Chapter 7: Camilla
Camilla Hamilton was the third generation of the 'Nixon Girls'. Eldest child and only daughter of Lord and Lady Gorton, she'd been blessed with her father's height and her mother Eve's striking looks. At close to six-feet tall, Camilla was often mistaken for a fashion model and whilst she had sashayed down the catwalk on a couple of occasions, these had been for worthy charitable events; the very idea of entering into that, or indeed any, profession was to Camilla's mind 'frightfully common' and far below the expectations of a Blue-blood like herself. In moments such as these, Camilla chose to ignore her mother's humble background, as nowadays the Lady Evelyn was perhaps the most aristocratic of them all; it was certainly she who'd laid the foundations for Camilla's haughty demeanour.
Camilla had just turned twenty-one, with another year still to complete for her degree in Art History at one of the minor Oxford Colleges; not one of those awful establishments which nowadays demanded quite unrealistic entry qualifications, but one which rather more properly catered to the needs of scholars graduating from the countries more exclusive fee-paying schools. Once completed, Camilla would spend a gap-year, attending many of the world's more exclusive social events and should she fail to secure a suitable husband by the time she'd returned, then Camilla would take a little job in one of London's more upmarket art galleries, until the right chap came along.
Camilla, nor indeed anyone else expected that to take too long, as in addition to the visual attributes that she'd been gifted by her parents: 5' 10" tall, fashionably thin, though with full, pert, 34C breasts which she'd inherited from Evelyn, along with an exquisite bone structure, emerald green eyes and a head of lustrous titian hair which flowed half way down her back, she perhaps resembled a young Julia Roberts; in addition 'Daddy' was a Peer of the Realm and rich as Croesus to boot! There was already a lengthy queue of eligible young men, including a couple of minor Royals, beating a path to the door of Ashwell Hall.
For the moment though, Camilla was rather bored. It was late September and the social whirl of the Summer Season had all but ended; she was now wallowing in a mire of tedium for those few weeks before College re-commenced in early October. Mummy and Daddy were away visiting friends in the Cote D'Azur and whilst Camilla could've joined them, Daddy's friend had become a lecherous old perv around her in recent years; it would have been just too awful to spend three whole weeks with him ogling and touching her at every opportunity. As a result, Camilla was stuck in the rural backwaters of the Wyre Valley, with only her younger brother Charles for company: Actually that's somewhat over-dramatic, since Camilla had spent the last few days in London, staying at the family's permanent suite in the Savoy, whilst visiting friends in London and indulging in a little 'Retail-Therapy'.
It was so much easier for her brother; just turned nineteen, Charles was studying agriculture at Cirencester College, in preparation for when he'd eventually inherit the family estates and Daddy's title. During the holidays, he'd spent his days shadowing Daddy's Estate Manager, Gerald Hindley and at night, he socialised with the locals in the village pub, or down at the Rugby Club. Charles had an easy way with the chaps -- 'The Rugger-Buggers' as Camilla and her mother dubbed them and the local girls quite literally threw themselves at his feet; or to be precise, it was more usually into his bed!
Camilla suspected that these local fillies were perhaps trying to emulate her own mother and snare the next Earl; as prior to marrying her father, Lady Evelyn had simply been a local beauty who worked in the Estate Offices. What those trollops seemed to have singularly failed to learn from her mother's example, was that opening your legs at the drop of a hat, was not the way to succeed! Perhaps not surprisingly, the local girls all envied and so with an equal vengeance, also hated, Camilla: Drop-dead gorgeous, invariably dressed in the latest designer fashions and zooming around in her brand new Mercedes Sports-Car, with money to burn: That was plenty to envy, even before their boyfriends ignored them and instead mooned around Camilla on the few occasion that she deigned to accompanied Charles on his nocturnal ventures.
Camilla didn't socialise regularly with the villagers, but she had chosen to quell her boredom on several occasions in recent weeks, by accompanying Charles on his evening soirees. Actually it was usually quite good fun, the local chaps were always very attentive to her and some of them were quite hunky; though they were all so incredibly naïve. Camilla teased and flirted outrageously with them; one could see from the looks in their eyes that they invariably thought they were on to a sure thing, right up until that very last moment when she would brusquely quash the ardour and return home with Charles, or by taxi if he'd already 'pulled' and departed already.
The yokels might be fun, but the thought of actually going to bed with one was quite abhorrent to Camilla. Whilst the local totty might have overlooked the lesson, Mummy had certainly educated Camilla as to the value of what lay between her legs and she certainly wasn't going to squander it on some Country-Bumpkin. Though Camilla wasn't a virgin; a hunky Austrian Ski Racer had put paid to that last Christmas and a rather suave Italian Windsurfing Instructor had finished her education earlier in the summer. The latter in particular had been a very gratifying experience, but more importantly both men been exceedingly discrete; the Honourable Camilla was to all intents and purposes and most particularly amongst the circle that mattered; still 'pure as the driven snow'.
Camilla looked around as she exited the railway station and was pleased to see that her Mercedes was parked on the forecourt to her right; having been unsure as to which train she'd be returning on, Camilla had called the house on Friday and instructed that it be polished, delivered and parked ready for her to collect whenever she returned. The area was abundantly signposted as being 'Strictly No Parking', but neither the railway staff nor local constabulary would dare to ticket, much less wheel-clamp a car bearing the licence plate 'M5 HCH'; they were all well aware that it belonged to the Earl's daughter. Somewhat paradoxically, Camilla was rather miffed to see a large and rather dirty van was also parked on the apron, just beyond her own sports car and wondered why it hadn't been moved along.
Camilla was frantically juggling her shopping bags and fumbling in her Prada handbag for the keys as she approached the driver's door, but dropped the lot when suddenly distracted by a loud roar as the van's engine was started; she'd not even noticed anyone inside its gloomy interior. As Camilla bent to retrieve the fallen belongings, she heard a scraping sound as the van's side door slid open and a moment later she'd been grabbed around her waist, arms clamped firmly against her body and lifted bodily off her feet. Her assailant swung her around, before quite literally tossing her into the back of the van, where she landed on what turned out to be a rather grubby mattress and was pinned down by a second attacker whilst yet a third jumped out of the door as the first stepped back in behind her and slammed it shut, whilst shouting, "Go, Go, Go!"; the van lurched forward and sped away.
As Camilla's eyes adjusted to the gloom, she took in both the grubby interior and her abductors, though to be honest she didn't learn much; there was the driver and two others: all three were wearing pointed hoods of a bright green fabric and for one quite bizarre moment before the full gravity of her situation sunk in, Camilla pondered if they were perhaps Environmentally Friendly Klu Klux Klansmen? This thought was rudely interrupted when Camilla felt the small stocky one of the two in the back with her; the one who was pinning her down, place his spare hand on her inner thigh and slide it upward beneath her short skirt. Camilla promptly clamped her thighs tightly together and screeched in protest.
The Driver called back over his shoulder, "Are you OK back there?" He'd a coarse Scottish accent.
