Chapter 2

Tiffany's birthday came round. I'd had a word with Hannah, but it was unnecessary; she was already organised. We had a very fancy meal – all the household staff, and Jon Sparrow together, with waiting staff hired in so no one was left out. Hannah had obtained a very elegant dress for the birthday girl, and she looked every inch the young lady.

At the end of the meal, before we began handing her presents, I stood.

"My friends, a toast. To Tiffany, who has reached or exceeded our every expectation. Happy birthday, and may you continue to excel. To Tiffany."

She blushed, hotly, as everyone echoed the toast, but she stood. "I..." she swallowed hard, and blinked several times. "I just want to thank you all, for giving me this chance and for all the support and encouragement ... especially..." she looked at me, "Mister Weston, who had every reason to give me the push, but..." her breath caught and she paused for a moment. "Just ... thank you." She sat, her head down, as we clapped.

The gifts were a mixture; a little jewelry, not expensive, but discreetly elegant. Some clothes, not practical ones, (which we were providing anyway) but the sort of thing that help girls ... and women ... to feel good about themselves. An I-pod. Fitted overalls, with the estate monogram and her name embroidered on them. Tools, also marked with her name, for both the garage and the garden. A cookery book.

Everyone wanted to hug her, and lastly, she came to me; looking up, for once, into my eyes without invitation. I wasn't sure how to interpret her expression, but neither was I about to miss out on a hug, so I opened my arms wide and she stepped into them. It felt very natural having her nestling there, but I made myself break the clinch and step away.

Over the next month or so, she was bearing herself with confidence, but without overstepping the mark in terms of courtesy. The reasons for paddling her ... and she insisted on it ... became increasingly minor. Perhaps one mild obscenity when she dropped a spanner. It worried me, the intimacy, the ... it should have been humiliation ... of her exposure to my eyes. Her arousal. My arousal.

But then Jemima Howard happened. I met her at a stockholders' meeting for a company I had significant, though minor, holdings in. She was a knockout; blonde, curvaceous and sultry. I asked her to dinner, then to bed where she seemed willing but inexperienced. I know now that it was a very good act, but at the time I was wholly taken in. Within a month, we were engaged and I took her home with me while we arranged one of those ostentatious weddings that grace the pages of upmarket gossip magazines.

Tiffany seemed ... subdued, somehow ... as I continued our routine. Jemima wasn't happy I excluded her from my interactions with Tiffany and, I suppose, that was understandable. But I explained that Tiffany's training and background were private to her and not for anyone else; it was only because she was my responsibility until she was eighteen, I said, that I continued.

Hannah, then Bert, and finally Jimmy, all expressed reservations about my fiancée and I'm sorry to say I ignored them. But I suppose they must have penetrated in some respect, as I became increasingly irritated by Jemima's comments and other attempts to drive a wedge between Tiffany and myself.

Matters continued for a couple of months as more and more money was spent preparing for the wedding of the century. Not that the extravagant expenditure really made a dent in my holdings. Everything came to a head one day when, for once, I was wandering around the house and heard Jemima's voice from inside a room.

"I'll get you out, you know. One way or another, after Peter and I are married, I'll get rid of you. I don't see why I should put up with having a devious, criminal slut cluttering the place up and taking my husband's attention away from me."

I didn't hear much of Tiffany's voice, but I did hear, "Miss Howard, I'm a virgin, so if I'm a slut, what does that make you?"

The sound of a hand hitting a face was unmistakable and I barged into the room, where Jemima was about to hit Tiffany again.

"Enough!" I roared. Jemima jerked and turned to look at me, fury still apparent in her face. "Jemima, kindly go and wait in my office. I'll be with you shortly."

"What the fuck... !"

"No! I'll talk to you in a moment. Go to my office, or pack your bags."

"What..."

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." I didn't shout, but when I pointed at the door, she left.

When I returned my attention to Tiffany, she was on her knees with her head down.

"Tiffany?"

She shook her head.

