The Brooch

This is a story with erotic content that is not featured early on. That's because of where it fits in, further along. If you are patient enough you'll get to it. If you want a simple stroker I would suggest you go elsewhere. There are many excellent examples on this site.

This story is a romance set one and a half centuries ago. While some of the language, preconceptions, opinions. and actions of some of the protagonists would not be appropriate today, these opinions are not those of the author but are included for historical accuracy. The story describes some disturbing events and not everybody gets their just desserts. As in real life, the story describes both saints and sinners whilst some nasty folks are rewarded, and some good people suffer.

Only children, say "It's not fair," and I gave up believing "what goes around, comes around" some time ago.

I have attempted to be as historically accurate as possible and tried to use language appropriate to the period. I have paid particular attention to words with sexual connotations and can only hope that I have made no glaring mistakes, Still, I apologise in advance for any factual errors or anachronistic mistakes that I may have made.

None of the characters depicted are real and any similarity to real people living or dead is purely coincidental. All the protagonists are older than eighteen years of age.

As always, any errors, factual or grammatical, are mine alone. They are inevitable. I do not aspire to write for a living, only for fun.

Please score and comment. Constructive comments are valuable and encouraging and help authors to write better, write more, and write what you, our audience want to read.

I have included endnotes to clarify some of the background to this story. If you do not care to read them..... don't. Some folks like them and some appear to hate them but criticising their inclusion remains a pointless exercise.

The Brooch

Present day

In late March 2024, Mavis Rogers, of 17 Barrow Road in a small village outside of Lancaster, died. Mavis was eighty-five years old when she passed, and her memory and judgement had been going for several years. She was survived by her only child Jeremy who lived and worked in Norwich. The week after her death, he and his wife visited the cottage and took away anything of any worth - material or sentimental. Cupboards were opened, drawers ransacked, and the house was searched from top to bottom. Pieces of furniture deemed worthy of keeping were identified and labelled, smaller items such as silver, porcelain, or glassware were wrapped and boxed, and all the paintings on the wall were removed and packed.

Then, whilst Jeremy opened his mother's bureau to retrieve her will, the deeds to her home, details of her savings and bank accounts, and her share certificates, his wife visited the bedroom. There, in Mavis's jewellery box, amongst the paste, she found what she wanted.

Mrs Fiona Rogers was an avaricious greedy woman who had coveted the brooch from the first time Mavis had, in a moment of poor judgement, shown it to her the previous year. Now it belonged to her, and she wanted it.

"It's far too valuable to wear, dear," Mavis had said. "The pearls are natural. It's not insured but nobody knows I have it. Not even Jeremy, so it's perfectly safe. It was left to me by my husband. His great-grandfather was a sea captain, and it belonged to him, but I don't know anything more about it. I'm afraid Its origin is lost in the mists of time, but it Is extremely valuable. One day it will be yours and Jeremy's."

There, at the bottom of the box was a small leather pouch. She undid the drawstring and dropped the heavy gold and silver brooch into the palm of her hand. It was tear-shaped, about four inches long with intricate scrolls of filigree working. That alone would have made this a remarkable piece of jewellery, but what set it apart were the seven golden pearls set along the outside of the brooch and mounted in the centre was a perfectly formed round black pearl, just slightly smaller than a pigeon's egg.

She knew that it was more than valuable, a natural black pearl this large and perfectly formed must be worth millions. She didn't give a shit about its origin - its value was all that mattered.

The pillaging of the cottage took little more than a few hours, and whilst Jeremy grieved for his mother and had felt uncomfortable intruding into her affairs, the same could not be said for his wife who had picked over the contents of Mavis's home like a vulture. In the evening when they drove away, the brooch was in her handbag, held firmly in her lap.

"Did she have any jewellery worth having?" asked Jeremy.

"Just an old silver brooch," she lied. "Nothing valuable."

Behind them, apart from a few pieces of clearly labelled furniture, they left the unwanted remnants of an already part-forgotten life.

