The Memoirs Of A Young Victorian Lady

I gasped as I saw the dress she removed and held out to me. I had bought it almost on a dare, shopping with my friends, wishing for one new dress for my voyage, but had never worn it, being most nervous once I tried it on alone. It was red, a dark crimson hue, and made from the new rayon fiber; it was rather shiny and supple, and molded itself well to my form, with a simple bustle and peplum. This, in truth, was part of the problem. The fabric was so clingy and the bodice so low cut that when I put it on in my cabin and looked at myself in the mirror, I instantly felt as if a slattern was staring back. I promptly removed it, vowing to dispose of it as soon as possible.

"I cannot!", I cried. "I shall look like a trollop!"

Bessie simply smiled. "On the contrary, you will look ravishing. I must warn you, your Uncle's gray hair is quite premature; he is younger than he appears and has a marked appreciation for the ladies. If I owned such a dress, you may be assured that I would wear it when with him!"

Shocked, I gasped out, "But he's my Uncle!"

Jenny responded to this. "Yes, but a most distant relation nevertheless."

"I find him a most fascinating man, and a most eligible bachelor as well. As much as I love my dear sister, if offered the choice between her and your Uncle, Jenny would find herself on a dustheap!", said Bessie.

Jenny laughed at her sister's remark. "You are so much gentler than I, dear Bessie. I would use arsenic on you, given the choice."

At this we all laughed. "It's simply so, well, intemperate." I explained how I had come to purchase it.

"Regardless, this is the dress you should wear. I am sure that Mrs. Rourke will find something equally pretty. She has been here for several days already, and has already begun to gauge your Uncle's preferences.", said Bessie. It was this last remark that swayed me. While I was already beginning to like Siobhan and enjoy her company, no woman can resist such a challenge.

As we all suspected, it was impossible for me to wear the dress over one of my shifts, and the bodice was so low that even my corsets would show. I completely refused to even consider going downstairs without undergarments, and we were stumped. Then Jenny bolted from the room, crying, "I'll be back!", while Bessie and I considered the problem of my wardrobe. Within minutes the young maid had returned, bearing several silken items, quite lacy and black. She held them up.

Her left hand held a most abbreviated pair of bloomers, her right held a foundation garment, what she called a 'French brasierre'. She explained how she thought that Charity, the pastry cook, and I seemed to be of the same size, and she had obtained them on loan. When I asked how she could afford such fineries on a cook's wages, Jenny grinned and told me they had been provided by a gentleman friend.

The bloomers I could understand, despite their scandalous nature, and I slipped them on. They had India rubber in the waistband and fit well. Jenny and Bessie had to assist with the French brasierre, since I had never worn such a thing before. It basically consisted of two half-cups, sheer and black, to support my boobies, with a strap across the back and one over each shoulder to hold the affair on and in place. Once dressed in it, my breasts were supported well, being both secure and snug, yet since the cups were only of a partial nature, my boobies rested atop them, feeling free and unencumbered. My small nipples were left uncovered by the black lace. I slipped into my stockings and shoes, then stepped into the dress, which Jenny buttoned behind me while Bessie held my hair back. They led me to the floor length mirror.

It was no sixteen-year-old trollop in the glass. Cinderella had been transformed into the Princess! I gasped as I saw myself, and turned back to the maids. My eyes welled up with tears as I hugged them fiercely. "How will I ever repay you for your kindness?", I gushed.

Bessie simply shrugged this off, but Jenny replied, "I want to be invited to the wedding." I playfully swatted her at the scandalous thought.

"No jewelry?", asked Bessie. At my negative response, she continued, "Well not to worry, a scarlet ribbon in the back to hold your hair will be adornment enough. Besides, the best jewelry is that provided by a gentleman, and with dresses like that, you shall soon be swimming in diamonds and pearls."

Jenny reached out and fondled my exceedingly exposed bosom. "With jewels like these, who needs diamonds and pearls?"

