"Nigel you can be such a twit, sometimes."

"Steady on Ling, poor old Nigel said he'd been this way only once or twice. Besides we've plenty of petrol." Thomas looked up from his map. "I must admit, this Marsh Country has me baffled."

"It's "Marches," not 'marshes." Nigel corrected. "I am sorry. It is just that my family usually arrives at the lodge by sea. This overland route is only seldom used."

"I am not sailing on the Irish Sea in the middle of winter, Nigel Caym."

"Nigel and I would have managed, Ling. It would have been quicker, smoother and much more interesting."

Miles of fields, marked only by occasional copse of woods, looking like blue-green scabs spread out to the horizon. It was more barren than usual for the northwest of England. Even the ubiquitous hedges and telegraph poles seemed to have left the land uninsulted by their planting. The cattle grazed peacefully, taking no note of the lonely countryside or inclimate weather.

"Good thing you advised taking the Land Rovers. This sheep's trail is as a rough as anything in the Orkneys."

"It's a an old Roman Road."

"Really? That was Hadrian's Wall miles back. I suppose its in good shape for the years. I have never driven on an actual Roman surface before. Look there's an old cobble! Just think I am driving where legionaries marched. Quite a thrill, eh, Ling?

"A brick is a brick. This landscape is really quite dull and the weather is simply dreadful. I don't know why my father insisted I come with you. Shells had a perfectly fabulous holiday chalet in Bergen-Belsen all picked out."

Nigel and his friend shared a knowing look. Ling was being quite the bitch again.

The banker's daughter had tormented them for the entire two days. What should have been a pleasant two-day drive through Sir Walter Scott's English countryside turned into a veritable Napoleon's retreat over the Russian steppes. Ling's unceasing, icy comments cut as bitterly as any winter storm. She was beautiful, Tom had to grant her that. She had long silky black hair, a graceful figure with nice tits and a tight bum. Her long and slender legs were her best feature. But no crumpet was worth the wretched behavior Ling was putting out.

"Your father and mine are old friends." Nigel reminded Ling. "Being as our schools are so close, they thought it would be good for us to get to know one another."

"It's grandfathers, twit, our grandfathers were friends. During the war, my grandfather hid yours from the Japanese. Without my family you would not be here. Your father and mine don't travel in the same circles."

Nigel didn't bother to correct her. Tom wanted to stop the car and toss her out. There was no call to remind Nigel of how his father had suffered financial calamity. He didn't care how much money her old man had. Not for the first time he wished his friend had a little more backbone.

Ling was a daughter of a successful Hong Kong banker, and unlike her father, had never really accustomed herself to British ways after her father fled "The Change." She was always complained about the cold, wool made her itch and she preferred espresso to tea. Nigel and Tom never understood why he sent her away to Moorhead, a very dull British girls boarding school, until they spent two days in an auto with the harpy.

Still, it was preferable to traveling inside the other Land Rover, the black one.

A large oak tree loomed ahead, at circle in the road. In the wet gloom it looked to Tom like and old giant with its arms outspread. "There! That's the oak. We turn left, take the bridge over the river and we are almost there. I will ring the house, to inform them of our arrival." He lifted a phone handle off a chrome receiver that was attached to a large box with several black knobs and meters.

"Look at that beast. Really, Nigel when will you modernize? I'll use my cell phone." Ling opened her Milano purse and removed her sleek cell phone. She punched a few keys. "No reception! Don't tell me I am going to have to endure ten days without a phone. Tell me there is a phone at the house, Nigel."

He smiled. "Sorry. But it IS a rustic hunting lodge."

"Then how does that one ring the house?" asked Tom.

"Radio-phone."

"Really? That takes one back. I haven't seen one outside a herring boat anymore."

"No one told me this was a such a godforsaken hell hole. Probably no en-suite faculties either." Ling crossed her arms, jutted out her lower lip and pouted.

The Rover's sounds changed tempo as the Nigel slowed and drove over the old bridge.

"This is wrong!" Tom adjusted the map light.

"What?"

"Sorry, Nigel I cocked up. I was hoping that this old road wasn't on the map. I thought we were at least going in the right direction. Now this river appears when there is no river on the map. I am lost."

The pale young man laughed softly. "No. Ironically that proves you did a fine job of navigation. This river is not on any map."

"How?" For the first time, Ling was interested in something Nigel had to say.

"Supposedly it goes all the way back to The Book of Doom. My ancestor figured, quite rightly, that if no one knew our land was here no one could invade. Better still, if our property is not listed, it cannot be taxed. We Cayms have a long and proud tradition of bribing every survey team to simply leave us off their little slips of paper."

"Can you do that?" Tom was amazed.

"In this lonely country one can get away with it, if one has the vision. Fortunately we haven't had any interference it since that Victorian Age."

"Your ancestors are very clever. My father knows where I am, right?"

"Do not fret, Ling. Your father has been at the Lodge many times. But really Tom, how do you think roads went through some towns and not others? Geography? Logic? It's all politics and politics is all money."

"That sounds like Marxism." Ling frowned in suspicion.

For the first time in two days Nigel laughed out loud. He did not explain what he found so amusing. "Hello. Yes. We have just crossed the bridge. Right."

The bridge crossed a large stream and then road evolved into a convoluted switchback of the kind Tom had seen in his own Scotland. The valley was actually a fjord with a unique, abrupt turn to it, like a bent arm. The road forked. One part led down to the fjord and the village that was built beside it. The hamlet was cradled in the crook of the arm, sheltered by a peninsula from the sea. It consisted of a handful of houses and a small harbor.

"What is that town down there?"

"It's called Tinstaid. Used to be a tin mine around here, lead too. Now its mostly fishing, I'm afraid."

"It's not on the map either!" Tom tried to lighten his friend's mood.

"Yes. The bend in the valley and almost perpetual fog hides it from view from the sea, safe from Vikings or Inland Revenue."

