Chapter 26: Farewell to Arms

Before departing for Italy I decided to settle all the legal proceedings pertaining to my proposed partnership in Boris Crossley and Paloma’s venture. Thus, a few days after our meeting at Madam Whipcrack’s, Boris accompanied me to my brother Isaac’s chambers to sign the partnership agreement, and the documents allowing the transference of my investment from the Honourable East India Company to the Xanadu Trading Company, as the new company had been named.

Walking back from the Inns of Court after the signing Boris was strangely subdued. I thought he might be having second thoughts about me becoming a partner, but his mood was due to something quite different.
We lunched at Boodles, and as Boris is a full member I was able to dine in the members’ dining room, an opulently furnished chamber, with efficient, silent waiters. After ordering our lunch Boris sat back in his chair, and regarded me with an embarrassed expression on his face.

“I have to confess Greeny —,” He stopped abruptly. “Actually, now you are as near as damn it a partner I should really address you by your given name.” He studied me for a moment. “With your permission I shall call you Elijah, a name redolent with authority and gravitas, eminently fitting for a partner of XTC.”

He chuckled when he realised, when spoken, the initials of the firm also referred to the commodity in which the company dealt.
We clinked glasses; his filled with hock, mine with water.
Boris placed his half-empty glass on the table and cleared his throat.

“As I was saying, Elijah. I have a confession to make, concerning a member of your family. After hearing what I have to say you may wish to rethink becoming my business partner.”

I was agog to hear his confession; as far as I was aware he had never met any members of my family until the signing of the partnership documentation in Isaac’s office this morning.

“Spit it out, Boris. Tell me what dire deeds you have committed against my family.”

He gazed down at the tablecloth, and fiddled with a spoon. “About a year ago I galloped your brother’s wife...”

“Is that it? Your great confession is you have had carnal knowledge of my sister-in-law? Practically every male in London can say the same, and I only avoided the experience by the skin of my teeth.”

I could see the relief on his face, and he gave a great smile.
“Believe me, Gr – Elijah, I had no idea what I let myself in for when I called on your brother. He had been recommended to me as an expert in dealing with property disputes, and as I happened to be in the Hanover Square area one morning thought to see if he was at home. I was barely through the front door when that voracious vixen of a wife of his dragged me upstairs and rogered me until my eyeballs rattled. That was the first, and last, time I visited the house. I admit to be a serial adulterer, who rarely misses an opportunity to plug a willing female, but all I was to her was a lump of priapic man-meat. It was not me she was galloping but a rampant organ, and any man, or anything else, attached to it would have sufficed. I want the woman with whom I am grappling to have some feeling for me. At the end of our frenzied fornication she did not even ask my name, not that I had breath enough to reply if she had!”

I could see he still felt embarrassed about the incident, so to take his mind from the event I told him about what I read concerning Cleopatra’s Palace in Naples, and asked if Xanadu could take up some of the ideas.

“A ballroom, and gaming facilities, are something we could utilise in Xanadu, and having special status customers is an interesting concept. I am not so sure rooms to rent for an hour practical, unless the females being galloped in the rooms are Xanadu staff. Our girls’ remuneration will be the same method currently in place at Madam Whipcrack’s, which is a percentage of the fee paid to the Madam. If fellows bring in their own doxies from off the street Xanadu would benefit from the rental of the room, but our girls would not.” Boris took another, emptying, swallow of his drink, and then beckoned a waiter to bring another bottle. “Any way, there is already a thriving business in Brighton of rooms being let for hire on an hourly basis, and we do not wish to tread on the toes of the local businessmen.”

I had not been aware of how the girls in Madam Whipcrack’s establishment were paid. I had tried giving Paloma and Lillian money, but both were fiercely adamant they were not selling their favours to me but giving them.
I tried handing cash to Aggie, but she too was loth to accept on Lillian’s behalf, although did suggest I give Lillian presents of jewellery, which would show my appreciation without demeaning her, or her gifts to me.

After an excellent lunch Boris invited me back to his rooms in Dorset Square.

“I clean forgot earlier Elijah. I have a belated Christmas present for you from the Crossley family.”
I settled comfortably in a capacious armchair in his drawing room while Boris disappeared into a bedroom, returning with a quart bottle of cider.

“Here you are Gr – Elijah, a measure of Angel Nectar. With best wishes for the New Year from the Crossleys.”
I knew it a great honour to be given cider reserved for those born and bred in Stogumber, but was alarmed by the thought of imbibing a liquid fortified with urine, even if that of a virgin.
Boris noticed my hesitancy. “What is the matter, Elijah? This has been an excellent year for cider making; Uncle Peter considers it the best pressing for twenty years.”

