I have been writing this series with a brilliant author - sacrificedangel. We disagreed on some aspects of the plot and the action - especially in Chapter 4. As I wrote a plot surprise occurred to me that seemed perfect at the time. It wasn't really something that either of us was turned on by or would have usually written about - it just became more and more obvious as I wrote.
My co-author didn't like it as much and as a result I agreed to take it out, to change this chapter. Now our writing arrangements have changed somewhat and I want to submit the original version of this chapter to see what people think.
If you are coming to this chapter first then I do suggest you go back and read the first 3 chapters first. They aren't all as long as this one and I believe it will be worth the effort. The story is very much character driven and I think you should get to know Kat and Bastian from the start, before you start this.
I hope to do more writing soon and try to finish the tale soon, although the ending may be different to what was originally envisaged.
Then maybe another chapter of 'Ill Met By Moonlight'?
*
"Damn it!" I hissed out loud "Damn it to hell", shouting now. After six attempts to do up my bowtie frustration got the better of me and I threw the doubly damned thing onto the bed.
I'd been dressing in a 'penguin suit' from even before I got my first bespoke version at the age of fourteen - made for me by Henry Poole's in Saville Row. My father had taught me how to tie the 'thistle knot' and I'd never had any problems with it after the first few times. But now it seemed to be beyond me. This, coming on top of the difficulties I'd suddenly discovered with threading my cuff-links and shirt studs, was disturbing. What was wrong with me?
At that point Barton rapped on my dressing room door and entered with my usual aperitif. Taking in the scene in an instant he put down the tray and fastened the bowtie for me in a trice. I felt no gratitude; it just seemed another sign of weakness that I had to let him do this for me. And with him standing so close to me whilst performing this task I was more than usually conscious of his fetid breath and greasy hair.
And after this afternoon's incident with Miss Soren he was well and truly off my Christmas card list.
He stepped back to admire his handiwork with a small smile, before he caught my expression. He instantly understood from my face that, if looks could actually kill, he should be a blackened lump of dead meat. Dropping his head he departed as quickly as was seemly.
His arrival and abrupt departure served only to worsen my mood. Barton had many fine qualities but when they were weighed against his faults, the scales sometimes came very close to tipping against him -- never more so than right now.
Distracted as I was I couldn't stop my mind wandering back specifically to this afternoon's scene with the new girl; and to the general subject of 'weakness'.
The evening before this had been a topic of discussion, with Adam and Wren, whilst my Delemain cognac had seemed to evaporate from the decanter. The cousins had been ribbing me about my new servant. They had suggested that I was too protective, too interested in her. They laughed and asked if I was "soft" on her. At first the baiting was relatively gentle. Their use of this word had, at least initially, a gentle, childish inference and I laughed off their gibes -- as if I would get soft about, or have "a crush" on, a servant?
But as the cognac consumption rose the word returned in a different, harder guise. Wren started to suggest that I was soft on her; in the sense of not disciplining her as I should. I didn't see this suggestion as at all humorous. For a man of my inclinations and standing this was dangerous talk. Wren knew it too. Amongst us this was nearly the equivalent of asking a stranger in a pub, "did you spill my pint?" Despite the smile on his lips and the bantering tone of voice I could see the cruelness in his eyes and the desire to hurt.
I can forgive my cousins many things, but this nearly went too far. Keeping my emotions under tight rein I told them I was going to bed -- and suggested they do the same. But when I did retire I found sleep elusive.
Now, as I poured a glass of the champagne that Barton had left, I faced myself and answered my own questions. I realised that the reason my cousins had found it so easy to goad me about being "soft" was, that I feared they were right. I feared the weakness that this revealed if it were true. The tension this dilemma had generated was giving me a headache from grinding my teeth. I suddenly realized that it was also the source of the slight tremor in my hands that had made getting dressed so frustrating.
Now that I was being honest with myself I realized it explained something else. I better understood my anger with Barton. I knew that his story about the girl attacking him was patently absurd. But once he had made the accusation I had felt that I had to act. I had to maintain the discipline of the hierarchy within my household.
But now I wondered if I had over-reacted in order to prove that I wasn't "soft" on Kat. I knew the news of her punishment would spread to my cousins and I hoped it would remove any excuse for more "jokes".
Then a smile crossed my lips and my spirits lifted. Recalling the punishment of the girl inevitably lead me to think about her response to it. The way she had reacted to my lashes, and not to Barton's, had been exquisite. She had borne her unfair punishment like some mediaeval "trial by ordeal" -- and been proven innocent.
