The Farm Ch. 11

"Roll over."

He rolled himself gracefully on the round ottoman. Gordy reached beneath him and pulled his penis down and back through his legs. "Spread." He did. "More." He did. "Up on your toes and push those knees out." The young man circled his legs along the edge of the ottoman until only the balls of his feet touched the rug. He spread himself for Gordy. He pushed his ass up. "Just so." Gordy smacked him with the flat of his hand to watch the lovely muscles in his butt contract. "Just so."

Gordy reached down and lined the man's penis up directly with the exposed anus. He touched it gently. He ran his hand up the seam between the firm buttocks. He admired the handprint. He settled himself on the floor and poured more whisky into the small of the back. He rested the heavy glass between his shoulder blades. He stroked his fingers lightly down the tailbone and along the exposed crease and along the balls and pinned penis. Again and again until ripples appeared in the amber fluid. Gordy laughed and sipped from the hollow of his back. He stroked and watched. A glistening bead of moisture formed on the tip of penis. The young man's breathing grew ragged.

"Don't spill my drink."

The long stroke from shoulder blades through the pool of amber, down the stretched valley, a circle of the ring, across the balls and along the dorsal side of the penis to the tip to circle. Again the tremble of liquid. Gordy licked his lips. He bent his head and pulled a little whisky into his mouth. He let it trickle across the anus. The anus that fluttered open and exposed the thulian pink interior. More pearls ran from the head of the penis. Gordy wanted more.

"Make yourself ready."

A hand wreathed to the penis and the ass moved up.

"Oh no, not like that." The hand stopped. "Put your fingers up that hole. Make yourself open." The dark eyes peered through dark hair as the head turned. "Yes, you may adjust yourself." The glass removed.

Knees up and spread wide. Back arched. Buttocks high.

"A little something to ease your way?"

Gordy lifted a jar of viscous sweet-smelling jelly, removed the lid, and placed it where the young man could reach it. Gordy settled back to watch, his drink forgotten as one lubricated finger snaked between the spread thighs and touched the tiny star. Back and forth. The star winked and gleamed with lubricant. Into the first knuckle. In and out and a second digit.

"More."

Another dip of the fingers into the jelly. A third finger pressed. The chest pressed to the ottoman. A hand to spread the buttocks to ease access. Four fingers and the thumb pressed together to make a goose bill. The panting. The undulations. The hitching sighs. The fingers slow disappearance.

"Turn your face so I can see it." Gordy stroked his hard member. "Yes, like that."

Back and forth. In and out. Deeper. Gordy watched as the young man strained and twisted on his own hand. His penis leaked and twitched. The fingers pressed on. His eyes closed. His eyebrows contracted in concentration. Perspiration beads on his upper lip. A growl as his pleasure grew.

"Stop."

Gordy pulled the hand away. He pressed the head of his penis to the stretched opening and pushed in to the warm, slick depths. He groaned and grabbed the hips. He thrust ball deep. The slap of wet flesh, the urgent gasps from beneath him. The push back. The sweet contraction as the young man came. Gordy's own surge deep within at the first grip of the channel. He pulled out quickly, leaving the anus to gape. Gordy pulled the man over and plunged past the bruising lips and climaxed again on the lapping tongue. His toes dug into the rug. His pubic bone pushed hard against the nose. He looked into dark eyes made darker by widely dilated pupils.

"Wash me." Gordy fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.

Gordy placed his hat on his head took his gloves and coat. "Bill me at my club. I'll place a reservation next time." The early morning air invigorated him. Tomorrow he married.

The process of planning a marriage to Caroline Rockby flowed remarkably smoothly and with practicality and civility. They accomplished it over a cold lunch. He offered her independence, security, and elevated station. If she did not produce an heir, she promised to quietly divorce him and live on a generous pension. He promised to keep his demands on her person to a minimum and allow her to pursue her love of the arts. She promised to allow him his own life to continue with his private interests. Neither held delusions about their union. Both found the other a reasonable companion and attractive with similar interests in art, literature, theater, music, and free thinking. They married in a small ceremony with Lady Billingswoth and Farnham to witness. Caroline wore dove-grey.

They made an attractive couple. A small luncheon followed at the home of Mrs. Farnham. Ices were served.

The marriage was consummated quickly and with little pain. Gordy kissed Caroline on the forehead, thanked her, and left for his own room.

