A Victorian Tale

A Victorian Tale!

Part One - An exciting find!

It is the year 1874 and Jennifer Drake is wandering the graveyard of Towtun Parish Church with her trusty parasol. The vicar glances out of the vestry window and watches her pass. His eye appraises her.

She is eighteen, and the daughter of the Squire at Towtun Manor, but she is not a girl who suffers from an excess of admirers. Firstly, she is a little young to marry, at present. Secondly she has a family who are not likely to be generous with a dowry, and she has no money of her own. And thirdly, possibly most important from the point of view of young rakes, she is still suffering from being plain, and having the plumpness that some teenagers develop as they grow.

So, she is not fashionably slim of waist, and her bottom - what can be assessed by the curves of her dress - is a little too large. Her breasts are underdeveloped for her age, nicely rounded but flat and poorly developed. Nothing to draw the male eye, though there is hope, in the future, that a child or two will make them swell to reasonable proportions. Her hair is a rich deep brown colour, on her head and also on that secret place between her legs, a shade not inclined to attract admiring glances, being neither beautifully golden blonde or striking raven black. Add to that the distressing fact that she mostly has her nose in a book! In summary, she is not a girl to be chased by any of the young bucks of the parish.

The vicar turns back to his sermon and his pen makes scratching noises on the page. He is seventy two, unmarried, and likely to stay that way for the remainder of his life. He is too old, he feels, to accept the disturbance that a wife would bring to his routine. Even if Jennifer is delightfully plump and virginal.

Jennifer is heading to join Miriam. In the older part of the graveyard there are several box tombs from early times and there is one she likes to visit. It is close to the path and someone has placed a wooden bench nearby. It is an ideal place to sit and read a little Wilkie Collins on a summer's day.

The box tomb next to the bench is special to Jennifer.

"Hello Miriam," she says, sitting down. "It's a lovely summer's afternoon. The sun is shining and the flowers are beautiful. The butterflies dance their little jigs in the sky, and high above me I can hear a skylark."

Miriam does not answer. Not because of rudeness, but because she can't. She died in 1642.

Jennifer discovered the tomb several years ago and was fascinated. Here was a woman who had the same surname, Drake. Evidently an ancestor. And Miriam's was not the only name on the tomb. She shared it with her father, who - from the inscriptions - died a few years before her, and her husband who died nearly fifty years after her. Tragically Miriam was just twenty-five when she passed away and Jennifer's imagination about what is in the inside of the tomb gives her goosebumps.

In her imagination the coffins had crumbled and decayed and now Miriam was lying with her father directly under her and her husband on top. For some reason that was a strangely attractive, while at the same time a deeply worrying, idea. The other worrying idea was that she, Jennifer, might have only seven more years to live, if she died at twenty-five like her ancestor. Just seven more years when she had barely started to live.

"Sorry Miriam," she whispered, as if the corpse of her ancestor could hear her gloomy thoughts. "I'm not being very good company today. The sun is shining but I'm feeling glum."

Miriam was a very good listener. Jennifer was encouraged to unburden.

"I'm eighteen and not a single suitor has turned up to request my hand. Even worse, none of the wilder boys from the parish have tried so much as to steal a kiss. There is a real danger that I will be dead before I do anything exciting. I want to do things before I die. Exciting things."

It had been hard to find anything about Miriam in the Manor library. Her husband was mentioned in a history of the family, as was her father. But just a few words about the girl herself. It was common for disease or accidents to take people to the Lord God before they had achieved anything significant but it seemed to Jennifer that there was more to it than that. In the few paragraphs she had found about the history of her family in the early 1600s there seemed to be a fear of the girl.

Had she been wicked? Had she been accused of a crime? Could it be she was thought to be a witch? There were records of several women of the parish who had been accused of that status, only some of whom had escaped the noose. Contrary to the lurid tales in the broadsheets the punishment for witchcraft in England was not burning, but to be hanged. A much more economical way of execution. Why waste good wood when the rope would cut off the possibility that the witch would curse as she died.