I hadn't intended to fuck her, just punish her. But I had been carried away by the eroticism of a true submissive, revealed by torment; blazing like metal tempered in a forge of pain
I took an H. Uppmann cigar from the humidor and stepped onto the balcony with my glass. I carefully went through the familiar, calming ritual, clipping the end and lighting it with a cedar match. I savoured the distinctive 'leather' taste of the smoke before sipping the fizz.
Looking out from this place always made me feel good revived my spirits if ever they flagged. This vantage point allowed me to see a fair part of the Shornecliffe grounds. The drive, lined with Scots Pines, snaked and sloped away to the road. But even on the other side of the road, to the horizon, was part of the estate. As always, unbidden, the expression, 'as far as the eye can see' rose in my mind.
My father had often brought me here, to share the view. He didn't say anything much at those times, he didn't need to. I knew what he was feeling and I shared those emotions, then as now. It was in our DNA
No matter how many times I saw this vista it never failed to me invigorate and awe me. My great-grandfather had planted those pines on either side of the drive, knowing that he would never see them grow to maturity; but at the same time knowing that one of his ancestors would appreciate the pains he had taken. It was that certitude, that foresight, the arrogance in believing we would still be here that left me most impressed. We, my family, knew the importance of having our roots deep in the landscape. And we knew the importance of leaving our mark. High on its hill, this house dominated the landscape in every direction. It stated in brick and stone, firmly but without fear of contradiction -- "here we stand and here we stay". Hic Nos Sto Quod Hic Nos Subsisto might be the family motto, but I was sure that the attitude existed and defined my family a long time before the words were coined to do the same
The noise of a car broke my reverie. I could hear an engine over-revving as it climbed the drive and see a cloud of dust rising. The exhaust noise betrayed a powerful sports car, driving too fast. Just the noise was enough to alert me to who was arriving. Seconds later an Aston Martin DB4 GT Zagato fishtailed to a stop in the gravel before the front door and my spirits fell as my suspicions were confirmed. My sister had announced her arrival in her typical under-stated way.
I watched Barton scurry to open the door for her and then take her luggage as she entered the house. The Lady Bailey La Motte had arrived -- with capital A -- as she did everywhere. Then my spirits fell further when I saw a slim, young man get out of the passenger seat. Invitations to my parties were never 'plus 1'. Only those specifically invited were welcome. But my sister did not believe that any law, rule, convention or custom applied to her. She believed that she was entitled -- in every sense of the word. And she knew that I would not turn away her guest. She knew I would follow the rules of polite society that she so provocatively flouted.
My sister was three years younger than myself and the darling of the tabloid press. Her two ex-husbands had both been famous in their own right - and that would have been enough to keep her in the papers. But as 'Britain's Top Posh Totty' (© The Sun) she had become a 'brand'. Sister of the 'Reclusive Earl' (© The Daily Mail), she was a fashion icon and trendsetter. What she wore, sold out. Where she ate got booked out. If she did something is was seen as proof that it was 'trendy'. I almost snorted at even thinking the word. She was dangerously close to becoming a national treasure. Sometimes I felt that I was the only person who knew what an unmitigated, irredeemable, world class bitch she was.
I also knew that her arrival would coincide with a renewed argument about money.
She used the old family surname -- La Motte, the one that probably prompted my father's interest in castles. But in her case it had resulted in a normal(ish) first name for her. Everyone called me 'Bastian' pronouncing it with two syllables and assuming it was short for Sebastian. I doubt there were five people in the world who knew it was spelt Bastion and should have three syllables.
I felt my headache pounding even worse and ground out my barely smoked cigar to go back inside, to find some pain killers and to continue getting ready. I had invited my sister out of courtesy, out of duty, hoping she wouldn't come; knowing she would. But she was here and the party would now be a different affair as a result; much more 'interesting'. Then I remembered that the Chinese curse an enemy by hoping that they 'live in interesting times'.
The invitation had stated '7.00 for 7.30' so I was in the ballroom by 6.45. I wanted to check all the arrangements and I knew that many guests would be early, eager to sample Shorncliffe's justly famed hospitality. I was also worried that uninvited guests might try to join us.
Just recently the papers had become a real nuisance. They were rabidly and, to my mind, irrationally curious about me. My refusal to do any interviews seemed only to infuriate them and did nothing to lessen their interest. The last offer for a photo shoot 'at home with Bastian, Earl of Shroncliffe' had been over a million pounds; I hadn't even bothered to reply. This hadn't stopped them making up stories to fill their empty pages -- and the even emptier heads of their readers. But just recently the stories had contained too many grains of truth. And the paparazzi were apparently getting lucky in guessing where I was going, turning up to photograph me when I least wanted them about. I couldn't help wondering where they were getting their information from.
