Laundry Tales 09 Nude Fianc
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Laundry Tales 06: Nude Maiden free porn video
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Copyright jeanne_d_artois June 2010
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary, the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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The laundry of my ancestors’ house is now my workshop. I’m a potter and good enough at my trade to make a reasonable living from it.
The main attraction of the laundry room was Martha, the resident ghost. I was aware of her from an early age. I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents in her life at the Hall. Each time I become Martha and experience the events exactly as she had. This is one of those stories.
Nude Maiden
I was sipping a cup of coffee while I thought about my latest project for moulded earthenware. My mind wasn’t really concentrating because I was tired after a long and productive day. I thought of Martha. Almost as soon as the thought entered my head I could hear her voice.
‘I think you need another of my stories,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes please, Martha,’ I replied. ‘I’m too tired to think about work.’
‘I know you are. How about the tale of the nude maiden? I haven’t told you that one yet, have I?’
‘No.’
‘OK. This is about Abigail who was a parlour maid in the late 19th Century. Abigail was tall, slim and knew she was attractive. She carried herself well but was quiet and discreet near the family. She was slightly contemptuous of the other servants and that was the cause of her embarrassing predicament and eventually major change in her life.’
As usual when Martha started telling her stories I began to feel myself becoming the main female character. My middle-aged and tired 21st century body became a slim upright twenty-something dressed in a plain grey uniform dress with a maid’s apron and cap. I was excited because there would be a significant dinner party tonight with some guests staying overnight. Some of the gentlemen would bring their gentleman’s gentlemen and I was attracted to one of them.
I began to understand why I was ‘slightly contemptuous of the other servants’ as Martha had described me. I had been educated as part of the family where my mother had been in service and had hoped to get a position as a governess. I had failed, perhaps because I was too young and attractive to be acceptable where there were young men in the household. Maybe, just maybe, I might get a post when I was slightly older. I hoped so.
George, the gentleman’s gentleman who would be arriving today, had been educated with me in the same household. We could talk about literature and the arts. The servants working with me couldn’t understand my interest in the library or the paintings in the long gallery. To them books and paintings were awkward objects that had to be dusted.
George’s master, Sir Henry, had recently inherited one of the family titles from his father on his grandfather’s demise. He had acquired one of the family’s minor seats, a manor house in Kent. I presumed that he would soon be looking for a wife. If so, they could have children and need a governess. As Sir Henry knew me… I could dream, couldn’t I?
As a potential suitor, George wasn’t wholly perfect. Yes, we could talk about higher things, but I thought that George drank more than he should and chased any attractive women of his own class, even though he was supposed to be courting me. Perhaps, if and when we married, he would change? I wasn’t sure. I enjoyed his company most of the time but his hands would wander too far, too soon.
Sir Henry arrived that afternoon, as did several other guests. I was far too busy to see George and I expected that he would be busy as well. There would be a low-key ball that evening for the family and the few family friends. I had been helping to prepare the ballroom. George would have to make sure that Sir Henry’s evening clothes were immaculate. It would not be easy to remove the creases after the clothes had been unpacked from the journey. Once the ball was under way I expected that I would see George in the Servants’ Hall. I wasn’t sure whether I was looking forward to meeting him again, or not. Did I really want him as a husband?
My difficulty was that there was no one else remotely interesting. The unmarried men here were uneducated clods and I had little chance of meeting anyone else. If I were a lady’s maid I might travel to London, or Bath, or anywhere, but I was a parlour maid. Parlour maids stayed put.
My first encounter with George was awkward. He tried to grab me for a kiss. I turned my face away. He tried again, caught his foot in my skirts and fell over. Mrs Jones, the housekeeper, came into the passageway as George was sprawled at my feet.
‘Abigail!’ she snorted. ‘It is bad enough to meet your male friends in the house without having them cluttering the way. Get up, young man. Now!’
George blushed. He scrambled to his feet, muttered an apology to Mrs Jones and scuttled away. He didn’t apologise to me.
Later that evening I was helping to clear the ballroom after the family and guests had retired to bed. George came into the room. Mrs Hughes glared at him but he walked straight to me as if nothing had happened.
‘Abigail,’ he said. ‘I…’
I cut him short.
‘Why should I talk to you?’
‘I’m sorry about earlier, but this is important. I have a message from Sir Henry, to you.’
‘Sir Henry? Surely he doesn’t need a parlourmaid, nor a lady’s maid,’ I snorted. ‘What nonsense!’
‘I’m serious.’ George whispered as Mrs Jones kept a disapproving eye on us. ‘Sir Henry sent me to you. He knows that I have some affection for you…’
‘You have an odd way of showing it, George. You would have made me a laughing stock if anyone other than Mrs Jones had caught us. She will disapprove but she won’t tell anyone. What is it Sir Henry wants? Out with it!’
‘Tomorrow evening the family and guests are playing Charades. Sir Henry would like you to help him in a tableau.’
‘Me, George? Why me? Why not one of the family or guests? That’s the normal way they play Charades.’
‘I don’t think any of the ladies would do what he wants…’
‘And you think I will? If ladies won’t do it, it must be something that this lady…’ I dropped an elegant curtsy, ‘…shouldn’t do either.’