The problem with talking to Miriam, Jennifer thought, was that although she was a good listener, she said nothing back. No advice that an older sister might give, or a mother might give her daughter. Not even the prophecy a witch might impart to a young girl in return for a promise of a gift, like the little mermaid offering her voice to gain her legs. Jennifer was in great need of a mother's advice.

Her own mother died six years ago from a riding accident. Jennifer was not even allowed to attend the funeral, being considered too young. She stayed at home at the Manor with Nanny. At the wake there were lots of people who told her how sorry they were, which wasn't much help.

Father married again, of course, after mourning for one year. So, at the age of thirteen, Jennifer had a stepmother. From the moment the woman entered the house it was clear things were going to change. Lovely, kind Nanny was dismissed and Jennifer was given a new bedroom in the east wing, well away from her father's room. "Time you grew up, young lady!" was her stepmother's declaration. There would be no more hiding under the sheets of her parents bed when the great thunderstorms struck, or the night horrors came.

A governess was employed to teach her the things a young woman needed to know if she was to marry properly. But even she was dismissed a few years later when it was discovered that Jennifer was asking questions about subjects, like mathematics and biology. Subjects no aristocrat should ever understand. It left Jennifer with romantic novels as her only way to understand the world.

"I wish I could have an adventure," whispered Jennifer to Miriam. "I wish I was courageous. I wish I could stand in the middle of the thunderstorm and brave the lightning instead of pulling the bed covers over my head. And I wish I might be desirable to someone, anyone, everyone!"

There was a cracking sound. At first Jennifer thought it was her imagination that had conjured it up - it did sound like the crack made by lightning - but then she glanced down and saw that a piece of stone from the corner of Miriam's tomb had become dislodged.

It was a triangle of stone at the base of the tomb that had fallen away and now lay upon the grass, and next to it was a small object. Jennifer picked the tiny thing up. This must have been inside the tomb, she thought, but what is it?

It was a ring, but not a kind that she had ever seen before. To start with it was made of some sort of stone, a pale cream with fine lines of yellow and blue minerals running through it. And it was more of a tube than a thin metal ring but it was the perfect size to fit on Jennifer's little finger. She took out her kerchief and cleaned it, pushing the cloth through the hole, and admiring the soft colours that seemed to glow in the sunshine.

Then she slipped it on.

"Is this for me Miriam?" she asked. "It is beautiful. I must find out more about it. Perhaps there will be a book in our library that will explain its mystery."

She glanced down at the tomb corner and jumped up from the bench in shock. The triangle of stone was back in its place, as if it had never moved. Had she imagined the hole? No, she was sure that it had been there. It had been cobwebbed and there had been hints of crumbled wood and, perhaps, the white of bones. But now the tomb was back to normal.

"Are you alright mistress Jennifer?" said a croaky voice at her shoulder.

For the second time that day Jennifer jumped with shock. She turned and found herself looking at the vicar. He had approached silently and was now standing very close to her. A little too close for politeness. She could see every wrinkle on his bird-like neck, the little bit of drool falling from his slack mouth, and his rheumy eyes looking down at her. He looked like an old stork, especially as his nose was long and sharp.

As Jennifer tumbled back, threatening to fall, the vicar reached out and grabbed her hand. His wrinkled fingers grasped hers and she was drawn back closer to him. She got her balance back and pulled her hand away.

"Thank you Vicar," she said. "I am composed again. I was shocked, for I did not hear you approach."

He looked at his own fingers and Jennifer could see that his pupils were strangely dilated. He licked his lips.

"I welcome you to the graveyard, the reminder of our mortality," he said. "As I welcome you every Sunday to church. I have seen you visit many times, to sit and read when the weather is clement. Oh, if only all my parishioners were as modest and humble as you. I had never considered..."

But what he had never considered went unspoken as he stopped, his face showing he was thinking hard. Then he made a quick goodbye and walked away.

He must have remembered something he needed to do, thought Jennifer.

"Now Miriam," she whispered. "What shall I do? I think I shall sit here and read and, when the sun starts to go down, I will return home and visit the library."

She glanced at the ring, "If this is a gift then I need to understand more about it." Then she settled back on the bench to read.