***

The following day, Jeremy spoke to a lawyer to start the business of probate and rang a removal firm to arrange transport of the furniture to his home in Norwich. His wife had already picked the perfect place to put the heavy antique Welsh dresser and the set of six Victorian walnut chairs.

Almost as an afterthought, before he put the phone down, he enquired whether the removals company carried out house clearances and was pleased to be assured that this could be arranged.

And so, the following Tuesday, a large van marked Lancaster Removals Co. Ltd. pulled up outside 17 Barrow Road and four strong men in overalls set to work. They worked methodically, room by room, and unlike Jeremy and his wife, did not forget to visit the attic. This, after all, was where a lot of potentially valuable forgotten junk can sometimes be found.

At first, they thought they were out of luck, When they climbed the ladder and opened the trapdoor to the loft, it appeared empty. Only when a torch was shone into the darkness was an old sea chest revealed, sitting against the far wall.

"Bingo," said Mr Moss, the boss. "That's worth at least five hundred quid at auction. And that's before we open it and see what's inside. Now let's get it down."

***

Back at the warehouse, the chest sat on a table. It was rectangular, four by two by two feet in dimensions and made of brown teak. The corners were protected by brass brackets, there were heavy brass handles attached to each end of the chest and a brass plate around the lock. Carved into the top of the lid in an arc were the words " The Eclipse of the King of Siam" and underneath was the date, August 18

th

, 1868. Below this, was a series of line drawings representing the phases of a total eclipse of the sun. Both ends and the front of the chest were embellished with carved dolphins, squid, and whales. Below the lock plate was a name, "Captain Charles Rogers." Around the chest two lengths of rope had been tied, and on close inspection, it was apparent that the iron lock had rusted and was broken. It was the rope that was keeping the chest closed.

Mr Moss fetched a knife and cut the ropes, and with a little persuasion, he was able to prise the lid open. Inside, the drawers were missing, but at the bottom of the chest were three packages, each wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. He carefully unwrapped each in turn. The first package contained a mahogany box with a marine chronometer made by Dent nestling inside, whilst the second contained a marine sextant made by WF Cannon in London, also in a mahogany box. He knew already that these were likely to be of significant value and was now very intrigued by the third package.

He cut the twine and removed the wrapping to reveal a sheath of papers covered in script, handwritten using black ink. Although slightly faded the writing was easily legible. Lying on top of the papers was an envelope addressed to Mr David Rogers. He put the letter to one side and read the writing on the first page,

"The Life and Secret Life of Constance Monk. My Memoirs."

He turned the page and started to read but after reading the next couple of pages he frowned and stopped reading before putting the pages back in order, placing them back on top of the envelope, and rewrapping the bundle.

***

On Wednesday morning, when Mr Moss entered the office, he asked his secretary, June, a question.

"What was the name of the client who asked us to carry out the clearance at 17 Barrow Road?"

"Mr Jeremy Rogers, Mr Moss."

"I thought so," he replied. "I have a job for you. I'm going to take photos of the chest, the chronometer, and the sextant we obtained yesterday. Please find an auctioneer or dealer in London to whom we can email these so that I can learn their approximate value."

"Straight away, Mr Moss."

June was a little optimistic because he did not get a reply until the following Tuesday, when late in the afternoon, an email appeared in his inbox. He scanned the valuation with Interest.

"Dent Marine Chronometer £6000 - £8000

Cannon Sextant £750 - £1000

Sea Chest - difficult to value because of the astronomical theme? £2000 - £4000"

He did a quick sum in his head. The Rogers had inadvertently left between nine and thirteen thousand pounds worth of their estate in the attic. Legally, it belonged to him, of course. When he agreed to carry out the house clearance, Jeremy Rogers had signed over the remaining contents of the cottage to his company. Despite this, he was unhappy because Mr Moss was that rare thing - a truly honest man.

Later that evening he spoke to Jeremy on the phone, explaining what had happened.

