The Devotee

(Having written a novel-length romance which contained very little sex, which I admit is perverse for an erotic fiction site, I wanted to write something that had loads more sex. So, this. I wanted to write something that was absolutely sex-positive but also, hopefully, funny.

I wrote 20,000 words of it, and then my ancient desktop died. And of course I hadn't backed it up.

But Edith and Ida were trapped in that dead hard drive, nagging me to finish their story, Edith in her cool, precise, educated way and Ida in her blunt and badly spelled way.

So I went back to the beginning, and started rewriting, partly from memory, and partly from knowing the characters a bit better.

This story is set in England in 1905. Edward VII is the king.

Lionel Squire and Edith Fawcett are very distantly inspired by, but not fictional versions of, the great novelist Henry James and his last secretary, Theodora Bosanquet. I'm just riffing off them.

Martin Tupper'sProverbial Philosophywas a real Victorian bestseller, and the quote is authentic. It really is bloody awful.

Ida's ability to calculate how long it would take her to read it will become important later.

Gilbert Scope is inspired by the novelist Hugh Walpole; at least, Lionel Squire's complaints about Scope's work are definitely inspired by James' complaints to Walpole about his.

I could not decide what category this should come under. It could have been Lesbian Sex, or Erotic Couplings, or Romance, or Humor and Satire because the comedy kept rearing up. In the end I decided it's a novel.

I think that my instalments have been too long, so with this one, I'll be posting more instalments, but mostly shorter ones, so they don't take forever to read. 8/9K words seems a bit long for an episode unless it absolutely can't be broken up.

Hope you like it.)

***

From the diary of Ida Plank:

2 January 1905

Master edwin got given a direy for xmas.

O blast he sez not anuther one an he throw it in the waist paper baskit. But i took it out cos i have new yeer rezolooshuns. I am 18 an i mean to keep em.

1. Keep a direy

2. Find luv

Well one of em any way.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

17 April 1905

I went to the secretarial agency again today, to enquire about any available positions. Once again, I was informed that there are none.

This is deeply disappointing, but I must not lose heart.

Mama and papa made many sacrifices to give me a first-class education, and I would rather die than betray the faith they have placed in me.

Nevertheless, my savings have run low, and if I do not find a position soon, I may have to accept some menial job. (I cannot and will not entertain the thought of asking mama and papa for money. I am three-and-twenty, not a child.)

I should not mind so very much for myself, but I know papa would be heartbroken to think that I had taken a position he would consider 'beneath' me.

In fact, I should be intrigued to work at such a position, and really immerse myself in the condition of working people. I think it would be terribly educational.

But I must also admit that to take a job such as factory worker or waitress would be rather a waste of such meagre talents as I have been blessed with.

Ideally, I would like a position as secretary to a great writer. That would fulfil a long-held dream of mine, to help great art to come into being. I must suppose it to be rather far off, though.

I dined tonight off pea soup and a rather stale bun. I do not think constant hunger exactly sharpens the wits, but it does provoke one to seek work.

How I miss my friends from Cheltenham and college.

According to mama's last letter, Charlotte Morton is to be married. I shall not soon forget the pleasures we shared on those summer night swims. Henrietta Griswold has become a teacher, which suits her, though I hope she can keep her fiery temper. Gertrude Perkins I have not heard from.

I shall return to the agency tomorrow.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

17 April 1905

New maid joind. So glad as i av been workd off my feet last 4 munths. Fs too stinjy to get till now.

She is in my room as there is no other. Got a camp bed for er.

Name kate morley. Big tall girl. Yellow air.

Seems all rite.

Keeps erself to erself.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

18 April 1905

News has come of an opening!

Mr Lionel Squire, the eminent novelist, seeks an amanuensis! His former one has left to get married. At least I could assure him that I will not be doing that any time soon. I have no desire to marry.

If Mr Squire is sufficiently impressed by my credentials, then I shall have to do an interview. I must come across at my best.

I admit that it now seems rather self-indulgent of me to have taken a degree in mathematics rather than in English, but having devoured Shelley at 13 and Milton at 16 I could not have borne beingmadeto read them again, when mathematics is in such a present state of ferment.