"Both kinds of robbers, eh?" Tom laughed. Nigel only grew more pensive. Tom wondered if his friend was dwelling on his father's past tax troubles.

The other road turned upwards along the heights of the peninsula. Nigel turned the high road. It led to the leeside of a series of hills that sheltered the road from the wind. Nestled between two hills, out of the sea's way, stood The Caym hunting lodge, Nine Yews.

Calling it a "lodge" did not do Nine Yews justice. It was a proper manor, built in the manner of the nineteenth century. The stone appeared to be a mixture of hand hewed local quarry and brick. The ends of the house were ended in tombstone shaped half turrets, affording a panoramic view of the fields through the oak trimmed windows.

It appeared to be a two-story structure, with much shorter floors than its sisters in the Middle Country. But the beautiful old structure seemed very well maintained, no mean feat in the England's modern economy.

They drove through a breach in the old defensive ditch and up the pea-gravel drive to the lozenge shaped mont, the only remnant of the old keep that once guarded the fjord

Under the half-light of the overcast sky, the windows glowed with a welcoming golden light. Promising smoke flowed from the many chimneys. A dozen or so servants, dressed in the old style, stood outside the manor door. They alternated between holding oversized golf umbrellas and lanterns. Ling was left speechless.

Tom looked at his old friend's face warm with nostalgia. He pulled up to the entry way and after leaving room for the black Rover, scratched to a halt. One by one, the adventurers and their host disembarked.

Nigel stopped in the hamlet square, next to a dim statue. The three disembarked from their green Range Rover and stretched. The passengers of the back range Rover were still milling about.

"Ewww." Ling danced in tiny steps, trying to avoid the puddles in the gravel.

"It is always wet here, sorry."

"I hate this place."

"Nigel warned you to wear boots." Tom pointed to his own ducks.

The household staff kept to their stations.

The passengers in the black Range Rover finally disembarked. First, there was fat Stephen Millers. His piggy eyes squinted, scanned the horizon, already scouting for deer. Then came Sooz, jingling from the driver's seat like a tinker, all buckles and chains and piercings. Finally, Marjorie and her mother, Baroness Mercian, all bundled in the latest in outdoor gear from Harrod's plopped onto the gravel.

With all the guests in sight, the staff gave a traditional cheer of greeting. To Tom, it sounded like, "Hey'ya! Hey'ya! Hey'ya!" A middle-aged man with the look of a sergeant major about him welcomed his employer, covering him with an umbrella. "Welcome home, sir. Everything is ready."

"I am sure it is, Steward." Nigel turned to his guests. "Let's get out of this weather and make our introductions."

"Very well, sir." Steward waved to the maids who went for the luggage.

Tom leaned into Nigel. "No footmen?"

"I will explain later. Please do not make a fuss. They are all quite capable."

"All right. I will just unlock the back door."

Tom was surprised and happy for his friend and did not want to interfere. Ever since the pale, young man arrived at Rounders School, he had watched him glide through the social situations that made Tom stutter. He seemed completely at ease. He shook all the hands and called each person by name and with genuine affection. Then everyone entered Nine Yews freely and of their own volition.

Introductions to the staff were made in the foyer. "May I introduce Stephen Caw? Stephen he is quite a good shot and I promised him an authentic Red Deer."

"That we have, Young Master, some of the finest big bucks we have seen in many a year. The lasses an I have the hunt all arranged." A gigantic, grizzled old man in greens and wool cap spoke up.

"That is marvelous. You are your usual efficient self, Warden." The old man tipped his cap in response.

"The woman in black is Miss Susan Carfax." The two men tipped their hats and the maids and cooks curtsied. To Tom's mind, Sooz seemed a little put off that she didn't shock the villagers more. So she spat on the floor. If Steward cared, he did not show it.

"This lady is Miss Ling Chang. You may have made her father's acquaintance."

"Yes, we have young sir." Replied Steward. "And a kind gentlemen he is too. He is in good health I trust, miss?"

"Y-y-yes. He is fine."

"Pleased to hear it."

"The remaining two ladies are just that, ladies. May I present Baroness Mercian and her daughter Marjorie?"

But the common people did not bow. They only showed common courtesy, a detail the Baroness did not miss.

"Allow me to show you kind people to the cloak room. Then we can show you to your rooms. Your luggage will await you there.

The seven followed Nigel. "You will have to put on slippers. There are no boots allowed in Nine Yews. It is one of the house traditions. Buckskin slippers have been provided for each of you. Please keep them as a souvenir of your visit here." The entire cloakroom was designed for the proper removal of outside clothes. Boot brushes lay on the floor by the door, next to the mats. Its walls were lined with benches. Pegs for coats, curls for hats and racks for the drying of scarves were affixed above the benches.

After he brushed off his boots, Nigel took the nearest seat and began unlacing.

"Reminds me of the Country Club." Stephen brushed of his boots. "Say. Any golf courses hereabouts?"

"No. We kept it woodlands and range, perfect for deer and cattle."

"I just got these monstrous boots on, don't tell me I have to take them off now!" Mrs. Mercian was outraged.

"It is the rules of the house." Nigel apologized. "We provide these doeskin slippers for our guests." Nigel held up a pair of buff moccasins. "You will find them much more comfortable than boots."

"Is that why you inquired after our measurements?" Tom asked.

"Yes. This old place had absolutely rooms of guest clothes, everything from formal attire to costumes. It used to be quite common in the days before motors for hosts to provide clothes for guests, right Baroness?"

"Quite right young man. Proper luggage was too heavy or too bulky for the roads or carriages. I did that once at my cousin's, my dress smelled of mothballs." She held up a moccasin with distain. "No. I won't wear these dreadful slippers."

"These buckskins probably have no support." Melanie pouted. "I don't want to grow up with flat feet."