He wasn't willing to give the chest and all its contents back to Jeremy, but he was willing to share the windfall, and he was sure that he and Jeremy would be able to reach an agreement...... and that is how it turned out. Jeremy understood at once that legally he didn't have a leg to stand on and was happy to come to an arrangement. He would take the memoirs, sextant, and chest and Mr Moss would keep the chronometer. Mr Moss was willing to sell it to Jeremy for six thousand pounds if he wished. Jeremy thanked him for his call and his consideration and asked if he could have until the following morning to decide whether he wished to buy back the timepiece. He would discuss it with his wife.

***

Fiona Rogers was livid - screaming mad. It was all Jeremy's fault. He should "have fucking well known" that there was an attic. Mr Moss was "a scheming cunt" and Jeremy a "fuckwit."

"How dare he ask you for six thousand pounds for what's ours?"

"Because we signed it over to him."

"No, because you signed it over to him. Tell him he can keep the fucking memoirs and give us everything else," she shrieked.

Eventually, Jeremy did what he always did when he could take no more.

"I'm going down the pub," he said. "Don't wait up. I'll sleep in the spare bedroom."

***

The following Friday afternoon, when the chest and its contents were delivered to Jeremy's door, Fiona Rogers had already gone to her mother's. He tipped the delivery driver and his mate a tenner, and they carried the chest into the hallway.

After they had left, he spent the next ten minutes examining the chest before he removed each of the three packages in turn and carried them to his study. There, sitting at the desk he unwrapped each of them in turn.

Despite his oversight in not searching his mother's loft, Jeremy was an organised and self-disciplined man. Before going any further he switched on his computer and googled "The Eclipse of the King of Siam." Twenty minutes later he turned to the manuscript and started to read......

***

The Life and Secret Life of Constance Monk. My Memoirs.

What follows is an account of my life thus far. It is fair to say that It has not turned out the way I supposed it would. When I was a very young child I imagined marrying a Prince Charming and living an idyllic life in a castle in the countryside raising my children.

I never imagined that I would end up sailing the high seas as an accomplished male author. Oh, yes, I have authored several well-received novels under a pen name. Only my publisher knows who I am. He says that I write like a man, and since male authors sell better, I should have a male pen name. Who am I to argue?

I do not write for money. I have enough for all my needs. Life onboard a ship is cheap, and when I grow old I have more than enough. I am rich beyond imagining.

I write to occupy my time and because I enjoy it. That and my astronomical observations keep me busy. Life onboard a ship consists of hours of boredom punctuated by brief periods of interest when in port, and occasional moments of high excitement when at sea.

You may still be asking why I am writing this memoir. It is to try to keep alive the memory of a man I once knew, and I suppose my own. I also write it for the pleasure of reliving the events that made me a proper woman and not a chaste Victorian wife. I still tingle when I describe some of what I have experienced, and I regret none of it.

What follows is an honest account of my life, warts, and all. Please forgive any spelling, grammatical errors, or lapses in writing style. Ordinarily, these are put right by my editor, but this manuscript has, so far, been read only by myself.

Some people will be shocked by what I will describe. I don't care. In the end, fate ensured that I got to live my life, not the one that was expected of me. Live your life without regrets is the message I would give to anybody reading this. Please forgive my use of four-letter words. I have been around sailors and fucking one regularly for over ten years and this memoir will be read only after I am gone to my maker.

Constance Monk, May 1880

***

At the time of my birth in Bombay in May 1840 my father was a brigadier serving in India. He was forty years old and had married my mother who was twenty-two, and significantly younger than him, the previous year, and she had travelled to India with him. I'm told it was not an easy birth and later the same year she returned to Scotland to recuperate, and I accompanied her to my father's ancestral home near Pitlochry in Perthshire.

I was an only child. My mother did not see my father again until he returned to Scotland in the autumn of 1843, and it was only when I was much older that I learned that her ovaries failed early in life and by the time my father returned she was already barren.

For good or bad, It was a condition she passed on to me.

I now believe that not having a brother, the male heir that I'm sure my father must have wanted, benefitted me. My mother was a moderately well-educated woman and wanted me to receive a good education too, and my father had no son to distract her from her purpose. Later he treated me like the son he never had.