Still, I am familiar with his work and he is a very great writer. I read and was delighted byFlora MercerandThe Heiressin my final year at Cheltenham. I am now off to the library, to read as many more of his works as I can carry home with me.

20 April 1905

Mr Squire has granted me an interview! This is tremendously exciting.

I have read a dozen of his tales, and am halfway throughThe Philanthropists. My goodness me, it is sometimes hard work to navigate one's way to the end of his serpentine sentences, but I feel it is worth it. I can feel my brain elasticising itself even as I read.

I have not written to mama and papa about this. It does not seem right to raise their hopes prematurely, only to dash them later. I shall only inform them if I am successful.

21 April 1905

Today I had my interview with Mr Squire, in the offices of the secretarial agency.

He is an imposing presence, almost bald, with the mien of a Roman senator, but more handsome than I imagined from photographs, with a sensitive mouth and doubtful grey eyes, which seemed to avoid mine even as they took in my presence.

He was most polite, inquiring after my experience and education, and listened attentively. He soon put me at my ease.

He then asked me if I would not mind taking some dictation, and introduced me to the Underwood typewriter, which he prefers, as he says it is 'more musical' than a Remington. Fortunately, I have some familiarity with the Underwood, and he began to dictate a letter.

His manner of speech is quite remarkable: halting in the extreme, hesitating over the perfect word and occasionally reversing himself so as to recast the sentence, to allow a different word to be used.

I quickly realised two things: that it was wise to wait until he had delivered final approval of a sentence before I typed it, and that it would be foolish and arrogant in the extreme to venture to suggest a word to he who is, after all, one of the great living masters of the English language.

After a little initial difficulty, in which he seemed to be unsure as to why I was not typing anything, I explained that I was waiting until he, as it were, 'gave me the nod', and this seemed to please him, for he gained confidence and began to dictate more fluently, whereupon I typed more fluently.

He bade me goodbye with a warm handshake, and I went to the outer office, only for the agency secretary to ask me to wait. I waited, in an agony of uncertainty, only to be invited back inside, whereupon Mr Squire greeted me once again and informed me that he would like me to take up the position, effective immediately.

I fought back the desire to express my joy by whooping, gyrations &c., and thanked him gravely. He told me that the position will require me to move to his Kent home, Curl House, and occasionally to accompany him to his London apartments in Vesey Gardens. My board will be paid for, and the wage itself, although hardly of a level that will permit me to retire wealthy at forty, is perfectly acceptable.

He is very kind and attentive to my welfare. I assured him that I only needed to inform my landlord that I would be vacating my lodgings, and I could come down on the next train. He said he looked forward to receiving me.

I am hired! I have the very post that I wished to have! It is good fortune beyond my wildest dreams!

Well, not mywildestdreams.

Mywildestdreams are of a kind that I would not set down in this diary, in case it should be misplaced, and subsequently appropriated by some mischievous rakehell, who would seek, for vicious reasons of his own, to destroy me.

However, since I do not know any mischievous rakehells, and also given that rakehells have been rather scarce on the ground since the late 17th century, I admit that this is not a terribly likely prospect. Still, one cannot be too careful.

... Again, one almost certainlycanbe too careful, for a life that is not lived to the full, is a life that

that

... I cannot think how to end that sentence. I shall fix it later.

For now, I must be the most perfect amanuensis. I shall devote my soul and body to the task of helping Mr Squire to do his work. All other considerations must be secondary.

I shall write to mamma and papa tonight.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

21 April 1905

My ritin is terribul. I must lern to get bettr at it.

I was ritin in this dairy and kate sez to me, ow come you old the paper rite up so close to your nose, and i sez, i cant see the words if i dont, an she sez wots the mattr you blind, an i sez not blind just the words all fuzzy, an she sez sounds like you need glah siz, an i sez well obvusly i need glah siz but aint nuffin i can do bout that is there, and kate sez wel i spose not no, an i sez mrs F aint gonna by me no glah siz, an kate sez may be you shud let on you like stronomy, and shell get you tellascope, an then you cud see the words with it, an i sez aint you the [deleted: comme commy gen cumeej] funny one.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

23 April 1905

I came down to Kent yesterday, on the morning train.