“Umm – I have some disquiet in a drinking micturated liquid, even that from a...”

“Micturate? I can assure you there is no piss in Stogumber cider. Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“The whole saga of how Angel Nectar is produced was told me by your brother, and he said...”

“If Ivan had become a politician or a confidence trickster, rather than joining the legal profession, he would now be an extremely rich man. He can prevaricate with equanimity, and has such a sober manner he is instantly believed, no matter how outlandish are the tales he tells.”

“You mean there is no micturition in Angel Nectar?”

“Uncle Peter is the only man who knows exactly what ingredients go into the Nectar, but I can positively state that one definitely not included is urine. Tell me what my mendacious brother said.”

I gave a condensed version of Ivan Crossley’s tale. The Druids using crab apples in their rituals. The Romans introducing the cultivated apple to Britain. The Saxons the first to make cider. The Stogumber Angel’s micturition collected on Hallowe’en by her Maids in Waiting, then added to Angel Nectar. The deflowering of the Angel, and her five attendant maidens, at the appropriate times of the year.
Boris was laughing fit to bust by the time I finished, and it took him several minutes before recovering his equilibrium, and his breath.

“Ivan has taken some true historical facts and mixed them with his own flights of fancy. He is correct in saying apples were brought to our island by the Romans. Druids may well have used the juice of the indigenous crab apple in their rituals, but there is no documented proof, or oral history, to verify the claim. We have to thank the Normans for introducing cider making to England; Saxons were merely brewers of ale. As for the Maids in Waiting collecting the Stogumber Angel’s urine on Hallowe’en, that is a pure invention by Ivan.”

“So why does the Angel have five attendants?”

“The five maids are to ensure the virgin Angel remains in that state throughout the duration of her reign. Until her deflowering on Hallowe’en she has one of the maids with her, morning, noon, and night, preventing any premature, unauthorised, defloration. Ivan was telling the truth regarding the deflowering ceremonies, although not all the Angels and Maids in Waiting have been virgins. To find a virgin over the age of fourteen in rural Somerset is difficult enough, to find six is practically impossible. Therefore, as long as they look demure and wholesome, do not have swollen bellies, and do not bear the reputation of a trollop, the word of their family is good enough. It makes no difference if the Angel and her Maids are virgins or not – the myth that deflowering a virgin will add fecundity to the soil, and lead to a bumper crop of apples, is all bunkum. Climatic and soil conditions dictate the size and quality of a crop, not the possession of a hymen.”

While talking he had taken a bottle of cider from a cupboard, and uncorked the contents into a jug, from which he poured two large bumpers of the amber liquid.

“This is Angel Nectar from last year’s pressing. I assure you it contains nothing unpalatable. Take a sip, as you would of the finest wine, and then savour it as you would a beautiful and alluring female.”

I did as he instructed, and admit the cider was as fine as any wine I had ever tasted, bearing in mind I am an ale drinking man. I made appreciative noises, and Boris beamed.

“There you are, Elijah. Angel Nectar – pure perfection.” He took a sip, and then a longer swallow, smacking his lips in pleasure.
He then continued talking about the virgins, including those supposed virgins, who take part in the Stogumber Angel Festival.

“Many of our Angels and Maids in Waiting could teach Madam Whipcrack’s girls a trick or two. Sally Beaker has a mouth on her that would raise Lazarus. I had plugged three of the maids several times during Twelfth Night, and was as flaccid as stick of limp celery after servicing three demanding young girls. Sally had already worn out both Tam Pearce and Harry Hawkes, but wanted me to finish her off. I thought I was spent, until she fastened her mouth on my pego and blew new life into me.” He gave a lewd, wicked grin. “Or, to be more accurate, she sucked new life into me. I left her fully satisfied and myself completely exhausted. I shall definitely sign her up for Xanadu. Last years’ Angel, Georgina Browne, would also be an asset to XTC. She looks as modest and demure as a nun, but on her back with spread legs she is a tigress. The claw marks she scored on my buttocks during her deflowering took months to fully disappear.”

I mentioned Bathsheba Dawkins as a possible recruit to XTC – assuming she could be lured away from the brothel in Bath were she currently works.

“Dawkins? I know that name. Does Bathsheeba have a sister by the name of Delilah?”

“Yes, and she too works at a sporting house near the Pump Room in Bath.”