When I entered the smaller of the two dining halls I discovered that I was the last to arrive, but only by seconds. Both Uncle James and Mister Singh were greeting Siobhan. Bessie had been correct in her assumption of my Uncle's informality, as his attire was no more formal than that in which he had retrieved me from the train, although it was more suited for the residence. It was then that I remembered and considered their comments concerning the distance of our relation, and his high degree of suitability as a husband, and I began to consider such a possibility in earnest. Mister Singh had changed only slightly. I was soon to learn that he was almost always attired in linen pantaloons, shirt and long jacket, and that his dagger never left his side. Jenny and Bessie were also correct in their assessment of Siobhan's probable attire. While her bodice was nowhere near as extravagant as mine, her Kelly green ensemble suited her hair and fair coloration perfectly, and her dress had a most daring slit to mid-calf, through which an exceedingly fine petticoat could be seen. We smiled and hugged in greeting as the cheerful rivalry began, and as we marshaled our resources I could sense that my bountiful bosom would be vying with her much longer legs for the attentions of any gentlemen we chanced to do battle over. I immediately understood the necessity of obtaining undergarments of my own of the requisite nature, and several more dresses with the necessarily abbreviated bodice.

"Verily we have died and gone to Paradise, for where but in Paradise could we find two such houris.", commented the Sikh, to which my Uncle agreed. I asked Ahkbar to explain, and blushed as he described the Musulman vision of heaven.

Mrs. Pembleton and several of her instructresses had held classes of a most highly informal nature regarding the means and methods needed to impress oneself upon a gentleman, all the while without seeming to be in pursuit. They all agreed that the single tactic most suitable for such a conflict was to get the gentleman to talk about himself! In the meantime, one simply bats one's eyes while gazing adoringly at the intended victim, hanging on every word, with an occasional breathy sigh at those moments he thinks he is being most interesting. Certainly, in my present dress, a breathy sigh would focus a gentleman's attentions marvelously! Mrs. Rourke had apparently attended the same classes, because she was able to match me sigh for sigh, but since her arsenal was beneath the table while mine was above, I had the better of the battle.

Although my Uncle attempted to deflect our questioning with questions of his own about me, both Siobhan and I kept the conversation squarely upon his history, and Uncle James acceded to our interrogation with a considerable degree of grace, albeit with a considerably lesser degree of forthcoming. "You have so much art from India, Uncle James. You must have spent time in that country.", I mentioned.

"You seem familiar with the country yourself. Have you ever been there?", he asked.

"Oh, my, no. However, one can not grow up the daughter of an English officer without learning something about the subcontinent.", I remarked. "For instance, I know that Mister Singh is a Sikh, since all Sikhs have the last name Singh, which means lion in their tongue."

"Most perceptive, Miss. Few in this country would understand that.", commented Ahkbar, eyeing me with interest.

"I quite agree, Ahkbar.", agreed my Uncle. "It's unfortunate that Mister Pinkerton is no longer with us, as I am sure that Caroline would have found profitable employment in his agency!"

"Mister Pinkerton?", I asked.

"Allen Pinkerton. He was a private detective of considerable repute, similar to your Mister Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, only real. He died ten or twelve years ago."

"So, how did you make your way there and back? May I assume you met Mister Singh there?", interjected Siobhan. Our genial battle for my relation's attentions continued with a renewed attack from the opposing general! Still, I had learned much from a military background, and felt confident in my abilities to defeat my opponent. An energetic sigh riveted his attention back to my almost nonexistent bodice.

"Well, if you must insist, yes, I spent a number of years there in my youth."

"Were you born there?", asked my rival.

"Oh, no. Actually I was born on a farm in Morristown, New Jersey. That's where our branch of the family settled.", he said to me. "But when I was Caroline's age, I began to develop a severe case of wanderlust, and combined with a complete hatred for staring at the south end of a north bound mule, I ran away from home. I rode the rails to San Francisco, in California, then worked my passage on a clipper ship to the Orient. When we stopped in Madras, I gathered my meager possessions and departed the ship's company, rather informally if I might say.", he continued.

"I don't understand.", I admitted.

"He jumped ship.", explained Ahkbar, "perhaps with the contents of the ship's safe, eh?" Siobhan and I were properly scandalized at the thought.