The countryside is ravishing in the spring. The trees are in full leaf, the buds are swelling, and it is very pleasant to see the cattle and sheep at their ease in the fields.

Mr Squire kindly greeted me at the station, and we walked through the little town, so that he might acquaint me with the geography.

I noted important places such as the post office, the general store, the doctor's surgery and other such establishments.

We headed out of the town along the western road, and walked through the country lanes, pausing once or twice because of passing motor cars (apparently two or three of the more affluent neighbours own one.)

Mr Squire had a stick, but I could see that after a mile or so he was beginning to perspire a little, so I offered him my arm, and he leaned on me with a grateful smile. (Shortly after Christmas, desirous of losing the small amount of winter weight I had put on with so little exercise in icy London, I had purchased a set of dumbbells, and have been exercising a great deal, so that I am now definitely as fit and strong as I was when I captained the senior hockey team in '99.) Mr Squire is not a small man, but I had little trouble bearing him up.

We presently turned down a twisting lane and arrived at the gates of Curl House, which is a very pleasant, ivy-covered dwelling dating from I guess the late 17th century, but much refurbished, Mr Squire tells me, by its previous owner. His housekeeper Mrs Willis served us lemonade on the back lawn, which was very refreshing after a long walk in the hot sun.

Mr Squire explained to me that while he has little for me to do at the present, he has been contracted by Scribners in New York to write a memoir, which he will do as soon as he has finished correcting the revised proofs ofThe Old Wound. He prefers to correct proofs by hand, so I am not needed at the present moment, except for matters of correspondence.

What a luxury! A few days of leisured life in the Kent countryside, in a house with one of the most formidable private libraries in Britain. Mr Squire has made it clear that I have full access to the library and may read anything I find in it.

I cannot believe my luck. But I had better believe it, or I shall not be able to enjoy it.

*

Lionel Squire to Gilbert Scope

25 April 1905

My dear boy,

Please accept my fondest gratitude for your book, which arrived yesterday.

I am as usual in awe of your volcanic industry--is it really only six months since your last? I do wish that you could cure yourself of the desire to so vigorously hurl yourself at the public, and let the material sit a little longer in your mind and imagination, but I know that you are incorrigible in this respect and I may just have to resign myself to my own slow ruminative processes. There is always ever so much vivacity and charm in what you write, and yet I cannot help but wish there were a little more art and reflection. But I trust that the public will vote with its wallets and you shall be assured of another success. I see no falling-off in energy fromThe Raffish Dougan.

This is but a brief letter of thanks. I must risk the blushes of my new amanuensis, Miss Fawcett, who is typing these words; Miss Wrye abruptly left me to get married, but Miss Fawcett magically appeared to take her place, and she is proving to be an excellent conduit (one might even say, a 'faucet'), working wonders to fill the Wrye-shaped hole in my existence. I do not doubt that in time the hole shall come to be Fawcett-shaped.

You must come down to see me next month. I shall finishThe Silver Windmilland we shall be able to have a proper talk. I would come up to London, but I am deep in correcting proofs.

With all my love,

Lionel Squire

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

27 April 1905

I made a speshul pointment to see Mrs F today as i had a faver to ask er.

This was not eezy as i ad to go thru Mrs Baulstone to get permishun but finely i got to see Mrs F as she was doin house old accownts with master Edwin.

Yes what is it ida she sez, make it quik.

I sez, please Mrs Freehold, i am tryin to edgicate myself an i wundered if there woz a book i could lern ritin from. I was nevr much good in skool but i do ope to bettr my self.

A book she sez, what do you want a book for.

So i can lern to rite propperly, i sez.

I am shur we wood not ave anythin sootabul, she sez, but then master Edwin sez, hush mamma I beleev we can elp, an e turns arownd and e takes a book off the shelf bee ined im and sez, here you go ida, theez are the finest thowts in the finest words, reed them and staw them in yore memry and you shall not go astray.