***

"Mr. Tidewell, you're going to wear that cloth out staring at it."

"Love, it's the only thing I have to prove Philip Maycott stepped foot in London."

"It's a strange thing or things. It doesn't tell me much."

"It speaks to me." Lorenzo ran his hand along the embroidered neck. "See here, it's an expensive piece of work. Someone spent a good amount of money on this shirt. See how it was cared for. It was folded carefully and straightened to prevent wrinkles. It was received out of, perhaps, gratitude or friendship and treated gently. I believe Philip fully expected to return for his clothes and wear them again."

"Dear, it's heathen cloth."

"It was important to Philip."

"When did he become Philip to you? You've never met him. He's no more than the man your client seeks. And for what purpose, Lorenzo? I fear it can't be wholesome."

"Pet, the man who gifted this garment is rich and powerful enough to send a surge of enquiry through the British headquarters and pay for my services. The man he searches for well respected by his fellow soldiers. His record reads like, er, perfection."

Petula bent and kissed her husband on a spot just above his weak-tea-colored sidewhiskers and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll finish your packing. You finish your letter to that Mr. Kataar person."

"My Dear Rahim," Alonzo wrote in a fine hand. "I have hopeful news at last concerning Philip Alexander Maycott."

***

The steam engine sighed by the platform at Paddington Station. Alonzo patted his ticket secure in his breast pocket. His grip rested at his feet. He planned to spend the night at an inn in the village of Gilling and travel the remaining distance in a rented trap. He didn't write to announce his arrival lest the cousins residing at Denenwy Farm, Philip Alexander Maycott's farm should he be found alive, warn him of the arrival. He watched the countryside slide by as the engine pulled him west.

What he didn't expect was the reaction from the innkeeper at the Maid and Swan in Gilling when he mentioned Denenwy Farm. His face closed down. His answers sharp. His whole attitude one of disapproval.

"Spose ye's going to deliver the farm into the hands of that Maycott cousin. Sad thing. Sad to think of young Philip as gone and dead."

"Did you know him, Philip?"

"A lovely boy. A fine young man. Shame all that happened."

"You knew him well?"

"This is nay London. There's no not knowing all that live about Gilling."

"What can you tell me about Philip?" Lorenzo showed him the handbill.

"Sad story that. He was left with his grandparents, that be Abraham and Abigail Maycott up ta Denenwy Farm, when his parents left to save souls on a five-year mission. Dead both of em from the bloody flux 'for they ever saw a Hottentot. But Abraham and Abigail saw Philip as a gift and a blessing. Loved him dearly. And he loved them. You've caught a bit of his likeness there." He tapped the paper.

Lorenzo pulled out his gold-washed mechanical pencil and black notebook and began writing.

***

Somerset 1864

Abraham met them at the tiny station. They stood in the swirling steam on the platform, the boy between them clutching their hands. Abraham scooped the boy up and looked into startling azure-blue eyes. His own eyes. The boy went to him easily. He kissed the boy and hugged him close. He pecked his daughter-in-law on the cheek and shook hands with his son. He pressed twenty pounds into his hand for bibles. They did not go to the farm. They left on the next train secure in their faith and the wellbeing of their only child.

Philip snuggled close to his grandfather as they made their way home. He didn't cry. He felt at once that this tall, broad-shouldered man loved him. The horse knew the way, and being a big and placid beast, Abraham had no reservations in handing the reins to Philip and let him play at driving them home. He ruffled the raven hair and told him he did well. The boy smiled up at him.

Abigail greeted them at the bottom of the hill and walked alongside the cart never taking her eyes from the solemn, beautiful face of the boy set on controlling the huge draft horse.

Philip missed his parents and loved his grandparents. He slipped into life on the prosperous Denenwy Farm. He soon knew the names of the milkmaids and of the cows. He was the pet of the farmhands and followed Rud Tricklebank, second only to Abraham in importance and power, absorbing knowledge as quickly as it was presented. Up at dawn and out the kitchen door not to return until Abigail called him in to supper. He explored the hills, fished the stream, climbed the apple trees, learned to milk, played with the barn cats, rode the backs of the big horses, drove the placid cows home for milking, fed the chickens, hunted eggs, chased and was chased by the geese, went out for harvest and helped gather the sheaves, he learned to plant and care for the vegetable garden under the tutelage of Abigail, he cried against his grandfather's chest when news of his poor parents reached Denenwy Farm, he attended the village school and astounded the master by learning his lessons as fully and completely as he learned the farm. On the weekend evenings he read to his grandparents and Rud from the books he borrowed from the school master. He lived with the childless couple who ran the Maid and Swan during the week, the trip from farm to town too great, and they treated him like their own child. On Fridays, Rud collected him and returned him to home, Denenwy Farm.