"Hogwash! I was simply obtaining the pay which I had worked for! That captain wouldn't have paid us till we got back to the States, of all things.", Uncle James protested, tacitly admitting the charge. "Well, after that, I simply wandered the subcontinent, met Ahkbar, and then, after a few years, came home. I decided that since farmboy hadn't worked out so well, maybe I should try robber-baron."

Ahkbar commented in his foreign tongue, at which my Uncle laughed and replied in kind. He refused to comment or translate. Most curious!

We continued to press for details, without being satisfied, although we did learn a few things. My Uncle stayed in India and the surrounding regions, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kashmir, the Punjab, and all those other heathen lands, for the better part of ten years, accompanied almost from the start by Ahkbar. Their bond was extraordinarily tight, enough so that when Uncle James came back to America, Mister Singh came with him and they had stayed together ever since, a period of almost fifteen years. In one curious moment, each claimed that the other had saved his life! Perhaps they both had saved each other's life.

Dinner and dessert were long past when we finished in the sitting room with brandy. This proved to be a tactical mistake on my part, for without the intervening table, Siobhan was free to daintily cross her ankles with an ever-so-gentle whisper of her petticoat. It took several breathy sighs to return my relation's attentions to where I felt them proper.

It was near midnight when the party broke apart, and as Ahkbar Singh escorted Mrs. Rourke out, I stayed back and pressed a hand to Uncle James' wrist. He looked at me curiously as I held him back as the others left the room. Finally, when we were alone, I asked, "Uncle James, one thing I do not understand. At the café this afternoon, Mister Singh, who is a Musulman, drank wine, as he did again this evening. However, he did not drink the same wine as we, but from a different bottle. Why is that?"

"You really are most perceptive, my dear.", he replied with a judicious nod. "Again, most do not understand the Koranic prohibition against spirits. I fear that my friend follows the letter of the law but not the spirit, with no pun intended. The prohibition is against consuming the fermentation of the grape or the fermentation of grain. What Ahkbar drinks is mead, a fermentation of honey, which he argues is neither grape nor grain. He would have made an excellent lawyer, I fear. In any regards, it is little enough to stock a supply of mead in my cellars, and to request that the local restaurateurs do likewise."

With this explanation, I bid him good night and retired to my rooms. I was most surprised to find a young lady reclining on my bed wearing a thin cotton robe. "Hello. Can I help you?", I asked.

The girl, only a few years older than myself, arose from the bed and came to me. "Good evening. My name is Charity and I came to retrieve a few of my belongings."

I remembered that Charity was the name of the person who had loaned me my present undergarments. "Oh, excuse me, yes. Thank you so much. I really had nothing with which to wear this dress. I hope you don't mind! I planned to return them in the morning." I reached behind me and began to unbutton my dress.

Charity stepped behind me and gently took over for me. As she continued to undo the buttons, she simply said, "Not to worry. I was most happy to help you. I simply figured that this would be a chance to meet you. Besides, I wanted a chance to wash them tonight, since I will need them tomorrow evening. The gentleman who supplied them is calling on me, and I'm certain he plans to inspect them for fit. At least I hope he does!"

I giggled as I stepped out of the dress, now puddling at my feet, and Charity unfastened the French brassiere and drew it away from my body. Then she came around to my front. She loosened the small sash holding her robe together and drew it off, to stand naked before me, then sank to her knees. I was most pleasantly surprised when she reached up to the waistband of the transparent black bloomers and drew them down, then leaned forward and buried her face between my thighs.

Chapter 3 - Discovering the Bawdy Nature of the Household

Charity did not stay long that evening, simply a period sufficient for the both of us to make the most intimate acquaintance and cuddle afterwards. The next morning I awoke refreshed and relaxed, lazing in bed sinfully until I felt the first pangs of hunger. I disdained the need for servants to dress, so I made my way to the bath and drew water in the sink, then with a small towel made a whore's-bath for myself, and yes, I had heard the term before and understood the implications. It refreshed me further, and afterwards I dressed in a light shift and a simple gingham dress, then went down to breakfast.

Siobhan was already up and finishing her coffee when I arrived. Without Uncle James around, we could relax our combative skills and simply be friends, so she waited while I was served and continued drinking her coffee. It was decided that today we would explore the grounds, as she had only arrived a few days before I and had little opportunity to explore herself. We would take a coach into Saratoga the next day and go shopping.