An she looks at the book and opens it and she smilez funny like.

Yes my dear, she sez, an givs the book to me, ere you go ida, i feel shur you will lern much.

An I thank them most pollite and curtsy and leev with the book.

It is called Proverbial Philosophy by a gent named Martin Farquhar Tupper. I copied his name out the book. Pickcher of him on the page, ansom i spose if you like that sort of thing.

I wunder wot it is like.

Later

Well I been readin this mister tupper and this is what he rites like. I copied it out.

'PREFATORY.

Thoughts, that have tarried in my mind, and peopled its inner chambers,

The sober children of reason, or desultory train of fancy;

Clear running wine of conviction, with the scum and the lees of speculation;

Corn from the sheaves of science, with stubble from mine own garner:

Searchings after Truth, that have tracked her secret lodes,

And come up again to the surface-world, with a knowledge grounded deeper

Arguments of high scope, that have soared to the key-stone of heaven,

And thence have swooped to their certain mark, as the falcon to its quarry;

The fruits I have gathered of prudence, the ripened harvest of my musings'

Rite im stoppin there coz my and is tired.

I meanwot the bloody ell is all that???It goes on and on like that an e never gets startid.

I ad a look at the back of the book and there is 494 pages of that fandangl. Wy at that rate if i red a page every day for alf an our it wud be 1 year, 4 month, 7 days and 8 ours before I finishd it. Oo spends all that time reedin a book.

Now i think about it i am shur i heard Mrs F and master Edwin larfin after i shut the dore on them. I think they gev me that book to mock me, coz they new it is rubish.

Bugger that for a game of sowjers.

Find me own book.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

1 May 1905

Mr Gilbert Scope, the popular novelist, is visiting us. I am somewhat familiar with his work, which enjoys a wide success. He is not, in my view, nearly so deep or fine a writer as Mr Squire, but he is tremendously urbane, witty in a rather feline way, and a good provider of dinner conversation, which I appreciate, as I have little to contribute in that respect.

He is also, I think, rather in love with Mr Squire, who he clearly reveres, and who loves to offer him advice, which Mr Scope cheerfully ignores.

I have never before seen a man so (to my eyes, anyway) obviously in love with another man, and it is most interesting. Mr Squire, for his part, is of course famous for his polite declining of any romantic attachments to anyone; he seems to have spent his entire life as a dedicated observer of human passions, the better presumably to work on the artistic representation of them. If he loves Mr Scope the way I think Mr Scope loves him, it is impossible to tell. This makes one rather sorry for Mr Scope, but he maintains a mask of relentless cheeriness, so if he is hurt, he keeps it to himself.

I suppose that there must be lots of different kinds of love; certainly, from my own experience, different people seem naturally able to love all kinds of other people. I have loved people romantically, and on a few occasions, known the pleasure of having that love returned, and there seems to be no definite rule as to who I may fall for, and how. (If, in moments of solitary repose, I think of Charlotte and Henrietta and Gertrude, I can get quite excited and require calming down.)

Mr Squire, Mr Scope and I walked a good way upon the downs. The weather is beautiful. It bids fair to be a hot summer. I find the sun and light reaching into the very core of my being, and stimulating my body and spirit.

*

Gilbert Scope to William Casaubon

1 May 1905

...

I have at last met the 'efficient' Miss Fawcett: serene, fresh-faced, freckled, athletic, with a curious expression almost always a rather puzzled half-smile, not unhandsome in a way that I confess I found a littleattirant. She listened gravely to our talk at dinner, and only the brief torsion of the corners of her mouth betrayed any hint of amusement. The maître thinks the world of her, and calls her the best of his assistants.

She seems to me a pure product of Cheltenham Ladies College and UCL, where she apparently came down with a first in mathematics. Oo la la!

These modern educated girls seem to me to have ink in their veins rather than blood, but it must be admitted that she does seem absolutely solid and sensible, even if I was privately glad that she and I were not left alone with each other: she has absolutely no small talk.