He grew honest and strong. He was happy and made those around him happy for seven years.

It was a blocked teat, mastitis, on a young cow and a new farmhand that brought it all to an end. Rud had gone to supervise the shoeing of the horses, Philip at his side. Abraham took the new man to teach him how to massage the blocked teat and milk the black infection from the quarter and apply warm poultices. He stepped back to let the hand take over the process and bent, hands on his knees to direct the ministrations. The cow kicked out in pain. The hoof caught Abraham in the head above his right ear. Rud and the new hand carried Abraham to his bed.

The doctor arrived and dressed the wound. He talked quietly with Abigail. He left powders and instructions for their use. Abraham never spoke again. He never left his bed. His eyes closed only when Abigail moved the lids. Philip was twelve, his parents six years dead. He sat by his grandfather and spooned soup past dry lips. He held his hand. He read to him. He changed the bandage and helped the maid bathe Abraham. He watched his body shrink and contract. He sat with Abraham for three hours after he stopped breathing. Abigail found him holding the cold hand and reading Robinson Crusoe to his grandfather's corpse. She had to pry his fingers loose.

Abigail buried her husband on the farm next to the empty graves of her only son and his wife, their bodies covered in quicklime buried in a mass grave on a distant continent. She arraigned for Philip to go away to school as she and Abraham had planned where a mind like his would benefit from advanced mathematics and the classics. She made sure the farm would pass to Philip on her death. She wrote to a distant cousin of Abraham's and asked him to come with his wife and help Rud run the farm. She went into the sitting room, folded her hands, and waited to join her husband.

Cousin Maycott and his thin wife arrived in the rain pulling all they owned in the world in a rattling handcart. The money sent to ease their journey gone to gin and dice. Cousin Maycott wiped the rain from his eyes and laughed. He saw his fortune in the valley before him. They moved into the stone house with four windows above and two below and began to care for Abigail and Denenwy Farm. Rud knew Cousin Maycott knew shite about farming, but he did his best out of respect for Abraham and love of Philip to make the farm pay.

Philip did not come home for Christmas at the suggestion of Cousin Maycott, but stayed with a few other boys and spent the holiday with teachers and staff. He wrote to his grandmother every week. He drew a picture of the school and sent that to the Maid and Swan. He drove back his sadness with studies and new friendships.

That summer he accepted an invitation to stay with Ralph at his industrialist father's summer home by the sea. There they did what young boys did when time was their own. They explored the tidal pools and watched the fishermen bring in their daily catch. They swam in the sea and collected eggs of sea birds. That fall he boarded the train with Ralph and a large cold lunch packed by Cook. He returned to school, his hostess's kiss warm on his cheek.

As the winter holiday approached, the headmaster called Philip to his office and told him he would not return to school following the break.

When Philip came home at Christmas, no one met him at the small station. He picked up his valise and walked the seven miles to his farm. He walked through the farmyard and in the falling dusk noted that all was not well. There was disarray and ill repair evident, but he was home. He was almost fourteen.

A strange thin woman let him in at the kitchen door and informed him he'd miss supper. She told him to call her Mrs. Maycott. She took his fortnighter and led him to Abigail's sitting room. His grandmother sat on a wooden chair near a small fire. A small woman in a black dress too large. Her skin yellow and thin as tissue paper. Her eyes red rimmed. He bent and kissed her cool cheek. She didn't move.

"Grandmother, it's me, Philip." Philip knelt beside her and lifted her hand.

"Philip?" A blue-veined hand extended.

The voice came from behind him. "And so it is. I'm your Cousin Maycott come to help your grandmother."

***

Alonzo wrote a few notes. The innkeeper, in the end, had little to tell. Lorenzo learned that Philip boarded with him during the week to allow Philip better access to school. He learned that the farm fell on troubled times after the death of Abraham. He learned that Philip was recruited out of the village into the army. He realized that the innkeeper hid something. Guilt? Philip? The next statement shattered that misconception.