"Slave!" She jerked and stiffened. "Stand. Come here." She was slow to obey, but she did so and I wrapped my arms round her. She stood stiffly as I held her. "Tiffany," I said gently, "That will not happen again. I promise you that. You will not be leaving." I was about to add 'at least, until your eighteenth birthday', but bit my tongue just in time. She relaxed ... more accurately, she went limp as I held her and she sobbed. I wondered if that was my destiny, to have Tiffany crying in my arms? "Tiffany, Sweetie, I want you to go and find Hannah ... Missus Barlow ... and tell her I said you were to have a cup of tea and a piece of her fruit cake. I want you to tell her exactly what happened here, and I will check to make sure it matches what I overheard. Must I order you, or will you just go for me?"

"I ... I'll ... go, Sir."

"And I'll talk to you some more later, okay?"

"Yes, Sir."

Jemima was waiting in my office, pacing angrily, and turned on me the moment I opened the door. "What is it with you and that slip of a trashy kid?"

"I'm not about to explain the details, Jemima. I took responsibility ... legally ... for her nearly a year ago, and she remains my responsibility until she is eighteen. She is bright and hard-working, and has a good chance of overcoming a poor start in life. She's like a daughter to me, and I won't have her bullied."

"She stays, I go!"

"Very well, Jemima. It's your choice. Pack your things, I'll have Bert drive you to the station and get you a first-class ticket back to London. Anything that's too much for you to manage on the train, leave on the bed and I'll have it sent on."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

She glared at me, sniffed loudly, and left. I went to find Tiffany. As I got to the office door, though, I stopped. My office, like several other areas in the house is 'bugged' – monitored for sound and vision on a voice and motion detector. Unfortunately, the room where Jemima assaulted Tiffany was not. But I turned back, opened the locked, hardened cabinet and removed the memory card from the recorder, and replaced it with a fresh one.

When, a few days later, I was hit with a vitriolic letter, the recording was useful in convincing Jemima – along with the knowledge that my household staff would support me – that she had no hope of resurrecting her hope of a profitable marriage. I paid the bills, thinking the escape was cheap at the price.

Anyway, back to the day. I found Tiffany with Hannah in the kitchen. Tiffany had a bowl containing, not fruit cake, but some black and sticky chocolate gateau and ice-cream. Trust Hannah to know – and have – exactly the right thing for the situation.

"So?" Hannah greeted me as I entered.

"She's gone," I said. For a moment I wondered that I wasn't more upset about it, but then I realised I was much more upset that Tiffany had been hurt.

"You're well rid, if you'll pardon my opinion," Hannah said. "She's been trying to intimidate Tiffany, here, and has been quite unpleasant at various times to many of your staff ... including me."

"I'm very sorry, Hannah," I told her.

"I know. And I'll pass on your regrets to those who have suffered. No need for you to know who." Her eyes flickered to Tiffany and back to me. "Oh, and ... Mister Weston ... don't you think your protégée deserves to be addressed by name now?"

Tiffany was shaking her head. "Missus Barlow, it's part of, part of ... my contract."

"Hannah," I interjected, "I'm sure there's more of your death-by-chocolate and ice-cream. Can I have some? And a cup of coffee? I think there's some Blue Mountain left, isn't there?"

"There is, sir. Just a moment."

I sat next to Tiffany, who was taking tiny spoonfuls of cake and ice-cream, with her head down, not looking at me. It was more than 'a moment'. I like filter coffee, and it takes time. Not much, but several minutes. I consider it worthwhile to wait for fresh coffee.

So I sat, and when the treat appeared, savoured it.

"Magnificent, Hannah. Is there another cup of this coffee in the pot?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'd like it, please. And, Tiffany, I'd like you to bring a cup of tea, if you like, to the office. I need to have a word with you."

There are two tall Windsor chairs in my study, with a small table between them. I waved Tiffany to one of them and sat in the other myself, so that there was no desk between us. She sat, but perched as if ready to take flight, and sipped her tea.