"More support than those Eye-tie heels you usually wear, you cow." Sooze barked.

"Mother!" Marjorie tugged at her mothers arm, trying to enlist her support in making a fuss.

"No. It is quite irrational. I am not wearing some smelly rustic footwear. It probably has fungus."

At the mention of fungus, Marjorie blanched and dropped the slipper.

Still, the girls divulged themselves of their outer garments. Marjorie shook her curly red hair free from her hood, and hung up her rain slicker but she kept its fleece lining. Her mother hung up her slicker and retained her Kashmir sweater to show off her figure. She had given Marjorie her curly, cranberry red hair but not her love of exercise. Sooz slipped on the moccasins then sparked a fag deliberately dropping ashes on the freshly waxed floor as she waited.

"Hello. These slippers are bit of all right." Stephen pranced around in the soft shoes. "Buck skin, eh? Think I can have a pair made for me from the buck I bag?"

"I don't see why not." Nigel was relieved someone liked the local tradition.

"Right, Stephen, very comfortable." Tom smiled at the women, trying to encourage them. But it was like trying to melt a glacier. Both Mercians kept their boots on.

"Silk is better." Ling sneered. She was quite used to changing shoes for slippers.

The party moved to leave the room. Nigel, as host led the way. Sooze, Ling and Stephen followed. Tom blocked the Mercians' way and growled. "Listen. It is a house rule. Your manors have house rules and your guests follow them. Give the Cayms the same courtesy."

"Young man, I am not going to be lectured to." Lady Mercian tried to brush Tom aside, but she found his shoulder as resolute at the granite mountains of his home. "I do not have to put on any silly deerskin slippers. I am not a Red Indian. I do not have to be here, you know."

"Yes, you do. And we both know why. Now put on those slippers, for just the sake of good manners."

Cowed, but now defeated, first the Mother, then Marjorie put on their slippers. "Happy?"

Tom just grimaced and followed them out of the cloakroom.

"There his is! He was helping with the luggage before. This is my friend, Tom Mays." Nigel put his arm over Tom's shoulder. Tom noted a small but distinct ripple among the servants at the mention of his name. One auburn haired beauty caught his eye especially. She returned his gaze unashamedly.

"Tom's family runs a small but distinguished distillery in the Orkneys."

Steward took one step forward. "A very great pleasure, sir. The Young Master has told us much about you already. And may I say that if there is anything you may require, simply ask."

Tom thought. "Yes, you can send that buxom young thing up to my bed tonight." But he said. "Nonsense."

"It will be our pleasure to aid, in any way, someone who has been such a good friend to our Young Master."

"Then may I see a place where I may wash up?"

"Of course, sir. Molly will show you to your room."

Coincidentally, the auburn haired girl stepped forward. "Follow me please, sir." Her voice had the lilt of the Irish West Counties, probably Kerry or Munster.

Follow her he did. Tom wondered if the sway in her hips was just for him.

His room was just as he expected but with modern devices. The room was about ten by ten and paneled in plain oak wainscoting and plaster. There were two small inset bookshelves on either side of the headboard. The nightstands had reading lamps and on one lay a modern intercom. The bed was wide, but probably a bit short for his six foot two height. A thick rug peeked out form under the feet of the four-poster. The ceiling was high enough, the support beam allowed clearance up to seven feet. A round table and two chairs lay near the draped window. The window was the first thing Mollie attended to. She threw the tapestry weight wool open effortlessly.

The veritable sea of green and violet fields took Tom's breath away. He could see the gray woods just beyond. He imagined that was what England looked like centuries ago, desolate fields and dark forests, before the sheep, ships and bankers changed the landscape.

"Tis beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is. I can see why Nigel likes it here."

Molly smiled enigmatically. "Your clothes are here." She opened a wardrobe.

"Some things are missing."

"We may have taken the liberty of having them pressed."

"Oh! I see. Thank you." Tom blushed.

"Not at all sir. You guest clothes have all been arranged." She opened the room's only closet and sorted through the clothes. "You will find your formal wear, hunting clothes and informal attire here. They have all been cleaned and pressed. If something does not fit, please call for me. I am brilliant with a needle and thread."

"Certainly." The clothes did look handsome. The closet smelled of cedar, like a sauna.

"Please inspect the clothes while I start the fire." She knelt on the bearskin rug.

Molly bent over and Tom lost all interest in inspecting clothes. The old fashioned navy blue dress draped over her cheeks like a waterfall, showing all her form. The maid had a nice full, round ass, just a little on the big side, the way he liked it. The hearth had a gas tube so he didn't get long to appreciate the view.

"There. That should really warm this room up. As you can see we have radiators here but a fire is much toastier, don't you think?"

"Yes.

"I do so love a good fire." She hugged her ample bosom and twisted a bit back and forth.

An image of Molly and he naked, fucking, in front of the roaring blaze flashed through his mind. Tom reflected on his own randiness. He had been at school for the better part of a year, but still...

"Now, please follow me." Molly went to a door to the left of the rooms rear wall and turned the brass knob. "This is your lav."

The room was rectangular and somewhat American in design. The claw foot tub was indeed noble in size as were the twin sinks that stood against the opposite wall. Mirrors interspaced with the arrow slit windows that provided light and a view of the headlands a dozen yards behind the edifice. Beside the tub, squatted a modern flush toilet.

"You will be sharing it with Master Caym."

"Huh?" For the first time, Tom was surprised.

"Is something wrong with the accommodations, sir?"

"No. I just thought...well Nigel would be in the Master Bedroom and that has its own lavatory, surely."

"Yes, sir. But we reserve the master bedroom for the rightful lord. At present, that would be he his father."

"I see."

The two left the tiled room for the bedroom. "To what does that door lead?" Tom pointed to the door directly opposite the lavatory.

