Laundry Tales Riding For A Fall

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Copyright jeanne_d_artois October 2006

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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The laundry of my ancestors' house is now my workshop. I'm a potter and good enough at my trade to make a reasonable living from it.

The main attraction of the laundry room was Martha, the resident ghost. I was aware of her from an early age. I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents in her life at the Hall. Each time I become Martha and experience the events exactly as she had. This is one of those stories.

Riding for a Fall.

Often, when I am concentrating on the repetitive task of hand painting details on some of my pottery I would hear Martha in my head offering to tell me another story. I rarely refuse.

"When the twins went off to university," Martha began, "my status in the hierarchy of the Hall changed subtly. As the twins' confidant and long-term playmate I was more than the servant my birth suggested I should be and less than the gentry, the relations of the Squire. I was treated almost as family but not quite."

I sent a thought to Martha. I understood the delicacy of her position.

"For example, I could take one of the horses from the stable and go for a ride whenever I wanted. I used to ride two or three times a week. Sometimes I would combine my ride with an errand for a member of the family but that wasn't essential. If someone wanted something from the village I'd probably ride there. If the weather was foul or if the item needed was heavy the family would send a groom. It was understood that I would go if I wanted to, and that I couldn't be ordered to go.

One morning the Squire wanted an urgent message sent to one of his tenants. I don't know what exactly what it was about. Something to do with a sale that the tenant might be interested in but it was happening the next day. The tenant needed to know NOW or the information would be useless. The grooms were with her Ladyship who was twenty miles away on a mission of condolence to one of her friends who had just lost a child to pneumonia so there was no one to send – except me.

The Squire asked me very delicately, as if he were asking a favour from a friend. How could I refuse? Of course I didn't. The tenant lived about five miles away. The most direct route was by road but I could return by the edge of the forest and have a swift gallop across some grassland. I delivered the squire's letter and set off to the grassland.

As a putative lady I rode sidesaddle. This time I had put a convertible saddle on the mare. I removed the sidesaddle hook and hung in a valise at the back of the saddle. I gathered up my skirts and mounted the mare astride. No one would see me in that remote part of the Squire's estate and I could ride as fast as I liked.

At this point I experienced what I usually felt with Martha's stories. I became the heroine, or if Martha was telling a story about herself, I became Martha. My body was still meticulously painting flowers on pottery. My mind and spirit were astride a fast galloping horse, my legs indecorously exposed, and I was enjoying every second of it. My hair, tucked into my mobcap was escaping and flying out behind me.

My grip on the mare began to slip. I eased the mare to a trot, then a walk, before easing my skirts and petticoats up towards my waist. Now my bare legs were gripping the saddle and the mare's flanks. When I persuaded the mare back into a trot my seat was much more secure. A canter back to the start of the grassland, then I set off at a gallop again.

The stiff leather of the little-used saddle was abrading my thighs. I would be sore later, but it was worth it for the sense of freedom.

The grassland narrowed as fields began to encroach to my right. On my left was the forest. A few hundred yards more and I would have to slow before approaching a wooden bridge over a small stream.

Then the mare shied. Perhaps it had seen a rabbit, or swerved to avoid a burrow. I don't know. I was flying through the air and landed hard.

I came to and found myself bundled across the saddle, my head hanging down one side and my feet on the other as the horse walked slowly. I tried to move and found that my hands were tied behind my back by my apron's strings, my knees roped together and my mobcap pulled beyond my chin and hooding me into a white limbo. Who had done this to me? And why?

I heard the mare's hooves clatter on a hard surface and then stop. Hands reached around me and lifted me from the saddle to a broad shoulder before putting me down on a heap of hay. I heard the mare being stripped of bridle and saddle. The hands returned to remove the rope from my knees. It must have been the mare's halter. I heard a rattle as the mare was secured.

I was rolled over face down. A hand swatted my backside smartly, almost as I would do to a horse.

"Now then, maid," a voice said, "I know you're awake. I'll uncover your face and see how you are now."

The ribbon holding the mobcap around my neck was loosened and my face freed. I looked up into the smiling face of George, the young assistant huntsman.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what, lass?" George replied.

"Why did you blindfold me?"