The MacAllister estate was devoted to raising horses, thoroughbreds for racing, and consisted of all the necessities to do so. While there were some cattle and chickens, these were only for milk and eggs and such needed to maintain the residents of the estate; they were not sold at market. We spent a considerable time wandering through the barns and stables, along the fenced in pastures, and around the many small workshops and tack rooms spread out over the considerable acreage. The horses were absolutely magnificent, and I was not at all surprised when Siobhan informed me that but a short way back towards the town was the finest racing track in the country. Several other such estates were in the region, which was making a bid to replace Kentucky as the premier source of thoroughbred horses in America. Along the way I discovered one of the many joys of living on a farm - there were cats and kittens everywhere!

It was during this exploration that I began to discern just how informal living on the estate could be. Siobhan and I had been passing by the blacksmith's shop and we noticed a young lady was inside talking with the blacksmith, a very large man with a trim beard. Neither of us failed to pay it any note, and we stopped to talk by a fence near a side window. I stopped to watch a most curious sight, and Siobhan followed my gaze through the window.

First, the blacksmith turned from the young woman, whom neither Siobhan nor I knew yet, and stripped off his tunic and apron. Then, bare-chested, and a very impressive chest it was, he bent over a large barrel of water and immersed his head and upper body in it, cooling himself and washing his torso. Finished he walked back to the girl, who promptly knelt before him. He then undid his breeches and pushed them down his thighs, to stand before him with his manhood rampant before her. Eagerly she leaned forward, opening her mouth wide to take his cockshaft between her lips, and I was impressed with her ability, inasmuch as it was proportional to his large frame. Then as she reached between his legs to fondle the pendulous sack present there, she played a happy tune on the mouth organ, culminating in a crescendo satisfying to both player and played. Afterwards, she kissed him and took her leave, and he resumed his professional duties.

Mrs. Rourke and I crept away quietly, and could scarce whisper to ourselves about what we had just witnessed before we found ourselves among others and were perforce required to stop. We were near what was called the bunkhouse, where the male staff had their rooms and kitchen, and several of the men invited us to lunch with them. Curious, we made our way inside, to find Jenny and Charity serving a hot luncheon in the dining area attached to the large kitchen. Most of the men came in, to wash and be seated, and we joined them at a one of several large trestle-type tables. Lunch consisted of a good vegetable soup and several meat sandwiches. I should note that while nothing of the like which we had witnessed before occurred as we dined, the men felt free to touch and caress Jenny and Charity most freely, placing their hands on the two girl's backsides frequently, and neither of them seemed to be wearing undergarments.

After lunch, Charity showed us around the bunkhouse. It was a long and low-slung building with a number of rooms running down a central hallway from the dining area. Some of the rooms did indeed hold stacked beds, or bunks, for more junior workers. As a man increased in seniority and responsibility, he moved from a four-man room, to a two-man room, thence to a small single room, and finally into a larger room, although bath facilities were in common.

It was in one of the larger rooms that we received our next shock. Charity was explaining how much larger a foreman's room was and decided to show us by opening up a door into one such. Ushering us in, we found ourselves in the presence of Jack Strong, a foreman, an older man intermediate in age between my Uncle and Ahkbar Singh, and of a medium size and build but with very rough and capable hands, and Jenny. Both were as naked as the day they were born, with Mister Strong laying on his back while Jenny straddled him, riding him like the stallion that I could clearly see he was! His callused hands were pawing at her bosom and she was squealing with delight as she gave him a vigorous ride. They both looked over as we came in the door, but neither made any effort to cover their nudity or terminate the ride. We made our embarrassed apologies and closed the door behind us.

Afterwards, Siobhan and I both wanted to talk about what we had seen that day, and went into one of the large barns. We were distracted by one of the innumerable kittens deciding that we were exemplary prey, pouncing on us. Determining that we were not really overgrown mice, it playfully scampered off and we chased it up a set of stairs to the hayloft. We lost sight of it briefly, then followed it through a doorway into the other end of the barn. Below us we saw a breeding pen, in use.