He gave a delighted chuckle. “Delilah Dawkins was the Stogumber Angel five years ago. She certainly knows how to please a man. Delilah pleasured me for six months after her official deflowering – not that she was virgo intacta at the time. The establisment where she works is The Golden Apple, the owner of which owes me a favour. I shall call said favour in, and then employ the delectable Dawkins sisters in the Xanadu Pleasure Dome in Brighton.”

He took a swallow of his cider. “We could match them with the Heavenly Twins. Sisters, and identical twins, are the forbidden fruit men will pay a ransom to harvest. The Heavenly Twins are already expert in manipulating trios and quartets, and when teamed with the Dawkins sisters there could be octets, with as many variations the depraved girls can think of. With Lillian and her little death skills, some wholesome, demure and pure, at least in appearance, Somerset girls, a handful of experienced harlots drawn from Madam Whipcrack, and Paradise Regained, coupled with a half dozen oriental dancing girls, I foresee great times ahead for XTC.”
We clinked glasses, and finished off last season’s Angel Nectar with gusto.

I spent several more evenings, and nights, at Madam Whipcrack’s establishment prior to leaving for Italy. However, Paloma, Lillian, and I never performed the Stafford Love Knot symphony again. The trio agreed the verve and ecstasy of the previous concert could never be surpassed, and we were content with that knowledge. In any case, Paloma was frequently away on XTC related business, interviewing likely staff in the harlotry, culinary, and sanitary areas of employment.
I managed a night or two of coupling with her, but spent the majority of my remaining time in London in debauched delight with Lillian.

I no longer felt shame or guilt at the libidinous and lascivious behaviour I enjoyed with the two girls. Neither Paloma nor Lillian were a substitute for Caroline, they were merely two sexually active, athletic, articulate and adorable young women, who enjoyed being pleasured by me, and it goes without saying I wallowed, happy as a pig in muck, in carnal excess with them.
Sometimes, as I plunged into their willing bodies, a vision of Caroline, or Annette Blanchard, would appear in place of the female I was galloping.
I took these appearances of the two women whom I had truly loved as a sign of their approval, as if they were pleased I had moved on from the depths of despair to be now enjoying the pleasure of the flesh, and life itself.
Once, as I was vigorously plugging Paloma, the face of Judith Rothstein appeared. I was greatly surprised to have a vision of the young Jewish girl. Although she was the female responsible for awakening my slumbering libido after the death of my wife, I had no feelings of love for her; affection and gratitude maybe, but not the overpowering love I had for Annette Blanchard and Caroline.
Even more surprising was the vision of Mimi Renoir; glimpsed several times during my couplings with Lillian. Mimi Renoir had saved my life, after my wounding by Ashby de La Zouche, by feeding me her breast milk when I was in a deep coma. I certainly held strong feelings for her; admiration, fondness, and respect. She was a woman who would be easy for me to love, but I knew her heart held only Woodrow Allen. He was a friend from my youth, murdered by Ashby de La Zouche, and the father of Mimi’s son. Why I should imagine seeing her, knowing she was out of my reach, mystified me.

A few days before I was due to leave for Italy I took a fond farewell of Lillian. By now she had assimilated into her role of harlot as if born to the profession. She was highly regarded by Aggie, and indeed the other girls, and of course by the clientele, of Madam Whiplash’s Correctional Establishment.
I watched her at work one evening – no, not copulating with the client, but whipping the poor man’s buttocks as red as a tomato.
Lillian, masked, and dressed in black breeches and jacket, wielded a riding crop, had her client – a well-respected High Court judge – crawling on hands and knees, licking her polished black riding boots, and generally behaving in a most humiliating manner which would have astounded his peers – or maybe not. After teasing the judge to almost manical heights of desire with caresses of the crop Lillian finally gave him what he craved. A damned good thrashing on his naked buttocks, no doubt taking him back to his schooldays. I had to look away as he climaxed; it seemed a beating was the only stimulus able to take him to his peak.
Afterwards I asked Lillian how she could belabour the poor man so violently.

“The harder I hit him the more aroused he becomes. His pleasure is receiving pain, and mine is seeing a man, who I know bullies and mistreats his women folk, blubbing and bleeding and being completely at my mercy.”

There was an unpleasant, and uunladylike, streak of cruelty and ruthlessness in Lillian’s character. She had murdered Seagrave with a coolness and heartlessness unusual in her sex. At the time I remarked how adept she had been in dispatching him.

Her reply was chilling. “Opposite our lodgings in Whitechape was an abattoir, and I would observe, fascinated, as the animals were slaughtered. I paid special attention to how the pigs were killed. Bartram Seagrave was a swine, and I slit his throat as efficiently as any slaughterman I had watched, and with no emotion other than pleasure.”