"That would be another lavatory, The Baroness and her daughter I believe. At one time, the lavatories were large closets. When Master Nigel's' grandfather modernized Nine Yews, the closets were converted to baths."

"Are all the rooms connected?"

"Yes sir. But the knobs have no handle on the inside and it can be bolted from the inside, just like adjoining hotel suites. I am told that in the old days it saved the servants time to load one closet rather than two, leaving the guests to sort out whose dress was who's."

"This is the last thing I am to show you." Molly punched a panel in the wainscoting between the fire and the door to The Mercian's bathroom. The panel swung open to reveal a small but well stocked bar. The liquors were contained in cut glass carafes with engraved gorgets revealing their contents laying on top of a decorative mini-fridge beneath. "This is for your ice and cold water. We even procured a bottle of your family's label."

"Thank you." Tom had been drinking his family's label since he was a seven. Truth be told, he was a bit sick of it. But he didn't insult Molly with any quibbling. "That is most considerate, thank you."

Molly sauntered up to Tom and looked up at him through her curly, brown bangs. Her eyes were as blue as the morning sky. Tom could smell her perfume, some sort of flower. "If there is ANYthing else, I may do for you, please ask. Mister Steward was quite right. The nights can get awfully cold 'erebouts so if you have any problems with the heat, do give me ring." She bit at half her lower lip.

Tom gulped. "I'll do just that."

"Dinner is formal and served promptly at five." Molly left but her perfume lingered. Tom poured himself a whiskey and ginger ale and tried to forget his erection. He had to piss something fierce.

Tom hated packing and hated lugging bloody great trunks. On family holidays he felt more like his mom's Sherpa than her son. He would have been quite content living out of rucksack for the rest of his days.

That is why he took such glee in Nigel's instruction that he pack only his essentials. If worse came to worst he would be quite content living in his customary denims and greatcoat.

Nigel was quite correct in contacting his mother for his measurements. All the clothes in his closet fit perfectly. The two young men had a bit of fun dressing formally. The tuxedoes were dreadfully old fashioned, and both he and Nigel had bit of fun figuring everything out.

"What are these? Victorian?"

"Edwardian. Be careful there. These studs are real mother of pearl, not some awful plastic."

"What are the girls doing?"

"I imagine much the same. Only they have hair to contend with, poor things."

"All right. I am undone. What are these?" Tom held up the collar assembly. It consisted of five separate parts. "I'd give a go, but with the starch they just might snap in two. And I have no idea of how to tie a bow tie."

Nigel laughed. "I was hoping you would know how the whole damned thing worked. We are going to have to ring for valets."

"But there are no men."

Nigel held up a finger and depressed the intercom. "Hello in the kitchen. May Mister May and I have a pair of valets up in my room, please?"

"They will right up, sir."

"Thank you." Nigel broke the connection. "I better warn you, Tom, that there are practically no men at Nine Yews. There haven't been since 1843."

"Pull the other one."

"It is true. Except for the steward and game warden women fill all the posts. One of my grandfathers felt so sorry for the Irish during the Blight took it upon himself to rescue a dozen Irish orphan girls and employ them here."

"But all women?"

"The men had their labor. What did the women have? He was so pleased with the way the first batch took care of the place, he made it a tradition. Cooks, maids, valets, stable hands... all of them are Irish women."

"So why exclude the steward and the warden?"

"Ah here they are. Enter."

Molly and a fair blonde demurely entered the room and curtsied.

"Would you be so kind as to help us dress?"

"Yes, sir." Both young ladies answered.

The blonde had the same Irish lilt. She had fine teeth and eyes like green marble. Of the two, the blonde was slimmer, the more classic beauty. She and Molly set to work dressing the men.

"Valet too, eh?" Tom hushed to Molly.

"You men always seem to have women dressing you anyway, sir."

Tom chuckled at the show of spirit. "True enough."

"Now this beastie is to hide your studs." She rolled a heavy tongue of starched linen down and tucked it into the top of his pants. Maybe her hand went down a little farther than necessary. "There now. Now we strap on the cumber bun. It hides the belt. These folds are for cigar ashes. If you like those nasty things, sir." Molly moved behind him and clipped the belt of the cumber bun. Her hand stroked the top of his bum. It could have been an accident.

Mollie slipped on and adjusted the waistcoat and buttoned it with deliberation. Finally, she took up his bow tie and stood close, in front of him. She slipped the silk ribbon around his neck. "Shame on you, a fine gentleman, not knowing how to tie a bow tie."

"I kind of like how you do it." He grinned impishly.

Molly graced him with a jaundiced eye and her deft fingers fumbled. "Shouldn't you be wearing a kilt?"

"Then I would not need your help or have the pleasure of your company, miss."

Mollified, Molly completed her job, tugging at the folds to even out the sides. "There. Don't move!" Molly went for the whiskbrooms and handed one to the blonde.

As the two young women bent and brushed the two gentlemen, Tom and Nigel, shared meaningful looks. Both men tried to pretend the erection in their pants did not exist. If the valets noticed, they showed no sign.

Now for the final touch. From the dressing table, Molly removed a rosewood box and opened it. She and the blonde girl perused its contents.

"There!" Molly held up and silver and sapphire stickpin and matching cuff links. She proceeded to impale Tom's starched front to his shirt and join his cuffs. "Sapphire to show off your eyes."

Nigel's got the same treatment but with a diamond and gold stickpin.

Before Tom could formulate a reply, Molly stepped back. "Anything else, sirs?"

"No, that will be all, thank you."

"Dinner is at five promptly. Miss Doctor does hate serving a cold meal." Molly shut the door.

"Miss Doctor? You must be joking."

"No. The servants are addressed according to their occupation. And as my family has a rather naval tradition..."

"A 'doctor' is a ship's cook!"

"Right first time." Nigel smiled. "Except the maids, we can't just cal every one of the 'maid.' No different than that awful Book of Doom, Smiths, Coopers and all." The mantel clock chimed five in the evening. "Well. Time to go." Nigel took a deep breath.