"We all grieved to learn the lad died?"

Alonzo took a deep breath, "It's the belief of the army and myself that Philip is alive."

The man's knees buckled; Alonzo feared he would fall and reached to grab his elbow but was rebuffed.

The innkeeper put his hand out to Alonzo. "Where is he?"

"I hoped to find him here."

"Never." That was all he said.

***

Cousin Maycott stood there in his black coat the lapels shiny with grease. He wore his bowler hat in the house. His shirt stained with what looked like gravy and egg yolk. Philip stood and extended his hand.

"Yer room's been moved. The wife and me took yers to be close to Granny should she call out in the night. Joan, Mrs. Maycott to you, will show you up."

Philip moved to collect his valise.

"Leave it be. Joan, light the boy up to his room."

Philip followed his Mrs. Cousin Maycott to a small room on the third floor where the housemaid slept. Mrs. Cousin pushed the door open. The room dusty and still.

"Had to let the girl go. Poor harvest."

Philip was left without a candle. The room was cold. The door locked. He lay down on the narrow bed that still smelled of Dolly's special lavender sachet gifted to her by his grandmother and fell asleep. He woke shivering in the dark and wrapped himself in the blanket. In the morning he planned on finding Rud. In the morning things would look better.

Mrs. Cousin shook Philip awake long before dawn. "Get ye down to the kitchen if ye want to eat."

Philip rubbed his eyes, found his shoes, and made his way through the dark house to the kitchen. A bowel of mush without milk. Cold tea.

"Rud needs ye to milk. Eat if yer hungry." He was and spooned the mess into his mouth. He walked out into his grandmother's garden and paused at the gate to look up at the cold stars.

Rud sat on a milking stool his cheek pressed against the side of a brown cow. The rhythmic splash of milk in the pail.

"I'm here to help you, Rud." The man turned his head and a wide grin split his face.

"Philip, yer here at last." And Philip was engulfed by strong arms and held at arm's length and hugged again. "We've missed ye, but yer here now. And tall and handsome and welcome." And embraced again.

"I've missed you too." A bit alarmed by the intensity of the greeting, Philip struggled to free himself from the strong arms.

"Too old are ye to hug." Rud faked a frown and dipped a tin cup into the pail and handed the warm milk to Philip. "I doubt the tight bitch gave ye much for breakfast."

Philip hid his silence on the subject in the cup. And turned to milking. They worked side by side throughout the day. Rud held his tongue and let Philip take in the condition of the farm. It was well past dark when Philip let himself in at the kitchen door. Another cold bowl of the same mess he had at breakfast and another mug of weak, cold tea. Philip ate and thought on all he'd seen that day. So many absent from the farm. So much disrepair. The animals few. He walked leaden legged to his grandmother's parlor to find Cousin Maycott and his wife sitting by the fire.

"Yer granny's ta bed. Best ye do the same."

"Cousin Maycott, I have questions for you."

"Time for that tomorrow."

Philip made his way to the small attic room and slept in his clothes too exhausted and hungry to think.

Every day after that was the same until he pressed his cousin to open the farm books to him. He received his first beating and was locked in the attic room. He felt too ashamed to tell Rud as they worked the next day. He confronted his cousin again. He earned another beating.

On a morning in the new year he walked out under the stars and turned left to the road that led to town. Abraham's solicitor found Philip sitting on the top step waiting for him. He didn't like the worn look of the boy and the purple rings under his eyes and brought him in to the office and put him near the fire. He sent his secretary round to the Maid and Swan for buns and tea. He explained to Philip that until he reached his majority, he and Denenwy Farm were in the care of Cousin Maycott. He was sorry. His hands were tied by the law and the paper Abigail signed. Philip walked home.

Cousin Maycott stood in the kitchen waiting for him. He dragged Philip up the stairs to the attic room and threw him on the bed. Philip watched as he pulled his belt free of the loops. He braced himself for another beating. But what happened next defied his experience. The cousin wrapped the belt around his neck and pulled him close.

"Yer granny's in poor health. I'd hate to see anything happen to her. She's an old woman and no one'd be the wiser. "Ye'll make no more trips to town." He tightened the belt and patted Philip on the cheek. "Do ye understand me, lad?"