Notebooks of the Young Wife (8 page)

I gulped down some essential, if stewed, coffee that had been left in the small dining room as fast as I could, but it was still almost ten when I hurried through the library. In the study Tamsin was sitting at the screen of her laptop surrounded by books.

‘Busy night, guv?’ she asked without looking up.

‘It had its moments. As it seems did yours.’ I stared pointedly at the cushion that separated the mini-skirted behind from the wooden top of the stool, and was rewarded by a blush. ‘A memento?’ I suggested.

‘Sort of, except it’s not going to last.’

‘You’ll just have to book in for weekends, Tams.’

‘Too right.’ She grinned, at ease again, and waved at the pile of leather-bound volumes on the counter. ‘They all meet the criteria of girl on girl and absence from the Nemesis collection. Will I deliver them on the way back?’

‘If you don’t mind the detour. Just make up a list for, er, Matilda, will you? And there is one thing. She told me that we were the only ones in here since the death, but I heard that’s not exactly true.’

‘And you want me to do a little probing.’ Tamsin made a face. ‘I’m just going to ask, right? No tricky stuff. Now I’ll just print out these titles and then I’ll get to it.’

When the PA had gone I settled down with the early record of literary acquisitions, whose first entry was for January 15th 1700. The family had been already five years in residence, so it was perhaps the new century that prompted the keeping of a log. That was all it appeared to be on a cursory glance: essentially a bibliography by date of purchase that ran through to a final entry of 1787. Since the shelves were similarly arranged it was easy to check that the first three titles were indeed present, as were another three selected at random from the first decade. Then it occurred to me to look at the records for the year of 1728, when, from the scanty evidence I possessed, my
uxor juvenis
was busy putting pen to paper.

The start of it noted the arrival of a copy of the pseudo-medical treatise
Gonosologium Novuum
in an edition from 1725, and further down I spotted the rare
Rod of Venery
, hot from the press in that very year. Then at the foot of the page there was a line of writing dated September 19th and enclosed in square brackets. The ink had faded more than the entries above and I shone the desk lamp directly on it to make out the following lines.

J copied for me a fortnight since Scene No. 4 from the purpos’d
Commentaria Perversa
, which is set fair to be a Work of the most debauch’d Kind! The same was deliver’d to MR of Covent Garden, who this Day returned it with a Note that he is ‘greatly interested’ in her Endeavours.

The penultimate word clinched it: J had to stand for Joanna, the young wife. Not only was she writing, there was a larger creation on the agenda than the brief pieces I had seen and it looked as though a London publisher had been contacted. Indeed the MR was readily expanded into the contemporary Martin Roberts, who had printed two of the early items in the collection. It was the first time I had come across the putative title, and I decided that while
perversus
could be a simple adjective, it would be preferable to read it as a past participle, carrying the implication that the Notebooks were not merely ‘perverse’ but had been ‘pervert
ed
’. Aside from these points of translation, one thing was immediately clear: whatever stage the project had actually reached, and in whatever form it survived, we had to unearth it.

At that point Tamsin returned to say that the housekeeper had changed her story. The visitor Molly recalled was confirmed as having come on a particular errand. She was offering a high price for one of two identical copies of an item from 1810, and Matilda had obtained the blessing of the by then terminally weak earl.

‘I’m not very happy about this, but the book checks out. I can’t help feeling the story could well change again.’

‘Who was the lady, do you know?’

‘Yeah, a Dr Torman and she’d come from Queen Mary’s College. Anyway, that’s it guv, I’d better shoot.’ She got up and moved over to the door.

‘Okay. I’ll be one, two more days max. Can you hold the fort till then?’

‘Sure thing. See ya.’

I could look into the academic connection when I was back in town. For the present I was more concerned to locate what there was of the
Commentaria
and there was an obvious first source to tap for help.

I went through the Great Hall and out to the back, where I’d been inveigled after the trying encounter with the block. The pantry was much as I’d seen it before, except that this time the glass panes in the door afforded a different view. Cook was in residence, as then, but sans punishment strop, and wrestling, or rather trying to wrestle, the boy into position across her ample lap. I breezed in with a cry of: ‘Oh, here’s the young man I’m looking for, and in trouble again!’