Tom could tell he was dreading the reaction of his female guests to the formal dress.

Nigel, Tom and Stephen were the first to arrive. The dining room was exquisite. The banquet table was done in Romanov china and Faberge' silver. The oak room sparkled with candlelight. Behind each high back chair stood a woman servant. Tom was showed to his chair, a place of honor at the right hand of the host. Molly pulled his chair out for him. The blonde pulled Nigel's chair out for him. A freckled redhead pulled Stephen's out for him.

Then the women arrived. Tom inhaled sharply. They were gorgeous, luminescent in shimmering silk and jewelry. All the men stood.

Ling was arrayed in a porcelain white gown. Her hair was done up and held together with silver pins. Her neck was adorned with a diamond and platinum necklace, earrings and bracelet. Against her pale skin, the effect was quite ghostly, like the moon had entered the room.

Baroness Merica entered next. Her emerald green gown contrasted nicely against her rosy skin and cranberry red hair. Her gold jewelry was cast in a floral motif, inset with square emeralds. She had obviously worn such a prominent gown before and she carried herself with confidence and grace.

For the first time, Marjorie's mother impressed Tom. "Now I see what the Old Boy saw in her." He whispered to Nigel.

Marjorie entered next. She was adorned in royal blue silk, trimmed with yellow. The blue topazes and amethysts in her jewelry contrasted against her blonde hair perfectly. But her steps were awkward and worried glances ruined the grand effect she should have had.

Sooz walking in, looking like a pile of compost in the flowerbed. She had not changed. She still wore the cheap, dyed suede she had arrived in. She kept her eyes down, ignoring the beautiful table or her neatly attired companions. What should have been an entrance was more like a rushed sulk to her chair next to Stephen.

Ignoring her valet's instructions, Mrs. Mercia sat next to Tom with her daughter on her right. "Marjorie is to have no liquor. She is too delicate."

Ling was seated on Nigel's left, then Stephen, then Sooz. There was easily enough room for a dozen more guests.

The meal followed the classic five courses. For the salmon, they sipped to a Pinot Gris from an American vintner, Terra Blanca. For the venison, they switched to a Lemberger from the same vineyard. It went with the venison admirably. Sooz's servant was all too happy to fetch the canned lager she favored.

During the meal, each servant placed and removed the courses tactfully. While the guests and host dined it was they and Nine Yews that was the main topic of conversation. The Baroness began the inquisition.

"Nigel. You did not tell me that Nine Yews was so well appointed."

"I did not want you to think I was putting on aires."

"Hardly. I love this dress. And these jewels! However did you come by them?"

"My family have a proud naval tradition. I rather think those are left over from our old privateering days. I believe those are a Spanish set we received from Governor Morgan. No doubt stolen from a galleon at the point of a sword."

"Really? How awful."

"You can take them off anytime." Nigel held out his hand. The Baroness reflexively held them to her nape and the table laughed.

"You could sell them. Do you know how much they are worth?" Ling said sharply.

"I have a fair idea." Niles smiled. Tom knew that his friend was rather sharp on the topic of jewelry. "But I'd rather my guests enjoy them. Besides, we Cayms are forbidden to sell items of hospitality."

"Forbidden? By who? They are yours aren't they?"

"Let us just say that they belong to my family, shall we?"

"Hey! You! Do you guys belong to the Cayms too?" Sooz slurped at her fourth can of lager.

The servants remained silent. "Answer me!" Sooz stood and pounded the servants. "Or are you afraid to get sacked?"

Steward looked to Nigel who nodded. "Frankly miss, we enjoy our jobs here. The Cayms pay and treat us well. We know well what you mean but we do not see ourselves as slaves. Rather, we are a throwback to the time when people valued loyalty and service. 'The hand also serves, miss.'"

"A servicing hand." Sooze made a motion like she was wanking off.

If Stephen could have crawled under the table, he would have. He was thrilled to bring Sooz to Nine Yews. He had hoped for some lost intimacy. He just wanted to escape since the first day in the Rover. Sooz seemed determined to make his and everyone else's holiday an agony.

Tom tried to change the subject. "How long has Nine Yews been here, Nigel?"

"From pre-Roman times, in one form or another. We Cayms have been here as long."

"That is a long time." Commented Marjorie.

"As long as some Welsh families, like Stephens, and not as long as Ling's."

Ling took the compliment graciously. Tom noticed that the Baroness tensed at the implication that next verse would have been "And four times as long as the Mericans."

"When he was a bit in his cups, my grandfather used to say, We outlasted Romans, Plantagenats, Lancasters, Hanovers, Windsors, and we'll be here when England is dust.'"

"Treason!" the Baroness was outraged. Marjorie wondered if she should be outraged too.

"Do you think that is treason, Tom? Stephen? Ling? The idea that your family line may outlast England itself?"

Stephen studied his wine glass. Ling glared. Tom smiled at his friend's coup.

"Good for you! Fuck England. Bloody great ponces, the lot! Paganism, that's the way. Paganism and the Green Party!"

Every guest sat and thought, "Why on Earth did Nigel invite her? Why did she agree to come?"

There was an embarrassed silence and the guests chatted quietly amongst themselves, trying to avoid giving Sooze anything to react against.

Tom tried to be gracious, or "pour ashes on their heads" as his father put it. "I must say, Baroness, you certainly wear that gown well."

"Really?" she seamed honestly taken aback.

"Yes. The grace with which you entered the room was quite extraordinary, like a true lady."

The Baroness blushed and bowed her head slightly. "Thank you." That jerked her head up. "And Marjorie?"

Tom tried to be kind, "We all need a little practice. I needed help dressing myself."

"I see." She replied tersely.

