Lady Pixie's War Ch. 01: Storm Clouds

The past is seldom either clear or simple, as I was explaining to the young man who came to interview me this morning. He is writing a biography of my late husband, Archie, and asked me why it was that the dear old boy stuck with appeasement when it was surely clear that Churchill was "right?" After all, as he reminded me, I had been on the same side as Churchill. He seemed shocked when I said:

"Like a stopped clock, Churchill was right twice a day."

He looked at me.

"But why didn't you anti-appeasers overthrow Chamberlain?"

Oh dear, I thought to myself, where does one begin?

Well, for me, politics began when my late husband, Archie, became an MP for Oldham in 1924. He was, as befitted the son of a Duke, a Conservative MP. As it happened, he fell ill during the campaign, and I went up and worked for a victory. Those familiar with my career [see "Lady's Maid"] will know that I got caught up with the life of the people who lived there, and ended up replacing Archie as MP when he went to the Lords in 1929. I won two further elections [see "Lady Pixie"] before being promoted to the Lords myself. Archie held office until 1941.

Thus the record for posterity.

As I tried explaining to the young man, Archie represented the solid, unthinking, middle of the Tory Party. There was no "anti-appeasement" movement. There were those of us who disagreed with Chamberlain. But the idea of supporting Churchill was anathema to myself, and many Tories, as well as the whole Labour Party.

The young historian asked why I had not carried on my career in the Commons, and I gave him some guff about Baldwin wanting me in the Lords. That was true as far as it went. What I was not about to tell the young thing was that the Press had gotten hold of evidence that I was an active lesbian and had intended to smear me at the next election, with the active encouragement of Chamberlain's political managers.

I had gained a reputation as "Pinko Pixie" the "Red Tory", because of my views on the need to help the victims of the Great Depression. But my commitment to the working class had taken on more concrete forms in the shape of my sexual relationships, first with my maid, Annie, and then a series of working-class girls in Oldham. Not even the press had picked up my participation in what they would have dubbed "unnatural activities" in Berlin in the early 1930s.

Had I agreed to back appeasement, I had been assured that "all that" would be forgotten; but as I loathed Nazism and could not, the threat remained.

The long-time Tory leader and Prime Minister, Baldwin, who rather liked me, had promoted me to the Lords to save me from trouble, but once he retired in early 1937 and Chamberlain succeeded him, the pressure became overt.

As a (very) junior Minister, I was invited to an interview with the Chief Whip, David Margesson. Now, I am as partial to the Whip as any other lesbian with submissive instincts, but not with men - and not the sort of Whip Margesson was.

It is sometimes thought that the parliamentary Whips have a "black book" which they use to persuade MPs to toe the line. This is not true. They have a whole library of them. When I went into Margesson's office the Commons, he had a file open on his desk.

"Lady Cynthia," he began, managing to sound condescending even as he said my name, "we have given you plenty of leeway. We recognise the good work you do as a Church Commissioner, but for goodness' sake, your husband is a member of the Government. If he can't keep you in order, I see I shall have to. Either you vote with the Government, or we shall remove the Whip."

As he spoke, he seemed to turn the pages. Having already been threatened with "disclosure" I knew what his words meant. Damn it, I thought, enough of this.

I looked straight at him. Enough was enough.

"As I feel sure your file tells you, I am not insensible to the attractions of the Whip."

I could see him flush.

I grinned inwardly. Like so many men of his type, he was uncomfortable with the idea of women having sexual instincts.

"Look, are you going to do as you are told?"

A veritable picture of innocence, I looked at him:

"As I feel sure your file tells you, I like to be a good girl!"

Looking at him, I realised the fool thought I was flirting with him.

"Well," he blushed, "good girls do get a reward of course, Lady Cynthia."

"You didn't really understand that file, did you?"

He grew flustered at the challenge and the unexpected direction of the conversation.

"What on earth do you mean? There is enough here to finish your career."

"And," I added, "enough in my papers to do the same for my husband's career and that of half a dozen others who like to go with Guardsmen in Hyde Park."

He looked as though the veins in his neck were going to burst.

"You, you, that would be blackmail!"

"And you threatening me with 'disclosure' would be what?"

He tried staring me down. He failed.

"I will do you a favour, Margesson. I am resigning the Whip and my membership of your party. And as for the Whip - I suggest you shove it where the sun does not shine - or where some of your MPs would like it!"