‘Nothing but trouble, this one, ever since the Master took him in.’ She gave up the struggle to subdue the unwilling boy and shook her head at me. ‘See that,’ she said, pointing at the smashed pieces of what had been a large earthenware pot. ‘He comes up behind me with a shout and it slips right out of my fingers. Pure devilment, it was.’

‘Well, I think you’re quite right, Mrs, er...’

‘Beaton, and I’ve been told you’re Dr Greene.’

‘Indeed I am.’ It was a novel experience to exchange formalities with a woman whose brawny arms had been only the day before lashing my bare arse for all she was worth. But I’m not usually one to harbour a grudge. ‘And I’m with you on this, Mrs Beaton, that it is definitely a spanking offence. How, I ask myself, can the lad not agree?’ For the first time I looked him in the face; he had seen what was coming and the lips were pursed in wry resignation.

‘Well, Dr Greene, what boy does not try to escape a hiding? Now if you were to see fit to lending me your support—’

‘Then we shall have him under control in a jiffy.’ By that time Cook had hold of one arm, I took the other and he was down. Then I moved round and took his head in a scissor-grip between my legs while she dragged the trousers down clear of dimpled cheeks. I thought I’d seen all there was to see of over-the-knee events, but what followed was a scorcher. The broad hand was powered by muscles to do it justice, and the arm rose and fell at a pace that had the boy screeching from the outset. As in the popular disciplinary recipe, it was short, very sharp, and the shock of it could be gauged from the decidedly flaccid penis glimpsed when the recipient grabbed for his trousers on release.

However, by the time I took my leave, hustled him up the stairs and applied a cold sponge to the inflamed parts, he was flaunting a specimen I was soon able to work up into fine spurting condition.

With the act completed and clothing restored, I put my own needy crotch determinedly out of mind and bade the boy sit. I had questions to ask, and after a little petulant squirming to play up the soreness of his bottom, he seemed happy enough to leave aside the spanked urchin persona and tell me what he knew.

The story I got wasn’t much, but it did contain one crucial lead. While I was aware that Monty had spent his time in the manner of a rakehell from an earlier age, it was news to me that he had been diagnosed with an incurable illness in the autumn of the previous year. Soon after, he decided to live out the remainder due him by putting in order some of the papers to which he’d paid little heed before. He could no longer live the life himself, so he would take what vicarious pleasure was to be had from the recorded exploits of his predecessors. For some two or thee months, before the final stages confined him to his bed, the old man employed a secretary to turn certain items into text documents that could be stored and later printed. The boy’s job was to help scour the stack of box files for anything of greater interest than routine letters and accounts.

It was by his assessment a boring one until the day that the invalid chanced upon a piece by
uxor studiosa
, whom a scribbled note in the margin allowed him to identify as his earliest namesake’s young wife. Or so I understood. The tale was told in rapid-fire spurts that put me in mind of his prowess with an organ other than the mouth.
Later
, I told myself, and tried to clarify what the boy was saying.

‘So that was what you left for me to read.’ He nodded assent. ‘And were there more, or was that just a one-off?’

‘One-off, yeah. Written out nice. But then he found the books. All full of writing like a spider.’

‘Books? You mean notebooks, like a diary?’ Again he agreed. ‘And did the secretary transcribe any of it?’

‘Some. You can see for yourself. There’s a thing in the desk.’ That was it. I marched him downstairs through the library and hovered while he opened first one drawer then another. Eventually, going back to the first, he pulled out a CD in a plastic case. He fidgeted and I drummed my fingers as we waited for the laptop to boot up and then to load the contents of the disc. At last, there it was onscreen:
The Ardingley End Project
. Scrolling down the table of contents brought us to the entry Everett, Joanna (1727-9) which unpacked into a list of three items. The first I’d read in one of the BL’s own titles and the next was still lying by my bed; only the third, of a mere two pages in length, was new.