--o--

After an hour or two of pleasant reading Jennifer decided it was time to go home. It would not be wise to be late for dinner, her stepmother was insistent people were on time for meals. Then after, for a few hours, she could look in the library for any tome that could shed light on her mysterious ring.

The blue withdrawing room was occupied when she returned home. She could hear her stepmother's voice all the way down the corridor.

"Are you offering to take the dreadful girl off our hands?" said her stepmother.

"I am," a familiar croaky voice replied.

Jennifer stopped, stunned by what she had heard. It was the Vicar who was taking tea with her stepmother. She reached out to the little hall table to steady herself. It was wrong to evesdrop on them but since she was the subject of the discussion she felt justified.

"You understand we cannot afford to place a dowry upon her?" her stepmother continued.

"I have a comfortable stipend, and a private income," replied my ancient suitor. "Indeed I would be happy to pay for any inconvenience that losing her would cause you."

"I must talk this over with my husband," continued my stepmother. "But, in principle, I would be happy with the arrangement. A private income you say?"

"Yes, a thousand pounds a year," he croaked.

"And there is no reason why it would not come to our daughter should you, God forbid, pass away?"

"None at all, though we are a long lived line, I expect to reach ninety like my father before me."

What about me being happy with the arrangement, thought Jennifer? He's nearly sixty years older than me. And he's expecting to live another twenty years! Twenty years of cooking and cleaning for him. And, even worse, twenty years with him in my bed, or rather me in his. The thought terrified her. Her novels had prepared her for a handsome man to come and take her away, but not this.

She ran to her room but a short while later the gong sounded for dinner. She had to go down or there would be sullen faces and snide remarks for days. The meal was gloomy. Jennifer sat, ate, and listened to her stepmother explaining to her father that the Vicar wanted to marry their daughter. There was some speculation as to whether an alternative offer might be forthcoming. And if it might not be better that Jennifer remained at home, after all they would need someone inexpensive to care for them in their old age.

Jennifer sat and fumed. They were talking as if she wasn't there. Unfortunately all she managed to do was ruin her appetite. At the end of the meal her parents invited her to kiss them goodnight. Her stepmother presented her hand to be kissed and her father tilted his head and accepted a kiss on the forehead. Usually he then turned to the after-dinner Port, and ignored her as she left the room, but tonight he looked up. His pupils were dilated and his mouth opened a little. Then he gave a little shake to his head, snapped out of his odd expression, and turned back to his wife.

The library was also frustrating. The only thing Jennifer learned was that she needed an expert. Someone who knew about old rings. She gave up on her quest for today and retired to bed.

--o--

She was just falling asleep, and had reached that point where you relax into the sheets and feel very heavy, when her bedroom door opened. It did so very slowly and quietly. Suddenly Jennifer was wide awake. This was not a servant come to tell her the Manor was on fire, this was someone sneaking around in an attempt to be unheard. Gently she reached over to the oil lamp and turned it up.

In the light of the faint glow from the lamp she saw her father. He was wearing his night gown but he had hitched it up to his waist and his... goodness... Jennifer was shocked. Her father's member was erect, pointing out straight in front of him. It was hard and the tip glistened in the lamp light as if it was wet. The shaft stood out pale from the black curly hair in his crotch and she could see the veins on it. They made a pattern of squirming cords across the surface. Her tummy felt strange at the sight of her father's rampant manhood and an unusual warmth spread across her neck and chest.

"Jennifer," whispered her father.

"I am here, father," she replied. She wanted to say but you shouldn't be here like this, revealing yourself to me. What have you done to me Miriam, she thought? I know I wanted adventure and to be desired but this? First the Vicar and now my father. I asked to be desired by anyone and everyone but I'm not sure now.

"Do you love your father?" he asked, very quietly.

It would have been a lie to say no.

"Yes father," she had to agree, knowing what was to come. Not exactly what was to come, she had not been tutored in sexual intercourse, but she had a vague idea that men and women lay together in the marriage bed and then a baby arrived.

"Then we will show our love for each other," he whispered. "It will serve you well when you are married."