With that. I rose to my full four foot ten inches (including heels) and left his office - and the Tory party.

By the time I got back home to Eaton Square I had calmed down. But I could see from the fact that Archie immediately came downstairs to see me, that there had been a telephone call. The dear boy usually stayed in his study until the maid called us for dinner, but I could see from the agitation on his face that he was upset.

"Pixie! What have you done?"

He did not often raise his voice to me or show anger. On the whole we got along swimmingly, his boys buggered him, and my girls and I rubbed along happily, and mutual tolerance ruled; but this, well, this was something new.

"What have I done?" I asked, stressing the word "I". "I have told Margesson to go fuck himself with his Whip."

For a moment I thought Archie was going to explode, but when he did, it was into a fit of giggles:

"Oh Pixie, I DO wish I could have seen the look on his face, silly arse!"

"You don't mind?" I asked, more than slightly puzzled.

"Oh officially yes, of course I do, and I shall tell the old bugger that I have told you off, but sod it, where on earth else would I find a wife like you?"

That actually rather touched me. For two people who'd never so much as shared the same bed, and whose only kiss had been the one at the altar, we got along just fine, and time had even lent affection to our sham of a marriage.

The poor boy then looked at me.

"Golly Pix, you're not going to join Labour, are you? That would be a bit hard to explain, what with me being a member of the Government and all that."

"Darling one," I explained to him, "I'd no more do that than sleep with a man."

"Phew! Thank goodness for that Pix. You will be a good girl and pipe down in the House, won't you?"

"Archie, darling, you know I am always a good girl!" I giggled, which set him off.

And so it was we settled into a new routine.

I missed being a Minister, not for the office, but for the way it allowed me access to do some good to those effected by the economy. As a local MP I had been involved closely in the affairs of my constituency, and as a Minister, even one in the Lords with no constituency, I had access to power to be helpful. And yet, as it transpired, I could still do some good.

Through my position in the Lords and as a Church Commissioner, I was able to work with the charity I had helped set up to promote what we called the "New Deal." It was satisfying, but increasingly overshadowed by other anxieties.

As I explained to the young historian, most of the Tory party was very happy with Neville Chamberlain. He was a sarcastic swine in the Commons, wiping the floor with the Labour opposition, and something of an autocrat. Where Baldwin had rather let things drift, Chamberlain gripped them. What MPs care about most is keeping their seat, and the new Prime Minister seemed the man to give the Conservatives what would, in effect be their third consecutive term of office by winning the election due in 1940. From that perspective, "Neville", as they always called him, was "the man." That he also seemed to have a plan for dealing with Hitler, made him even more attractive to most of the party, and that fact that he was going to keep us out of another war, was a big vote-winner in the country.

Anyway, as Archie used to say on the rare occasions we discussed foreign policy, what was my alternative? It was a good question, not least since I could not agree with Churchill's answer. He seemed to think that if we went to war with Hitler, the Americans and the Soviets would join us. He could never explain why they would, which made his argument less than persuasive. Mine was simpler. We could not, I argued, live peaceably with a man who wanted to use force to achieve his aims and who demonised a whole race.

I recall once, at Lady Londonderry's, being called a "Jew lover", for holding that view. In the aftermath of what happened after 1941 I'd love to be able to claim that was my motive, but it ran deeper. There was a deep evil about Hitler and his regime. Morally it stank to high Heaven. I had no idea how we could win a war against such a man, but knew that we had to. That, I was told, was "woman's logic," and I was often accused of thinking with my heart. That I was right gave me no comfort. But I did, via an odd route, have a chance to help the struggle, even if my warnings went unheeded.

London is a city of Clubs. Archie was a member of so many, I used to wonder, sometimes, why he bothered to have the Eaton Square house. I belonged to just one, The Queen's, known to its members as the "Saff," as so many of us were sapphists of one sort or another.

I was introduced to it by my mother-in-law, Lady Cecily, with whom I would, from time to have, have sapphic experiences. Most of our members were at best (from my point of view) bisexual, but it gave me a place to relax with women who shared my interests. And that, thanks to Lady Cecily, was where I met the Honourable Rebecca Stewart, or, as I came to call her, "Squirty Beccy."

