the older man attested, “But it reduces the tedium of long road trips.”
“As long as I never have to fly again,” the girl shuddered.
“I feel for ya, lass,” Monty added. “Never liked the means either.”
“My brother is the worst travel companion,” Alistair grinned. “Must’ve lost 5 kilos during our Hawaii trip.”
Monty seemed less than amused by the reminder. “Don’t let it get to you, Love,” he said. “When you return, we’ll have the good doctor prepare you a draught that’ll sort you out.”
“In a coma,” his twin quipped. “Still, I’d rather listen to him snoring than retching.”
“Will we see Stonehenge?” Charity asked.
The twins pursed their lips in sync.
“Complete opposite direction,” Monty replied. “But after the obligatory family visit, we’ll return to London in a few days. We can arrange a tour if you like.”
Charity brightened as she nodded. She patted the large canvas bag slung over her shoulder. “I read about it in school and have dreamed of sketching it.”
“Ah, yes,” Alistair replied. “I remember hearing about your artistic inclinations.” He opened an icebox in the ample passenger space, removed a seltzer for himself, and began handing out drinks. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed when you see it. The brochures and tourist fliers give it more grandeur than it deserves.”
“What about Buckingham Palace?” she asked, removing her brand-new camera from her bag. “Will I see the Changing of the Guard and the mounted Queen’s Guard?”
The twins chuckled. “Young lady, all in good time. Do you fancy the Household Cavalry? I heard you have a couple of horses.”
“Had,” the girl replied sadly. “Max wasn’t nearly as big as those beasts the British cavalry ride.”
“Did you really ride your ... pony to school?” Alistair asked.
Charity nodded sadly. “I used to ... before ‘they’ killed him,” she replied. “A lot of Rez kids do. We have a corral and stalls for them during class.”
The twins exchanged silent looks. “Celeste will love you,” they smirked.
“Who is Celeste?”
“Right,” Monty sat forward. “On that note, we would be remiss not to give you a brief who’s who of our ... eclectic family.” He glanced at Magdelaine, who answered a call. “Celeste is our sister, Catelyn’s oldest of three girls. She lives in the manor with our benevolent mum, grandparents, assorted siblings, and a host of cousins, nieces, and nephews.”
“Place is a bloody orphanage lately,” Alistair agreed.
‘Orphanage’ was the last thing on their minds when they arrived at the Quinten estate. The driveway stretched over a mile through landscaped fields lined with towering Ash. They arrived at an elegant courtyard with an overhang for shelter from the rain. The mansion was massive, showcasing the family’s wealth, with a squad of uniformed staff waiting. “Leave it to Mother to ignore our insistence on low-key entrances,” Alistair muttered as a valet held his door. He offered a hand to Kathy, who stepped out of the limousine and looked around.
“Oh, my goodness!” she sighed. “This is like a scene from King Ralf.”
Peter nodded, impressed as he stepped over to her side. “I expect Peter O’Toole to pop out and greet us any second.”
“Our seneschal is a far cry from the esteemed gentleman of lore,” Monty replied, “but he’s amicable enough ... unless he’s too far in his cups, which is most days after morning tea.”
The waiting staff included two porters who took charge of their luggage and two chamberlains named Frieda and Skulpa, who guided them into the great entryway of the massive structure. The Americans stood in quiet awe of the surrounding splendor and opulence. Massive columns rose to a vaulted ceiling. Great artworks were displayed everywhere you looked, from huge-framed paintings that lined the walls to sculpted busts on low mantles and nooks.
“Whoa!” Charity gawked at a resplendent suit of armor towering above her. “This place is cool!”
“Greetings,” an aged voice called out, and they saw an elderly woman approaching from the left hall of the great entryway. “Welcome to our humble home.”
She stood back several paces as she studied the newcomers, who gazed curiously at her. She was a tall, thin woman with sharp features that still held a hint of past beauty. Her gray hair was elegantly arranged above her head with bejeweled hairpins. Her dress was a simple yet elegant gown that fell to the floor around her slippered feet. She accepted a peck on each cheek from the twins, who joined her and introduced her with sweeping arms.
“May we present you to our esteemed and well-preserved mother, Elizabeth Cromley-Quinten, first daughter of Percival and Lola Cromley, lord chamberlain of the Viscount of Chartham Reach?”
Peter, Kathy, Maggy, and Charity stood blinking at them, trying to decide what was expected of them. Alistair burst out laughing and received a jab from the matronly woman.
“You two are impossible!” she simpered, shoving past them to approach the awkward visitors. “Forgive these impetuous simpletons,” she smiled, taking Kathy’s hand first. “Call me Liz. We don’t subscribe to that tacky nobility nonsense here.”
When she reached Charity, the wide-eyed girl nervously gaped up at her. “Are you a Baroness?”
Liz laughed heartily, “Heavens, no, dear!”
“Though she is, by all respects, a Lady,” a new voice chirped. A short man appeared in the hallway behind them.
“Stuart, please,” the woman replied primly. “Enough with the salutations. Please let the staff show you to your rooms to rest and recuperate from your travels. Join us in an hour for supper and then retire for a good night’s rest.” She glanced around, “Where is Celeste?”
“Right here, mum,” a quiet young voice said from above. They turned and found a grand staircase winding up to a second story. A tall, thin girl in a pearl green gossamer gown was descending the stairs. Her glistening blonde hair hung in lazy curls around her pretty face. She gazed back at them with piercing cobalt eyes that seemed to light up the great room. She smiled evenly and gave a slight curtsy at the landing.
“Ah, there you are, child,” Liz declared fondly. “Be a dear and escort our guests to their suites,” she instructed politely. “I’ve housed your security detachment with ours on the grounds,” she told Peter.