Nigel finally thought of a way to break the silence. "Ah. Here is the dessert. I suppose it is time for me to tell the history of Nine Yews."

"A holiday in an old country home is not complete without the 'history of the house' speech, eh Nige?"

"Quite right, Stephen. But this will be my first time regaling my guests with it. Father usually did that in the past." A shadow seemed to pass over his face and then he continued. "Nine Yews began as a Roman outpost to protect the tin mines here abouts. There are some old shafts beneath and behind us. You can still see the outline of the fort if you wish. You may have noticed that this house is not built on the hills overlooking the sea but behind it. That comes from an old story. My ancestors were salmon fishermen and cattle 'barons' though back then that mean little more than robbers. We got along well with the Romans until they poisoned out the river with their tailings. Two sons of Caym led the tribes against them and were slaughtered. The third son of Caym was a druid, not a warrior, so he was enslaved. He was to be sent as prize to the Emperor Hadrian; a living trophy from the farthest edge of his wall. The day before he was to be taken away, the day he saw his bother's heads staked for crows, he had a vision. The heads of his kin advised him to not rush into battle as they had and he vowed it to be so. He was sent away to and lived a time with the Romans, traveling to the far reaches of the Empire with Hadrian's household. All the while he gathered secrets. Then he escaped the Romans and, disguised as a surgeon, acquired a job near the stockade. It was from that position he noticed that the patrols rested by a series of Nine Yews. The Romans had left the trees close to the road because they sheltered them from the wind.

He recruited a platoon of Roman deserters and his kinsmen for the rest of his plan. On a gloomy day, much like ours had been, he hid his band in the boughs of Yews and waited. When the Legionaries arrived, they were lax with their guard. They were in sight of their own stockade and they wanted a fire badly. When the fire had blinded their eyes, my ancestor attacked and butchered them to a man.

It was the deserters who marched into the fort that dusk, not the loyal patrol. The deserters were desperate, traitorous men under the mark of death who were only happy to end Roman Rule in this part of the Empire. They kept the gate open while the tribesmen poured in.

He chose the family motto and symbol from what his ghostly bothers advised him, 'Watch. Be patient.' And chose the crouching lion as our family symbol.

He established our keep here, behind the hills, lying in ambush and out of the winds. The rest is fairly typical story.

This particular manor started with funds from Captain Alfred Caym, a very successful Frigate Captain. Always he kept to family motto, 'Watch, be patient.' and used it successfully, looted a number of French Ports in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. Legend has it he could summon up fog to cloak his ship's approach.

Fortunately, his son Nigel was also able to successfully turn from looting French ports to merchant service. He needed the money too, Devon, his son, was a rake if there ever was one and chose to dissipate much of the family fortune even if it was he who completed Nine Yews here. That Devon was the first Lord of Nine Yews. He would have spent it all too, except he disappeared under mysterious circumstances."

"What 'mysterious circumstances?" Marjorie was intrigued.

"A local fisherman knocked on the door one winter morning, in 1861, wanting to sell his catch at usual. He knocked and when no one answered he entered. He found every one, all the servants and even six guests had vanished." Nigel made a dramatic gesture like a magician, "Poof! Without a trace."

"Vanished? Do you mean dead?" Ling was caught up in it.

"When I say vanished, I mean vanished. All their belongings were still here. They were gone. You may be wearing their dresses now."

Ling appeared frightened for a moment.

"What happened to them?" Marjorie asked dimly.

"No one knows. Some say pirates took them. But then why leave all the valuables? Some say that Devon had dabbled in strange and forbidden rites and the devil took them all. Some say that he took everyone on a tour of the caves and they remain there still. But why take the servants? Personally, I believe those who say that Devon Caym took one of his merchant ships and left to retire some place sunny and his guests went with him."

"Didn't the guest's family inquire?"

"Yes, they did. But...but nothing was ever found."

Tom looked into his Italian glass goblet. Devon was Nigel's father's name. He began to comprehend his friend's dread. He looked around the table, six guests. Only Stephen seemed to take in all the implications.

"Frightening." Marjorie was pale.

"That's a good old ghost story you got there, Nige!"

"Sooz, please!" Stephen spoke between clenched teeth.

Nigel chuckled. "No, she's right, Stephen. What is an old house without a few ghosts? Baroness, you are very well traveled you must have stayed in few haunted manses?"

"Yes. I remember one case in particular..."

The party actually livened up then. Everyone, except Sooz, had apparently been exposed to the supernatural at one time or another. It was quite like a camp out.

After the burnt cream and port, the guests retired to the billiard room. There were two tables. Tom, Nigel and Stephen took up one table. Ling puffed on a Churchill and showed Marjorie the finer points of the game on the other. The Baroness just watched and Sooz continued on her path to numb oblivion.

The port and cigars were excellent and Stephen was cleaning the men out.

"Sorry Nigel. I am not worth beans except for snooker."

"I should have a snooker table here."

"Snooker or billards, Stephen has the eye."

"You boys should get one of the American pocket pools games. Lots of things a man can play on that." Stephen interjected. "There. That's game."

"How about me?" Ling looked ready.

That turned out to be the best match of the night. Ling gave the man a run for his money, but eventually he won out. "Good game, lass. Where did you learn to play?"

"Guess." Ling racked her cue and left. Stephen chuckled.

It was late and it had been a long drive. Everyone was yawning and waiting for the host's cue. "We'll it looks to be ten o'clock. Tomorrow we outfit for the hunt and we hunt the next morning. Breakfast is as eight, and trust me, you don't want to miss it. Doctor is famous for her kippers."

Tom retrieved his coat and walked up the stairs with his friend. They said goodnight in the hall.

Molly was waiting for Tom in his room.

"Molly. What are you doing here?"

"I am you valet. I need to help you undress. Or would you rather ruin that fine suit for the next guest, sir?"

"Very well." He approached her, stuck the cigar in his teeth and spread his arms.