Lady Cecily introduced her to me when she came up for the "season," that cattle market for aristocratic young women who were looking to make a good match. As a sufferer myself, I had the deepest sympathy for any girl subjected to it. The Hon. Rebecca was niece to Lord Londonderry, and her father, Lord Robert Stewart, was a junior minister at the Foreign Office and an acquaintance of Archie's. His London flat was undergoing much-needed maintenance, and so poor Beccy risked lacking a London base - which was where I came in. Lord Robert asked Archie if his daughter could stay with us, knowing, apart from anything else, that she would be safe from her host's wandering hands; he knew nothing about mine!

"Pix, darling, have you met Beccy? Rebecca, this is my daughter-in-law, Lady Fortescue."

"Oh do call me Pixie, darling," I said, "everyone does."

"Pleased to meet you Lady, I mean, Pixie. Do call me Beccy. Would it really be okay if I stayed with you for the season? That's jolly nice of you. I promise not to be a pest."

As I looked at the blushing nineteen-year-old, tall, elegant, her small, but perfectly shaped breasts just giving the merest hint of cleavage, my only thought was that I might end up wanting to pester her. But, of course, I corrected myself at once. I was not a predatory lesbian, far from it. Indeed, since Bella had been posted to Rome and I had left Oldham and Sally the mill-girl, my own sex life had been non-existent. At thirty-seven, I was hardly likely to find fresh lovers; or so I thought.

We had afternoon tea - with fruit scones, and chatted. Beccy seemed a very "naice" young lady, by which I mean to signify that she was terribly sweet. She chatted away about everything and nothing. At long last my mother-in-law had to go, and it was only after that, I saw another side of Beccy.

"I say, Lady P," she sighed, "grateful as I am to Lady C, she scares the knickers off me!"

"I know what you mean, darling," I said, pouring her another cup of tea, "but when you get to know her, she's a sweetheart - as long as you mind your ps and qs."

She giggled.

"I really am frightfully grateful, Lady P. Mama is determined to get me off the books this season, and with the flat being done up, I'd have been up the proverbial without a paddle. I say," and she stammered suddenly, "could I, erm, ask you about the birds and the bees?"

Oh bless! I thought.

"Has your Mama not had that chat with you, darling?"

The poor thing blushed beetroot red. It was a good job we had taken a corner seat.

"No, she hasn't, and, well, I don't feel I can ask her. Would you mind awfully if I asked you, it's just, well, you are a younger married lady and may, well, you know."

At that the darling trailed off.

"You mean that Archie and I may still have marital relations?"

"Yes, just so!" She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, my darling, I am not quite sure how to tell you, but Archie and I have never had marital relations?"

I could see the shock on the poor girl's face.

"What, never! Are you a virgin?"

Well, I thought, there was no tactful way of putting it, so I put it to her as straight as I could.

"Darling, Archie likes other men, and I like women, so we rub along nicely without any need for that messy stuff."

To my surprise, Beccy looked intrigued rather than shocked.

"Oh golly! You mean you are like Felicity?"

"Felicity?" It was my turn to be puzzled.

"Felicity Ponsonby, our head girl, who was a well-known muncher!"

I had heard the term, graphic, but accurate in its simplicity.

"Fred's daughter?" I asked, naming yet another chum of Archie's; it was a small world.

"Yes, lovely girl, she married Bertie Fellowes last season, I'd guess it's a bit like you and Lord F."

I smiled.

"Well, that is as it may be, but yes. I can, however, run you through the mechanics."

"Oh would you, Lady P, that would be jolly of you!"

From the glint in her eye I was beginning to wonder whether the Hon Rebecca was quite the innocent she seemed.

"I shall darling. Now then, if you are ready, let's get a cab back to Easton Square. Has your luggage been sent there already?"

"Yes, Lady C said it would be fine."

"Well, what Lady C says goes," I giggled, recalling her firm hand on my arse when I had queried something or other.

And so it was that the Hon Rebecca Stewart came to stay with us.

Archie was charmed by her, as she was by him. Absent that unspoken but potent potential male pounce, Beccy relaxed with him, and they got on splendidly. I had the maid show her to her room, and went up later, before dinner, to see how she was.

As the maid had unpacked her luggage, Beccy was sitting at the dressing table doing her make up.

"We tend to dress for dinner at home, I'm assuming you and Lord F do?"

"One has to keep up standards, darling, so yes. Now, tonight there's just the three of us, so no need for full bib and tucker!"