"Yes, father," she replied. "But should not my husband teach me this? Does not the Bible say..."

But he slipped between the sheets and put his finger over her mouth to indicate she should be silent, like a dutiful daughter. What the Bible had to say about this situation went undiscussed.

Shall I scream, Jennifer thought? Or shall I simply press my legs together when he tries to... fornicate... with me? Screaming would mean everyone in the house would know, including the servants. They would look at her with knowing looks that said we know what you do with your father. Passive resistance seemed the better approach.

The bedsheet came off, revealing Jennifer in her nightdress, and her father knelt and grasped the hem. He pulled and the delicate cloth parted. The tear went all the way to the lace around her décolletage, This proved slightly more resistant, but only for a second. The fine Nottingham lace was pulled apart and the nightdress fell open.

Her father pulled her legs apart a little and put his hands on her sex. Then he started to move his fingers around. Jennifer gasped. She had not expected this. She jerked her legs together but his fingers were already delving into her crack. And it was pleasant, in fact it was very pleasant. Her plan to resist her father nearly broke apart as his fingers delved and caressed her. Then he was rising over her, the moment had come to resist.

Jennifer expected a plunge. And for her father's stiff member to do whatever it did. But instead he balanced himself over her and put his hand under her right knee. He lifted her leg, taking her by surprise, and bent it over her until her leg lay beside her, and her foot was waving in the air. Then he hissed an instruction.

"Take your right arm," he whispered, his voice changed by passion into a snake-like sound. "And place it over your leg. Hold it firm."

Years of obedience to her father's instructions made the movement almost automatic.

"Now grasp the under sheet with your right hand."

She did.

He shifted his balance and now it was her left leg that was arcing through the air to rest beside her. He ordered her to put her left arm over it and grasp the under sheet. She had to admire the way he had anticipated, and prevented, her sabotage. She was now utterly exposed to him. She felt that her feet, stuck up in the air, made her look ludicrous, if the result wasn't that her sex was utterly and completely available to him.

He moved up the bed slightly and grasped her around the waist, then he dipped his head and kissed her breasts. The position was uncomfortable but not painful and she found herself gazing down her body, watching her father kiss the nipples on her oh-too-flat chest. She could also, as he moved, see the hairs on her sex. And, poised just above it, her father's manhood. The head was almost purple in colour and the little hole in the end looked like the eye of some sort of fey creature. A burrowing worm of some kind.

Her father stopped kissing her breasts which, she had to admit, was a shame. It had felt good. He stared into her eyes and moved his hips. His manhood touched her. She gave a gasp and her father smiled in triumph. Then by using his hips he rubbed his manhood up and down her sex, pushing apart the plump lips and rubbing against the little finger in a hood that sat at the top of her sex.

"This is wrong, father," she whispered.

"No," he replied. "This is right. Only a father can give the love and attention his daughter needs. I have wanted to do this for years and today I must for I see you will soon be wed."

"But the Vicar is so old," she whispered. "He is surely beyond breeding with his wife. And he disgusts me."

"If he cannot serve you as a husband," my father replied. "You can always visit here and I will perform his marital duties. By the time this night is over you will think this an excellent proposition, and beg me to service you."

He had been rubbing his manhood across her all this time and she had to admit the feeling was very pleasant. He grunted, then laughed, "You are ready for me, my daughter. I can feel it. Prepare to take my manhood deep inside you."

"Will it hurt?"

Jennifer was worried. Tales of wedding nights where the bride was left crying came back to her mind.

"Only a little, and only for a short time."

His movements were taking the head of his manhood lower and lower and then he started to thrust. She felt her sex lips pushed apart and then a slight tension as he entered the hole there. Then there was pressure and a feeling of tearing. There was a sharp pain and Jennifer could not help but cry out. Her father was examining her expression with an intensity that frightened her. He had never looked at her with such naked lust before.

He pushed a little further and Jennifer felt totally filled up with his flesh. She gazed down her body and saw, to her astonishment, that he had put barely the head of his long manhood into her. There was so much more yet to accept. It seemed impossible, to Jennifer, that such a length would all fit inside her.