My earliest memories are not of my mother or my father but of my governess, Mrs Smith. She was a tall thin woman with the happy temperament normally associated with someone twice her size and weight, and she loved me as if I were her daughter.

Mrs Smith entered my life when I was four years old. She taught me to read, write, do simple arithmetic, play the piano, draw, and sew. It was she who introduced me to the world of books starting with Grimm's Fairy Tales and later moving on to translations of The Iliad, The Odyssey and then Shakespeare. Most importantly, she inspired in me a love of knowledge for its own sake. Under her tutelage, I started to read geography and history books.

She was also a gifted horsewoman, and I learned to ride early. Truth to say, I was a tomboy only too happy to forget that I was a girl, and it wasn't only my father who wished I'd been born a boy. Often enough, I felt that way too.

In 1849, my father was promoted to major-general before seeing action in the Crimean War. Then in 1855, when I was fifteen, he retired from the army and returned home to Pitlochry. His horse had startled causing him to fall, and he had broken his right leg in two places. After that, his leg ached constantly, and he walked with a limp.

The next five years were amongst the happiest of my life. My father was an expert marksman and taught me to use a pistol, rifle, and shotgun. On the estate, I learned to shoot grouse, stalk a deer, shoot it, then skin and butcher it. My father preached that animals should only be killed for food and not for sport. He'd seen too much death to kill for fun.

In between hunting, shooting, and fishing my education continued. My father was a keen amateur astronomer, and I spent many nights with him, waiting for the clouds to clear, so that we could get a glimpse of one planet or another through his telescope.

Soon, after much pleading, tutors were found to teach me mathematics, physics, and chemistry.

***

My mother was just a little disquieted by all this. She did not fully disapprove of my thirst for knowledge, but she did not fully approve either. When I was sixteen, I overheard her talking to my father.

"She needs to a make a good marriage," she told him. " Men don't want their women to be cleverer than they are."

"Have you looked at her, woman?" he replied. "With her looks, no man will care what's in her head. She is the most beautiful woman in all of Scotland. It's not her fault she's also got one of the best minds - man or woman. But never you mind, she knows what's expected of her. You and Mrs Smith have ensured that she knows how to behave like a lady when she must."

That evening, after I had bathed, still naked, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. In the last year or so my body had changed, and for the first time, I understood I had become a woman. I saw a tall curved female form with a narrow waist, broad hips, big round buttocks, and large firm breasts. My skin was flawless white, my hair flame red and the face looking back at me was undeniably pretty. I was pleased with what I saw, but I still didn't understand the lust that my body could both inspire and experience.

***

When I was twenty-one, my life changed again. My parents both decided I was old enough to seek a husband, or more accurately, to let a potential husband seek me. And so started several years of balls and house parties. It was all so boring, and I hated it.

The house parties might have been endurable had I been permitted to join the men in shooting grouse or stalking deer, but ladies did not do those things. The irony that it was unladylike for me to skin and gut a deer, yet acceptable for Cook to pluck and draw a grouse or pheasant, was not lost on me. I could have joined the hunt and chased after foxes, but my unconventional father disapproved of the cruelty of it.

Instead, I was expected to make small talk with empty-headed young women whilst waiting for the men to come back from their fun. When the men did condescend to talk to the ladies, few of them wanted to discuss the photographs taken during the most recent total eclipse of the sun, the Great Comet, or listen to a woman discuss politics. I realised very quickly that in the world in which I was now expected to live, women were expected, like children, to be seen and not heard. Men wanted a broodmare to bear their sons and run their homes.

In 1863, my mother, father, and I were accompanied by Mrs Smith and my father's valet, Gordon, on the Grand Tour of Europe. We crossed to Calais, and from there travelled first to Paris and then to Geneva. We visited Turin, Florence, Rome, Pompei, and Sorrento in Italy. The Tour lasted eighteen months, and we returned to Pitlochry in 1865, when the interminable round of balls and parties started again.