"Blindfold you? I just covered your face so that any briars or bushes wouldn't scratch you as you dangled. Your face is too pretty to be damaged."

"Oh," I said. "And the rope?"

"To stop your legs bouncing around. It was hard enough keeping you on that saddle without your legs flying free."

"And my hands, George? What about my hands?"

He scratched his head.

"Well, lass, I didn't know how you'd take being carried off like. I wanted to be able to talk to you before you started scratching my eyes out or something..."

"Why should I scratch you, George?"

"I don't know, Miss Martha. I don't understand females that well. I thought..."

"Thank you George. Thank you for finding me and bringing me... Where are we exactly?"

"We're in the stables next to the hunting lodge. They only get used during the hunting season. They were the nearest place I could think of. It's going to rain soon and I couldn't leave you to get wet, could I?"

"There wasn't any sign of rain..."

"Maybe you couldn't see it but it's being threatening since the Church clock struck two..."

"Two!" I exclaimed. "What time is it now?"

"I think the Church clock struck four last time, or was it five..."

"What! I've been unconscious that long?"

"I couldn't say, Miss Martha. I found you about half an hour ago and you were sound asleep then. You were asleep almost all the way here. I saw your arms and legs begin to move about a hundred yards from the stables. I thought I'd get you under cover before lifting you down."

There was a sudden clap of thunder. The mare jerked against her halter. Outside the stable the rain began to fall in heavy torrents.

"Looks like we were just in time, Miss Martha, doesn't it?"

"What do I do now?" I wailed. "They'll miss me..."

"Will they?"

"What do you mean, George?"

"Well... You're not one of the family. If it were one of the twins who were missing they would be out looking long before this. But would anyone tell the Squire that you were missing? Who would?"

I was about to reply when I realised that George was right. If I were family they would have been searching already. The way I came back was the obvious route if I hadn't returned by the road. Who at the Hall would notice, or care, that Martha wasn't around? The twins would have noticed but they were at university. The servants wouldn't care. To them I was an over-privileged nobody that some might resent. Suddenly I felt alone, abandoned and my bruises were beginning to hurt. A tear trickled down my cheek. George wiped it away with a clean handkerchief.

"Don't cry, Miss Martha," he said. "It'll be all right."

"How do I get back?"

"I'll take you when the rain stops. Until then..."

He picked me up from the hay and cradled me in his arms. I was helpless with my hands still tied behind me. He moved so that my head was resting against his shoulder.

"...we'll go indoors and have some tea."

Tea? Would George have tea in his cottage? It seemed unlikely.

He carried me past the empty stalls to a centre aisle and through a door into a dark passageway. At the far end he opened another door and we were in the main hall of the hunting lodge. He lowered me gently to a dust-sheeted settee.

"Stay there," he ordered. "Or perhaps..."

He looked around. Much of the furniture was covered in dustsheets corded tightly. He removed some cord from an armchair and approached me.

"What are you going to do, George?" I asked.

"Make sure you stay put."

He tied my ankles to the lower part of the settee then passed a cord between my arms and my body. He took the two ends over the back of the settee and tied them low down. I was tied in a sitting position. My hands weren't too uncomfortable because the settee had very soft upholstery.

"What if I scream?"

"I wouldn't if I were you. There is no one to hear. The lodge won't be used for several weeks yet and the next dwelling is mine. Beyond that the next habitation is two miles away. They wouldn't hear."

George left me. I struggled at first. The cords bit into my ankles. My apron strings were soft but tightly jammed in the knot holding my wrists. I leant forward as far as the cord under my arms and over my chest allowed. I had hoped that my teeth could reach the cord tying my ankles. I couldn't even reach my apron. I was aware that my thighs were sore from rubbing on the saddle and I knew I had several bruises.

George returned with a silver tray with a teapot and some fine china. He couldn't have done better if he'd been the family butler. He put the tray down before untying my hands from my apron. He poured two cups of tea and gave one to me.

The circulation returning to my hands nearly let me drop the cup.

"I hope it's as you like it, Miss Martha," George said.

I nearly giggled. Here I was, tied to a settee, and George trying to make conversation as if we were meeting in a parlour. I sipped the tea.