‘Well, no matter,’ I said brightly. ‘Once we’ve got our hands on the original notebooks there’ll be loads of stuff to pore over.’ I looked at him and he looked back at me in silence as a horrid suspicion began to form in my mind. ‘You don’t know where they are, do you, boy?’ He shook his head dumbly and fidgeted some more.

‘They were always out. On the desk, right there.’ He jabbed a finger at the space beside my computer. ‘Then she was gone. Two months ago. I couldn’t find them. Anywhere.’

‘But what about the Master? He must have known where they were kept.’ He shook his head again.

‘
Did
know. In his bed, past caring. That’s why she stopped.’ My frustration must have been evident and the poor lad seemed to take it to heart. So much so that when maid Laura appeared to say there was lunch, he declined and insisted vigorously that he would search both rooms from floor to ceiling.

On invitation I opted to join the small group at the kitchen table where I was soon seated in front of a big round of cheddar, homemade pickles, spring onions and freshly baked bread. Introductions were made to the striking Ama, a mechanic and driver who looked after the collection of classic cars, and little kitchen maid Jill, who came in with a huge jug of what proved to be porter sent from a small local brewery. Cook, of course, presided at head of table and once her tankard had been filled the ale was passed round.

‘Simple fare, Dr Greene, but all of the best. Help yourself.’ I needed no encouragement and was soon spreading creamy butter onto a slice of the crusty loaf. ‘May I ask, did you get what you wanted from the boy?’

‘Well, Mrs Beaton, it was a start and I left him searching for the notebooks we need to find. There is one thing you could tell me, if you will. I’ve been calling him “boy” since I got to, er, to meet him.’

‘And “boy” it is, I’m afraid. Unless anyone knows what I don’t.’ She scanned round the table but there were no offers. ‘Mrs Jencks must have a name for him but I’ve never cared to ask.’

‘I reckon that’s what he prefers,’ said Ama, spearing an onion with her fork, ‘though I tried at first. Especially when we arrived on the same afternoon, two newcomers together. And I expect you can guess what that meant, Dr Greene.’ Before she swigged from her glass I thought I detected a wink.

‘Would I be right in thinking of the Great Hall and a certain wooden block? In fact a rather
broad
block if memory serves.’

The black girl giggled. ‘Got it in one. Two targets side by side, eh, Mrs B?’

Cook cleared her throat, for once not quite in control of the situation. ‘Well, the Master insisted on it, so—’

‘Fair enough. But did you really have to keep cutting me long after you’d finished with the boy?’

‘My dear, I didn’t mean to treat you worse, and you know that.’ The large lady clicked her tongue. ‘I never before took the rod to a coloured—’

‘Black.’

‘All right, a
black
girl. And the marks are a lot harder to make out. Now if you wanted me to get more practice – no? – well then, let’s change the subject. You’re just trying to embarrass me in front of our guest.’

When the meal was done and we left the kitchen, Ama lingered by the back door. ‘Tell me to keep my nose out, but you’re a bit struck on the boy, yeah?’ I mumbled something, feeling the colour rise to my face as she went on. ‘You’ll think I got some nerve saying this, but I’d bet he hasn’t actually been doing it.’

Gobsmacked is not a word I’m attached to, but there are times when no substitute is adequate. In the silence I stood fixed by eyes set deep in the oval face rimmed by hair braided tight to the scalp until I made myself speak. ‘No, but it’s early days, surely. I didn’t want to rush the lad.’

‘Oh God, of course not. You must think me completely crass.’ The furrowed brow diminished the young woman’s beauty not one jot. ‘Thing is, after we were birched together like I said, we got left alone to console ourselves. And he was rock hard till I made a move to fit the peg into the hole, if you get me. I never saw any stiffie wilt so fast.’ I couldn’t help smiling at the image that came to mind. ‘See, Dr Greene, I reckon he’s a gay boy pure and simple. He gets off on Mom spanking him but he doesn’t want to fuck her.’