"Nasty things." Molly waved the smoke away from her face. She slipped off his jacket, waistcoat and the rest, draping each over the wingback chair by the fireplace. She stopped at his undergarments and handed him a silk dressing robe. "You will find your sleepwear and under your pillow."

"Really?"

"Now you better brush your teeth. And I'll be going."

Tom tossed the cigar stub into the fire. "All right. Have a good night, Molly."

"Sleep well, sir. I will be available if you wish anything else." Molly curtsied, turned and left.

Looking at her arse as she left, Tom grunted. It was too bad the night didn't end differently. In the lav, he met up with Nigel who was taking an aspirin.

"Hello, Nigel. That was some story you told tonight."

"Yes." He smiled and sipped a glass of water. "One of the parts I didn't tell you was that this holiday coincides with the date they disappeared. It would have given poor Stephen a cardiac arrest."

"Ha ha! That would have been bad." Tom took up a toothbrush. "What other parts didn't you share, gruesome body parts? Spectral heads floating in the halls?"

"No. The Baroness came close. The reason the families did not inquire after the six guests was because they were all disliked in the extreme."

Tom stopped brushing his teeth. "That is a coincidence." The hairs on the back his neck rose up. He chose not to dwell on his own familial problems. "That Molly is a bit of all right."

"I could tell you liked her."

"Am I that obvious?"

"It is your open nature that I find so appealing, Tom."

"Oh is it? And that blonde I see you with. She could be a fashion model. Going to play a little 'Lord of the Manor' with her?"

"That's enough, Tom." Nigel stormed out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

"What did I say?"

It had been a long day and Tom slept soundly in the plush feather bed. He rolled over and felt something warm and pillowly under his arm. Then the smell of fresh flowers greeted his nose. He rolled to his right and turned on the reading light. Molly was looking back at him.

"Did I disturb your sleep, sir?"

"Uh, yes. What are you doing here?"

"I hoped that would fairly obvious, sir."

"Molly, I don't know what possessed you to do this." Suddenly, her eyes went wide in alarm. "I am flattered, really, but I really should do this. It's not right for me to ask you..."

As she saw where his conversation was going, she relaxed. "And a nice young man you are to worry about a sweet, innocent lass, like me."

Tom reflected that she was at least ten years his senior and hardly the type of woman to be taken advantage of. He blushed at his own presumption.

She sat up too and put her arms around him. She was dressed in a simple, low cut with cotton shrift. "I am as far from Limerick as you are, a fine strong man like yourself." She tilted her head in a most becoming fashion but Tom was resolute.

He did not ever want to be one of those rich young lechers he went to school with, bedding every maid with a threat of the sack. "Sorry." But his prick hardened anyway.

Molly sighed. "You are noble thing, Tom Mays." She stepped out of the bed and tucked the covers. Tom noticed that she must have rekindled the fire for it lit her and the room up warmly and well. Orange light flickered across the curved surfaces of her face and slightly tousled auburn hair. She halted her exit at the bar. "You sure I cannot fix you a nightcap, sir?"

She tuned her backside to Tom and fixed him a drink. With the fire backlighting her shrift, Tom could clearly see the curve of her hind and thigh. Molly pivoted on her right leg so she stood right in front of the hearth. "Whiskey and ginger ale with ice, isn't? I noticed when I cleaned the glasses."

"I-I drink only my family's scotch, neat." Tom's mind was not on his exposure but hers. With the fire behind her, he could see her entire figure through her cotton nightshirt. She had a chest a fellow could bury himself in. He wet his lips.

"You sure, you don't want a taste?" She sipped. The ice clinked against the lead crystal.

"Maybe just a taste." Tom slipped out of bed and walked slowly towards Molly. She looked down to cover her small, soft smile. She handed him the glass. He sipped. "Perfect. Just the way I like it." He bent his head and kissed her. She kissed back. He put the class down and the man and woman embraced properly.

Tom customarily began with a little lip, then a little tongue but Molly was eager. Her mouth opened almost immediately. When he responded, she seemed to drink in his breath. Her tongue did not explore, did not entwine with his, it plunged in, desperate to wring every last once of pleasure from the kiss.

Tom was getting into the passionate embrace. He hadn't been kissed in so uninhibited a fashion since he dated that Italian bird. Molly ripped open his pajama top and buttons clicked across the hardwood floors.

She bit and nibbled down his chest and he tugged at her long, smooth, hair. She paused at his areolas, something no girl had done before. He could feel the heat of the fire on his back. He remembered her words, "..nothing like a good fire."

Molly hummed in agreement. Then she yanked down his pants. Tom's hard member bounced like a jounced tree limb. "So long, so long..." Were Molly's last words before she engulfed his prick. Occasionally, she muttered something so Tom's mind that sounded like, "so good" but he couldn't be sure with her mouth so full of him. She caressed his balls while she licked up and down the shaft. Occasionally she would rest on the head and tease it with her tongue.

Tom played with her locks and looked down, her could see her cleavage and an occasional peak of nipple. "You feel so good, Molly."

Without loosing contact, she looked up, past her brow, and smiled. Then she returned to her task. By her enthusiasm, Tom could tell she was going to stay there until he came, so he removed his normal restraint. He could feel the tingle at the base of his scrotum. When he came, he usually came quickly. "I am coming, Molly."

"Yes, mmmmm" Molly did not shy away. She did grip his cock in her fist. Her hand felt cool and smooth.

"I, ah...ah....ahhhhhhhhh." Tom felt his prick constrict squeezing out jet after jet of juice. It had been a while for him so the amounts were copious. Molly gulped it all down, one load after another. She licked his dick clean while Tom savored the moment.

Molly smacked her lips in satisfaction. "There now, that takes the wrinkles out doesn't it?" She stood and lifted her shrift over her head. Her melons lifted and dropped heavily. With her left hand, she cupped her left breast up in Tom's direction. "Now why don't you give these a nice suck? You've be simply dying to do it since you arrived."