Cook, as ever, had prepared a perfect dinner, and afterwards, Archie retired to his study, or wherever, leaving Beccy and I alone.

I showed her around the house, making it clear that only Archie's study and bedroom were out of bounds.

"You really wouldn't want to walk in on the dear boy in flagrante."

She giggled.

"Oh course not. I say, Lady P, about that thing we talked about, would it be frightfully pushy of me to ask whether you had a bit of time to brief me before bed?"

The look in her eye caught my attention.

"I tell you what," I said, why don't we have an after-dinner snifter and then change for bed. I'll wander along to your room about nine-thirty. How does that sound?"

"Ideal!" She grinned.

So it was that I got myself ready for bed, and, putting a dressing gown over my night-dress, went in to see Beccy.

My first thought was: "what a vision." Her silk night-dress was low cut and diaphanous without the usual covering, and unusually, was knee-length, revealing two shapely calves.

"You like?" She smiled sweetly. "I thought it might be easier to dispense with some of the overwear. Oh," she grinned, "and I thought no knickers necessary."

At that, I felt a distinct tingle between my thighs.

"What did you have in mind, Beccy?"

"Oh Lady P, I thought I should place myself in your hands. I am sure you will show me what to do."

That look would have seduced anyone, let alone a rather lonely lesbian who suddenly remembered the joys of sapphic love.

I was, I admit, taken aback. All my life, from my maid Annie through the Bella and Sally, I had been the submissive. Suddenly, Beccy wanted me to take a lead. Gosh, could I? Well, I couldn't let her down, that was clear enough. So, gulping, I squared my shoulders and, looking up to her five foot nine from more than a foot shorter, I said:

"I think we could slip those shoulder straps off darling, men like breasts, so let me show you how they should be played with."

"Jolly good!"

Beccy was nothing, it seemed, if not willing and eager. She slid the straps down revealing two small breasts (I later found out she was 32b) whose nipples were already hardening. As they were at face height, I moved forward and kissed both nipples, which made Beccy gasp.

"Oh golly! That feels sooo nice!"

I looked up.

"Have you played with them at all?"

She blushed.

"Well, occasionally if I leave my bra off, they rub against my gown and make me feel rather nice."

I smiled.

"Well, let's see, shall we?"

Gently but firmly, my tongue swirled around her left nipple before I let my lips fasten onto it with a kiss. Then, slowly but surely, I sucked on it, pulling it out, my right hand on her right breast, finger and thumb teasing its nipple. I felt her hands on my shoulders, steadying herself. The noises she was making were all I needed to know that she was enjoying it.

"Oh gosh! Oh my goodness, that's sooo divine."

After repeating the process with her right breast, I stood back.

"Now, did you feel a tinging anywhere else other than your nipples?" I asked.

"Yes, Lady P, my, erm, fou-fou is all tingly."

It was rather delightful to hear her use that long-forgotten word, so I went with it.

"Now darling, if you part your thighs and run a finger between your fou-fou's lips, tell me what you feel?"

Blushing, she did as she had been told.

She sighed heavily as her finger slide between her swollen lips. She was not particularly hairy there, and I had a good view of just how swollen she was.

"Let me see!" I ordered.

"Yes, Miss," she said, automatically.

"What is that?" I asked, looking at the wetness on her finger.

"My honey, Miss."

The flushed face made her look even more adorable.

"Let me taste you."

She looked shocked.

"Do men do that, Miss?"

Smiling, I told her I had not the foggiest idea, but I did.

As I sucked on her finger, tasting her juices for the first time, my eyes locked with hers. I could see a longing there, and a naughtiness. She was a girl testing herself. I would make sure she passed.

"You taste divine!" I whispered to her.

"Now, lie back on the bed and open your legs for me."

"Yes, Miss!" Was all she said.

I had thought she might ask whether men did what I was about to do to her, but perhaps, anticipating that my answer would have been as before, she did not.

As she lay back, I told her to flex her knees, and, lying between those matchless thighs, I used my fingers to peel back her lips. She moaned loudly.

"Oh Miss, oh that, that feels sooooo!"

The tip of my tongue ran along her slit, wriggling and swirling, teasing her wet inner lips which were a ravishing shade of dark pink. Then, as she writhed and gripped the sheets, I lightly flicked her clitoris which made her arch her back and cry out.