Dear Betsy,
I have done something terrible. I'm not exactly sure how it will be terrible, but which ever way it turns out I know that terror will follow.
As you know (as everyone knows by now) my reaction was purely instinctive and of course immediate. What you may not know is how much less than immediate it actually was. I knew the girl for about three months prior to her demise (I seem to recall you commented on my new found vitality in the bedroom and, as you rightly surmised, it was due to my new mistress). A little chit of a thing she was, tomboyish even. Howthorpe was always goading me about her manish good looks, which, as you are aware, are where certain of my tendencies lay.
Perhaps I had best start from the beginning.
You may or may not be aware of the phrase "six degrees of separation". In today's modern world it seems, what with steam ships, railway engines, dirigibles and the like, each and every one of us is merely six friendships away from every other person in the modern world. (not including of course the Africas or our Oriental friends) By way of explanation let me give you this example.
I have never met your mother's friend Elise Beauchamp (I have had certain investigations made by the way and it seems my first assumptions were entirely correct concerning her family) But this Elise creature has, by dint of my own maneuvering, never actually met neither myself nor you. So from her to your mother, on to you and thence to myself is four degrees. Now I have quite regular if cumbersome conversation by way of telegraph and letter and have met on at least four state occasions Prince Hadjit Saheem, another degree, and the Prince (a wonderful jovial chap with a whole host of amusing stories about his estate set in the darker forests of Ranjipoor) has the acquaintance of one extraordinary chap who goes by the name of Marachaivo Machiavelli (who claims Nicollo as direct antecedent).
So there you have your six degrees, Elise Beauchamp to Marachaivo Machiavelli, neither of whom (I presume) has met the other but are none-the-less merely five handshakes away, across the known world.
And how, you may ask, does this have any bearing on my own imminent destruction at the gallows on Tuesday week? As it happens, a great deal.
Georgie Lane, that poor unfortunate who met her ultimate fate at my own hands, came into my life some four short months ago. She was a tempestuous lover, enjoying variance such as I have never before laid eyes upon, willing and more often promoting greater debauches amongst our company than heretofore witnessed, by myself or any of my comrades (including Paul and John who I know you have sampled for your own pleasures)
I remember as clearly as yesterday that night of the twentieth (you remember when you were visiting with George and he had persuaded you to embroidery rather than the tawse he had promised) I know how much you enjoy these stories so I will enliven this narrative with some few descriptions as may lift your spirits before I must confess that terror I have wrought.
The evening of the twentieth was to be a Roundhouse, as previously declared and to that end we each were to bring along an acquaintance rather than a common seamstress. (It strikes me with some amusement now that George did actually have you for a seamstress whilst the fellows and I had eschewed them for that night) Be that as it may.
I had long been entertaining the notion that perhaps Betty Hardcastle, now that she has been in her majority (such as it is) for some six months, might benefit from having her bastions, if not broached then at the very least secured into some kind of service. I had high hopes that her battlements would not prove insurmountable.
I am of the opinion that little Betty was actually awaiting her birthday in order that she may bloom. For bloom she has, and in a mere handful of months. Her chests have grown seemingly overnight as it were and her delicious bottom and hips widened considerably, so much so that I think you would be overawed were you to meet with her at this time after how long? Two years since?
After some considerable persuasion on my part (not with her parents you understand, who were only too willing to see their daughter introduced into our society) little Betty reluctantly agreed to accompany me to our monthly gathering, where naturally as introduction, the men at the table played fondly and with little reticence amongst the clothing of the serving maids.
As you may recall from your own introduction there was some shock and some slight indignation on the part of one or two of our lady guests, as their colour heightened and they attempted to ignore or rise above such ribaldry. But naturally by the middle of the fowl course (pheasant if I remember aright) all but one of our female company could be seen to be in some form of mild arousal. (Extreme in the case of at least three girls who were taking an enthusiastic part in the now saucy goings on.)
Then it was time for the meat. The conversation at this point, as planned, was now concerned almost entirely with bedroom matters and fully half of our guests admitted to having no previous knowledge of such whilst half of the rest had only witnessed rather than partaken of any sexual matters whatsoever. Those three girls that had taken an interest in the underthings of the wenches were, to a man, farmer's daughters and had the build and ruddiness of complexion so associated. Being daily close to nature had made them closer to nature than our other city raised girls and it was these three that took an active lead when the meat was served. And one particular, but not particular girl even before the plates had been cleared.
I seem to recall that it was you yourself that introduced the present configuration of the meat course, having the maids take wall spaces and having boys do the serving at this time. I shall take this opportunity to once again praise your female prescience as to the timing and effect of this happy, albeit contrived, circumstance.
As I have said, those three farmer's daughters were very willing parties to the many leads and suggestions of their gentlemen sponsors, taking great delight it seemed, I may say hunger, in their delight at a handful of maid servant's titty or a daring snatch of snatch, as the current saying has it. One of the ruddy daughters even took to slavering her palm with girl juice and quite deliberately making a show (to Paine seated opposite) of licking and sucking on each wet finger with an avid, it seemed unquenchable, appetite.
My own gaze, as you must well know, was centred always on the wenches' faces, for signal cues of pleasure. My vigilance that night was well rewarded. Before even the maids had cleared the previous course I had my trumpet (you may call it a bassoon but believe me, you would call it a piccolo if you had agreed to share Benjamin with me that other memorable night) as I say I had my trumpet in hand playing a well rehearsed solo beneath the table cloth. Certainly all my compatriots and at least four or five lady guests were well aware of my fingering exercise. And this before the meat!
Here was something with which you would have been delighted. Virginia, she of the stern countenance, dark ravishing eyes and darker hair, she whom you have delighted in attempting to trick, seduce and ravish since first you set eyes upon, it was she upon whom this grease-fingered farmer's daughter set her own sights. This next, which was what led me to pre-arousal, would have had you willingly stricken and prone under fat Alfonse (I see you shiver with disgust and feel your flesh crawl as you read the name).
Virginia found herself the seemingly willing target (a shock I know) to Irene's ( the farmer's daughter) ministering. As you have found to our pleasure and quick mockery and your own disappointment, Virginia whilst apparently oblivious to the source of any cock-thrust was cold to the softness of the female touch. Cold and dry. Not so to Irene.
As the Fowl course platters were removed, Virginia taking it upon herself to confine her duties to Irene's place at the long table, a silence descended upon the party, almost every eye eventually drawn to the look of concentration on the farm girl's face and the rapt dissociation lingering on Virginia's statue like visage.
Virginia was visibly trembling, the largely untouched pheasant on it's silver salver seeming to dance it's secret feathered dance, as it jiggled and jumped across her tight fisted hold of the plate. The ordinarily staid servant seemed to shrink by some inches as if her knees had buckled when she unexpectedly issued forth a trembling mew of obvious lust and thenceforward a rising moan guaranteed to harden the manliness of every spectator thereat.
Hancock (who was sponsoring Irene) leant forward at this point and reached for Virginia's skirts and raised them inch by careful inch into bunches in his hand. The effect was mesmeric. The skirts rose unbearably slowly, in the fashion of a stage curtain, revealing pallid, quavering knees and the gentlest rhythm of Irene's forearm rising and descending with delicate precision between Virginia's firm white thighs.
Jackson and his consort (Emily Buck I believe) were the very last to notice the performance and broke off their hasty selfish snoggery with a gasp as echo to Virginia's own when Irene's tender motion was raised apace.
The serving girl's eyes had reared into their sockets at this increase in pace, now showing only the whites like some ghoul. The silver platter weaved and bobbed in time with Virginia's hoarse breathing and threatened to tumble instantly.
