Chapter 7

I insisted that Lottie shower with me before heading downstairs. She was reluctant, but it’s good to be the boss. As it happened, Rosie had everything well in hand, though the younger girls made Lottie blush with their comments. Afterwards, I trudged with Bex across to her family’s farm to let them know what had been decided. I think the information that I expected to marry Bex when, or if, she became pregnant came as a shock to them, but certainly Jenny approved and, I thought, Don did too. I invited them to join us for supper the following night, as that would be before Bex came to my bed for the first time. I explained that’s what we’d done for Rosie, Sophie and Lisa. They accepted, pleased. When I got home, I spoke to my mother – Dad was out of the house – and I explained what we were doing and invited them to join the Franklins and ourselves the following evening. Mum thought that would be a good idea.

As I was putting the phone down, a tap on the door was followed by Libby’s entrance. A tray, snacks – small, as lunch wasn’t far away – for two. She put the tray on my desk, unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her skirt and let it drop, both entirely without artifice. Artifice was entirely unnecessary. I was hardening when she began, and when she unzipped me to extract Mister Dick, she had difficulty with that and had to loosen my jeans. When he was free, she lowered herself on him. Her tight channel slid down until our pubes met.

She kissed me. “You’re a good man, Ralph Hewson. I’m proud and happy to be your concubine.” Her pussy grasped me, the muscles moving, though she was not, only pressing her clit against me. I came, and she shuddered in response. “Thank you. I needed that,” she said with a smile. “Now, our snack.”

The snack was just a token, one small biscuit, but the coffee was real, and it was still hot. I smiled, thinking, ‘yes, hot coffee, hotter woman’. “That was incredible, Libby. I’m so glad you’re my concubine.” When the coffee was drunk, Libby stood, dressed, and was going to pick up the tray to take back to the kitchen. “Just a minute, Libby.” She paused, leaving the tray where it was, slightly bent over. “Come here.” I patted my lap. She looked puzzled, but got closer. I patted my lap again and she slowly lowered herself. I wrapped my arms around her. She tensed for a moment. But then relaxed and moulded herself to me as I hugged her close. I held her like that for several minutes, savouring her firm, curvy warmth. It was moments later I realised she was weeping silently. Then she turned in my arms and pressed her face against my neck.

“You care,” she whispered. “for the first time, I know I’m home.”

That was a pleasant interlude, but I had a few minutes before lunch, and after lunch I had a date with Bex for my riding instruction. Riding and stable care to be precise. Having set the precedent of participating in the regular labour in the estate, I was learning how to use the funny-shaped fork to separate the horse droppings from the straw, to groom and curry, fill hay nets, exercise the horses on a lunge rein. Tack up, mount and dismount. The two horses in the stable were Stanley, the chestnut gelding, and Serenity, the ‘grey’ mare. The mare’s name was misleading. I’d found that out early on when she managed to toss me off, fortunately without serious damage. I preferred the gelding. He was quiet, calm, though capable of a smooth canter, not to mention his height fitting mine better than the smaller mare.

So, after lunch and more quiet, competent instruction, we tacked up and rode out for a circuit of the area. The horses seemed to have no problem with the snow. We were out for an hour, I think. Then, of course, we had to rub the horses down, tend and rack the tack. By that time we were both ready for a shower and supper. Separately. The shower, that is.

My companion for the night was Sophie. From her initial dejection, she had grown into a pretty girl with a gift for improvisation in bed, or in my office. She contrived to extract three loads from me during the night, holding my hand as we walked downstairs for breakfast. Today was the day for Bex. Unusually, I had no encounters with any of the girls. Instead, I was sent to the stable to continue my instruction.

After lunch, though, Lottie asked, “Could you and Bex ride over to Jenkins’ farm? Missus Jenkins called to say she couldn’t get her cart out. We need potatoes and vegetables. Enough for a few days.”

Bex and I looked at each other. “We can manage a sack apiece,” Bex stated, “and the horses will appreciate the outing.”

We rode the mile or so to Jenkins’ farm, and Missus Jenkins let us put Stanley and Serenity in their stable, while inviting us in. She had two sacks waiting in her kitchen, potatoes, cabbage, broccoli, carrots, parsnip, and a couple of small bags of flour. She gave us herbal infusions, spiced, warming. We talked about the weather, of course, and the difficulty of moving provisions, of caring for animals in the winter, especially when it seemed one of those winters which would go down in history. With no weather forecasting beyond tapping a barometer and looking at the sky, we had no way of knowing what was in store for us.

Bex and I each had a sack weighing in at about twenty-five kilos, and Missus Jenkins rode one of her draught horses, a Shire. It was a handsome beast, bigger than Stanley, dark brown with off-white markings. She had a similar sack each side behind her saddle.

“I can do this,” she said, “perhaps every few days, until I can get the cart out again.”

Between us we carried enough for a couple of weeks. “We’ll help,” I said, “days when the weather is better, and build up a stock.”

The supplies were warmly welcomed and stored away in the cellar, and we waved goodbye to Rosie’s mother as we went to the stables to settle our mounts. We left them, properly groomed, blankets on their backs, feed nets and water buckets full.

Back at the house, Bex disappeared with Rosie, Lisa, and Sophie. I had a quick shower, and dressed rather more formally than usual. I was in time to see my parents arrive in an SUV I didn’t recognise. They’d called on the Franklins and brought them over to save them the walk, or ride, in freezing conditions. I let them in, and showed them to the lounge. They seemed to be getting along well, and I left them to it.