"Hannah ... Missus Barlow ... is right. You've earned respect and the right to your name, Tiffany."

She sipped at her tea.

"This was not the first time Jemima had a go at you, was it?"

She shook her head. "It's the first time I answered her back, though, the first time she hit me. You should punish me for answering her back." She glanced up at me and there was a glint in her eye.

"I see," I said, and I did. "Actually, I'm glad you were willing to stand up for yourself, so I'll not punish you for that."

The corners of her mouth turned down, I'm sure of it, though I couldn't see her face straight on. There was a longish pause then she put her cup on the table and slid smoothly to her knees in front of me, head down.

"Master?"

"Yes, Tiffany?"

"Can't I still be 'Slave', in here?"

I frowned. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes, Master. It's what I ... need. Master?"

"Yes ... Slave."

"When you spank me, I like it. That first time, that cane, it hurt. But I wanted it to. I wanted to be punished. Then, when you forgave me, I felt forgiven. I was so happy. When you hugged me, I felt so safe in your arms. But the spankings, Master, they ... don't really hurt, exactly. They make me..."

"Horny?"

She blushed; I could see it, though not her face, as it spread. "Horny, yes. And ... when you told me to strip, that first time, I was embarrassed. But since then I ... I like you looking at me."

"I see." I did see. My suspicions had been confirmed. "Very well, then. Now, when I address you as 'Slave', I expect you to obey. But sometimes I want to talk to you and get a free response. Do you understand? If I call you 'Tiffany', I want to talk to you as an equal and I want your honest, free response."

"I understand, Master."

"Right now, I'd like to give Tiffany a hug. May I do that?"

I stood, and she rose to her feet too.

Have you ever watched a sunrise on a summer's day that's going to be hot? When there's mist laying on the ground, and the sky lightens, and suddenly there's a fragment of light on the horizon. The sun rises and you can see more of it, and the mist melts away as there's more light and more heat.

Her smile was like that. It started as just a glimmer and grew until it was so bright I could not tear my eyes away. I opened my arms and she came to me and pressed herself into my embrace. I held her; for a second, a minute, an hour? It was too long, and yet not long enough. I loosened my embrace and lifted her chin with one finger, dipped my head ... and kissed her. She stiffened for a moment, but then responded.

We ... mutually ... broke the clinch, gasping with the intensity of it. At least, I was. Tiffany seemed to have a glazed expression.

"I should not have done that," I said.

"I'm glad you did," she answered. "Master ... I want you to know ... I belong to you. I am yours, however, whenever you want. As your slave, as your servant, as a toy, as a lover. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."

"That's ... I don't know what to say..."

"Master, I trust you. Do you know why?"

I shook my head, still stunned by her declaration.

"I trust you, because I think you love me. I know I love you."

I was shaking my head, not in negation, but in amazement. "Tiffany, I can't do anything about this now. When you're eighteen, let's pick it up again. Can we do that?"

She stretched up and touched her lips to mine. "Yes. For you, I can do that."

"There was one other thing, Tiffany. Tomorrow, I want you to apply for a provisional driving licence. Bert will take you into the city and sign you up with BSM. Next time you drive on public roads I want you to be legal."

The sun-bright smile was back. "Yes, Master."

The next day was special for another reason. Parts of the D-type started to be delivered. The motor was undamaged, but Bert wanted to strip it, check all the tolerances and bearings, replace valve-springs, gaskets and seals, freshen up the paint on the block. Likewise the transmission; where appropriate everything had been checked for truth, but bearings and seals were to be replaced and pinions checked for wear. The chassis and bodywork would follow as and when everything was spot on and the finish immaculate. Tiffany would, of course, be doing the bulk of the work, though Bert would check every stage. From time to time I snuck in to the garage and watched as Tiffany worked absorbedly. I watched her with feeler gauges and micrometers, and tightening critical bolts with a torque-wrench, manual open on the bench, checking and double checking everything.