Inflamed, Tom grabbed her back from under her arms and pulled up and to him. He buried his face in the gorgeous mounds, slavering in them, relishing them.

"Oh, you are certainly a teat man, Thomas Mays. Oooh , yes. That's right pull on the nipple, that's what Molly likes. Oooooommm." Her arms slid down his back and scratched across his ass cheeks. Her right hand caressed his already half erect member." When she could no longer wrap her cool hand around the shaft, she regained her hug on him and pulled him down onto the Russian Bear rug.

Tom enjoyed her tits some more and Molly enjoyed Tom enjoying them. Then Tom's mind wandered. He began to worry about being generous. All the girls he had fucked before always insisted on being given an orgasm. So he began his obligatory kissing towards her crotch.

But Molly stopped him. "Here now, let us not be getting all French on me. A good servicing is what I want, the way nature intended."

Tom looked up, not believing his luck. Though skilled, he never did liked the preliminary taste of pee and smell of shit cunnilingus entailed. Once a girl farted in his face.

"Well?" Molly spread her legs.

Tom stood and stepped away for his wallet. He dove for his pack of condoms. Not that he kept one for emergencies, but he, against all reason, hoped for some action this holiday from Ling or even Sooz if he was really desperate.

"You won't be needing that. My time is not right."

"Famous last words." Tom continued.

Molly sighed in exasperation and put three two more splits of wood on the fire. Then she lay back down. Tom knelt before her. "Work my tits a bit more, Tom. I may have lost some juice." Tom readily complied.

Molly's tits were firm, full and joyous. Tom was able to slip in her vagina and maintain his contact. "Oooh, that's right, Tom. That's what I've been needing so badly. Yes. Yes..."

Tom began by arching his back up and down, plunging his JT into her cunt. Molly turned her head to the side, bit her whole lower lip and grunted contentedly with each of his thrusts. "Feels so good, Tom."

Tom planted his strong arms to either side of her head. Molly wrapped her legs around him, up to his rump. Tom changed motion, from a pile driver to a rocking, back and forth. Instead of his abdominals, now his legs and weight applied the penetrating energy. Molly and the rug scooted a bit forward with each thrust.

Molly grew more excited. "Yes! That's it Tom! Give it to me good and hard. A good hard fuck! Fuck me! Fuck, me! Oh yes!"

The fire's heat grew intense enough to cause both lovers to sweat and something snapped in Tom. Normally, his mind would wander again or the girls would request some art to prolong her experience. Molly just wanted a good hard fuck. There, in the ancient house, before the hearth, something primitive called Tom and he answered. His strokes grew furious, almost desperate. Molly's legs fell limp at his sides. Her arms fell backwards, behind her head. She was helpless before his lust. Paradoxically, as her limbs grew more limp, her screams and shouts gained energy.

Finally in the throws of her orgasm, she snapped forward and bit into his shoulder. Instead of pain, Tom felt thrilled, exhilarated. It triggered his own orgasm like a hammer on a bullet. He arched his back for more penetration and roared.

Time passed in a haze. Tom awoke on his back. Molly curled on top of him, the fire and each other was their only warmth. Careful not to wake Molly, Tom crossed his body with his right arm and wiped his shoulder just above the collarbone. He looked at his fingertips, stained with a bit of half-dried blood. Molly had broken the skin. His shoulder didn't hurt, but then he always had a high tolerance for pain. He would have a mark, but he had to admit Molly was a fantastic lay. Then he took note of some discomfort down below.

His examination of his penis stirred the maid. "Mmm? What?"

Tom crooked his neck. The condom was still there, hanging ridiculously off his limp member. The end constricted painfully, refusing to loosen it grip on his circumcised head. It still held his charge. He didn't wasn't to disturb the placid scene but it did hurt. He gently guided Molly off and stood.

Awake now, Molly knelt and watched, wondering what he was about.

Tom reached down and removed the sack, careful not to spill its contents. He wondered were to toss it and looked at Molly. Her eyes were wide with excitement.

"Throw it in the fire."

"What?"

"Throw it in the fire. Quickly before it all dries."

"All right." Tom tossed it in. The latex burned with a flare. The smoke rose to the heavens.

Molly deeply inhaled the stench. "Blood, seed and oaken fire. It's a very powerful charm."

Tom reflected that his hand had stained the condom with blood.

"Now how about another round?" Molly presented her ass to him. Tom reached for another condom. Molly sighed and waited, prostrate.

With Molly's help, Tom inserted himself neatly and plunged away. Now that he knew what Molly liked, he didn't hold back. The harder her slammed into her the more she liked it, and so did he. His balls pendulumed and smacked upwards against her abdomen. Molly's arms went limp and she pressed her cheek against the pelt, which muted her cries.

Tom continued his assault. He looked down her ass with rising satisfaction, like two fat, fleshy teardrops. His hands scratched up both cheeks and Molly whimpered in joy.

Then she stood on her arms. "Do it again!"

Tom scratched and Molly shook. Tom then spanked her; his sound swats matching his thrusts. Her ass was a red as a cherry when she erupted in a shivering orgasm. Tom hunched over, grabbing both her jugs and shot his third load of the night.

He slipped out of her and stood. "Where some tissue? I need to wipe off."

Molly spun on her knees. "I'll take care of that." Carefully, so as to not spill a drop, Molly removed the latex sheath from Tom's sword. She handed it up to him and planted her lips on the shaft. He could feel her lolling tongue, wiping him clean.

He held up the cum-sack wondering what to do with it. Then he looked down at the tossed hair beauty and an odd idea came to him. He scratched open is love bite and smeared the new condom afresh. Then he tossed it on the hearth. Again it flared. He watched it burn so he didn't see Molly's smile.