“Thank you, Liz,” he replied with a smile.
“Right then,” Monty said tiredly. “We’ll catch up later.” He and his twin turned and stepped back toward the main entrance while Celeste spread her arms in welcome, inviting the guests to follow her up the broad flight of stairs.
“Are you well-traveled?” the unassuming blonde asked as she led Charity into the vast room where she’d sleep during her stay.
Holy shit! The native teenager thought as she glanced around incredulously. This place is bigger than Len’s living room and kitchen! She turned a full circle in the posh chamber and blinked back at her host, “Pardon?”
“Have you traveled abroad before?” the girl repeated.
“Um, sure, yeah,” Charity said, stepping over to a huge portrait of a gaudy gentleman courting a shy girl with a decorative fan poised to conceal their imminent kiss. “If you count Gallup, Durango, or Phoenix as well-traveled,” she added. “My school once took us to Four Corners, where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico meet. We went to Mesa Verde on the Ute Rez and rode in these massive four-wheel drive rigs that could climb straight up a cliff, and those crazy, thick-wit Indians tried to scare us by doing just that. Talk about your slope-heads ... Utes are a bunch of drunk-ass, inbred knuckle-draggers. The guy driving my rig stopped on a hill next to this big rock, and you wouldn’t believe the freakin’ rattlesnake sunning himself on it.” She mimed gripping a football. “I swear it was this big around and as long as I am tall. Had a head bigger than a grapefruit. I could’ve reached out and petted him.” She interpreted the other girl’s wide eyes as disbelief. “I swear it’s true. I think it ate a whole jackrabbit because it couldn’t move.”
Celeste gaped at the girl for a moment. “I see...” she finally stated.
“How ‘bout you?” Charity asked.
“Um, yes,” she replied unsettled. “I’ve traveled most of Europe: Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, France, Spain, and Italy. I’m rather thrilled at the thought of traveling with you to the Isle of Netter. I’ve never been to North Scotland, though I’ve heard it’s exceptional.” She indicated a gaudy coat of arms on display near the door. “Our ancestry can be traced to the northern highlands.”
“So, what do you do for fun around here?” the Apache girl asked while testing the massive bed. It had a tall post at each corner with a frame around it to support a curtained canopy. “What grade are you in? Do you go to school here?”
Celeste sat primly on the bed. “No, I am privately tutored,” she replied with a hint of regret. “I shall attend Newnham University in a year once I am old enough.”
“How old are you now?”
“I’ve just turned sixteen last month.”
“Me too!” Charity replied excitedly. “May 14th, Mother’s Day.”
“Mine is the 12th,” Celeste smiled. She blushed under the scrutiny of the darker-complexioned girl. “Is ... something amiss?”
“No!” she replied, staring back at the blonde girl. “It’s just...” her cheeks colored, and she looked away.
“Just what?”
“Nothing,” Charity muttered, fingering her sling bag strap. “You’re just ... really pretty.”
Celeste felt her cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thank you,” she whispered, touching the beads on the canvas bag in an intricate tribal pattern. “Did you make this?”
“No, it was a present from my dad’s wife, Sue,” she smiled, flipping the tasseled flap back to reveal her sketch pads and art supplies. “She’s Navajo, and I think she had it made for me. This design depicts Ma’ii, the Coyote, renowned in Navajo mythology as the Trickster,” she grinned, showing her bright teeth. “I think she felt it was a fitting choice for me.”
“It’s beautiful!” the girl breathed. “Forgive my ignorance of your indigenous culture and customs. When we say Indians here, it typically means people from India.”
Charity nodded, “Red dots,” she quipped.
“Sorry?”
“You know,” she tapped her forehead. “White men call us ‘red-dot’ or ‘feathers,’” she grinned. “I’m a feather.”
This prompted the other girl to giggle, causing a complete shift in demeanor. “Are you Navajo, too?”
“Naw, I’m Apache. Kathy is a Puyallup Indian from Seattle,” she explained, removing her worn sketch pad. She flipped through her drawings. “We have an old Navajo on our rez, not far from my home.” She held up a drawing of the ancient sheep herder. “This is Glen,” she replied fondly. “We call him Old Begay. He’s my buddy.”
Celeste gasped and took the sketch pad in her delicate fingers. “Oh, my goodness!” she breathed. “You ... drew this?”
“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “That’s his cabin behind him—they call them hogans.” The drawing showed the old Indian squatting down and patting her dog’s head. “That’s Snowball,” she added, tapping the page.
“This is ... fabulous!” the young woman whispered incredulously. She paused before turning the page, “May I?”
Charity nodded and summarized the images as she flipped through the pages. “That’s Archibald Winchester. He’s an Appaloosa. Peter presented him to Kathy as her engagement token, but she gave him to me.” Her voice grew sad, “And that was my pony, Maximillian Mustafa the Magnificent.”
Celeste glanced over in alarm when she heard the native girl’s voice quiver. She was immediately stricken with heartache as she watched a tear run down the girl’s cheek. She set the sketch pad aside and gently touched her hand. “I ... I am so very sorry,” she whispered. “Alistair and Monty told me about your attack...” Celeste gasped when Charity grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her. She didn’t speak, but her sniffles compelled the blonde girl to hug her back.
After a moment, Charity pulled away and wiped her eyes apologetically.
Celeste stood up and held out an inviting hand. “I know it won’t ease your loss, but would you like to see our stables?” she asked tentatively. “I’d love to show you my palfrey Mistletoe.”
Charity glanced up at her host and sniffed again before taking her offered hand, “I’d really like that.”
The stables were a large equestrian complex separated from the manor by a large, fenced pasture where people could ride or train horses. Dozens of stalls stretched for hundreds of feet along the vast open building, and nearly all of them contained horses.
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