"It is fine, George," I replied, smiling sweetly but wondering what he had in store for me. I might be able to slip from the cord around my chest but the cord around my ankles was tied too far back for me to reach. Despite my free hands I was still his prisoner.

"I'd like to have met you properly," George said, "and perhaps asked you for a dance at the servants' ball, but you didn't see me, did you?"

I had been to the servants' ball. All the family went for half an hour or so. I had duty dances with the first footman and the head gardener. George was right. I hadn't seen him. He was too low in the servants' hierarchy to dance with the least member of the family. When he became Chief Huntsman? Perhaps. But then he would be middle-aged, married with children.

"We could dance now," I suggested. That way I would be released from the cords.

"There's no music, lass."

"We could imagine the music. You'd like to dance, wouldn't you, George?"

I could see that the idea was attractive to him.

"You would dance with me? Here? Now?"

"Yes, George."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief as he released me from my bonds and helped me to stand up. I was slightly dizzy and had to lean against him. I found his broad chest remarkably supportive. I moved his hands into position for a waltz and started us counting 'One, two, three...' before swinging off into the waltz steps.

I had to lead, of course, but George soon picked up the steps. We avoided the furniture as we twirled around the room. My thighs were the only distraction. They were sore. I winced as we spun into a turn. George brought us to a stop.

"What's up, Miss Martha? Did I tread on your feet?"

"No, George, my thighs are rubbed raw..."

"You shouldn't have been riding astride. Ladies don't."

"Are you suggesting I'm not a lady?"

"No, Miss, I'm suggesting that you want to do things you shouldn't. I won't tell anyone about you riding astride if you..."

"...won't tell anyone about this, the dancing and..."

"That's the idea, Miss Martha. We both have secrets to keep, haven't we?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but what do I do about my sore places? I can't explain them, can I?"

"Don't you worry. I'll sort them out. Finish your tea. I'll be back soon."

And he was gone. I sat demurely on the settee drinking my tea.

When George returned he was clutching an earthenware pot and a soft cloth.

"This will do," he announced proudly. "It's my granny's salve, made from goosefat and other things. I use it on the horses, and myself," he added quickly as a look of horror crossed my face, "and it soothes grazes and bruises beautifully. It needs to be applied carefully, not too much, not too little."

"How will I know how much?" I asked.

"You won't." He replied definitely. "I'll have to do it."

"You!"

"Yes. Me."

"But..."

"Do you want me to tie you up and do it like that?"

"No."

"Then stop fussing. Put that cup down and lift your skirts."

I did. I lifted them right up to my blushing face as George dropped to his knees before me. His hands were very gentle as he smoothed the salve on my thighs. His touch aroused me. I stuffed the hem of my skirt in my mouth to stop a moan escaping as his fingers caressed between my legs.

I could feel his breath on my legs. When his tongue licked above the sore places I should have stopped him. I didn't want him to stop. His tongue grew bolder and his fingers followed. My traitorous legs spread to assist his assault. Soon he was at the very portal of my sex and all I could do was lie back further to allow his entry to me.

His lips and tongue needed no second invitation. I stuffed more of my skirt into my mouth as his head spread my thighs wider. One of his hands moved slowly up my body, easing my skirts sideways, until it found a breast.

His tongue darted further in as the other hand reached my other breast. My mouth had been cleared of skirt. I was panting and saying 'Yes! Yes! Don't stop! More!' in a most unladylike manner as George swung me sideways on the settee.

His head came up to my lips. His erection thrust between my waiting thighs and penetrated deep into me as I wanted it to do. I was impaled like a butterfly pierced by a pin as George banged hard into me. My mouth was stopped with his tongue. My breasts pushed back against his exploring hands as we writhed together. Despite my sore thighs I clamped my legs around him and held him tight as he came into me.

As he relaxed I stroked his hair. George had been a satisfactory lover, better than some, not as good as the best. With practice he could improve.

I, as Martha, would ensure that George had the opportunity to learn how to be better.

Meanwhile, I, as me, had finished my painting and could put the pots aside to dry.

"George was worth it, wasn't he?" Martha asked me. "Would you like to meet him when he'd improved?"

What could I do but agree? Martha's stories are so satisfying – for me.