‘It’s nothing, really. He wants to portray Pygmalion…’
‘Pygmalion!!! And I suppose I play Galatea? A NUDE statue! No wonder the ladies won’t do it. I’m surprised at you George. What makes you think that I would appear nude in front of the assembled company? I may only be a parlourmaid, but I have pride and a proper sense of decency. Go back to your precious Sir Henry and tell him to think again.’
George stepped back from me, aghast because I had shouted the last sentence in his face. Mrs Jones, who was now the only person beside us in the ballroom, rushed across to me.
‘What is it, Abigail?’ She asked. ‘What has made you so upset? Go away, young man until I get an answer.’
‘That man’s master, Sir Henry, wants ME to take part in the Charades — as a NUDE statue. I won’t do it and I’ve told HIM that I won’t.’
‘That is outrageous!’ Mrs Jones spluttered. ‘I’ve a mind to tell the mistress. If she knew, Sir Henry would never be invited here again. I have heard of some so-called gentlemen making unwelcome suggestions to the female staff in some houses, but never here.’
George had overheard both of us. He would have had to have been deaf not to. He came back to us.
‘Mrs Jones,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s not like that. I must have expressed myself badly…’
‘You must have expressed yourself very badly indeed, young man, if you think one of my
staff would consent to exhibit herself stark naked in front of the family just for frivolous entertainment. If she had consented, apart from Sir Henry being unwelcome here and in any decent household, she would have been discharged on the spot.’
‘But… She wouldn’t be naked. Sir Henry had no such intention. She would be fully dressed in Grecian style and as clothed as she is now. Oh what a fool I am! I know that Miss Abigail knows the old Greek legends, but I hadn’t thought she would jump to conclusions so quickly.’
‘I wouldn’t be naked? You had better explain yourself much more clearly, Mister George, and to both of us. I’m not doing anything without Mrs Jones’ advice and agreement and that includes seeing this particular gentleman’s gentleman ever again!’
‘Lady Margaret has agreed to lend her Grecian style aesthetic dress. She couldn’t wear it at present…’
She couldn’t. Lady Margaret was expecting her third child in a couple of months.
‘Her maid, I’ve forgotten her name…’
‘Cecily,’ Mrs Jones interjected.
‘…would dress you before the tableau. You would position yourself on a small platform behind curtains. Sir Henry would join you holding some implement to demonstrate that he was making a statue, and then the curtains would open. While you stand completely still, pretending to be a statue, Sir Henry would make a speech to Venus and then Master Jeremy, dressed as Cupid, would come from behind you, kiss you on your hand and disappear behind you again.’
Master Jeremy is Lady Margaret’s elder son, aged five and a little imp. Delightful, but he could be a handful.
‘You start to move, descend from your platform, and hold out your hand to Sir Henry. End of scene and the audience have to guess what the Charade has been about. No nudity. Nothing like that at all.’
‘What will Sir Henry say in his speech?’ I asked.
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve heard him practising it, but it is all in Latin so I don’t understand a word.’
That sounded better. It was more like the Sir Henry I had met before. Although young, he had always been courteous, not just to the family and other guests, but to the staff. The Sir Henry I knew would never have asked me, or anyone else, to do something immodest.
‘Well, Abigail?’ Mrs Jones asked. ‘That seems unexceptionable, but it is up to you. Will you oblige Sir Henry?’
‘I think I would rather speak to him in person, not pass messages through this dolt.’
‘That isn’t unreasonable. You! Please convey Miss Abigail’s compliments to your master and ask if he will see her tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, Mrs Jones. I will.’
‘What are you waiting for? Off you go. We have beds to go to, even if you don’t.’
George scuttled off.
‘He is an idiot, isn’t he Abigail?’ Mrs Jones said. ‘You ought to be able to do better than him.’
‘I suppose so,’ I replied, ‘but how?’
‘I can understand that you are young, and impatient. Perhaps I was the same before I met Mr Jones. But I’m sure there will be someone for you, better than that George.’
We left it at that and retired for the night. Tomorrow would be a busy day for both of us.
The next morning Mrs Jones told me that Sir Henry would see me at 11 o’clock in her office — with her being present as chaperone.
Sir Henry was prompt to the minute. He kissed Mrs Jones’ hand, and mine, in a very gentlemanly manner. Over a cup of tea he explained the Charade, more of less as George had eventually done. I asked what version of the myth he was intending.
‘You know that there are several versions?’ Sir Henry asked, apparently startled.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘There are the versions in the classics and then the recent play by Mr Gilbert. Which one do you mean?’
‘Not Mr Gilbert’s. I mean the one where Pygmalion prays to Venus, and Cupid brings Galatea to life.’
‘To be his wife?’
Sir Henry nodded.
‘But that’s a Greek Myth, not a Roman one.
Shouldn’t the Goddess be Aphrodite, and Master Jeremy be a young Adonis?’
‘I suppose so,’ Sir Henry admitted.
‘What, sir, is to be your speech to the Goddess?’
‘It’s in Latin.’
‘I know. George told me that. Shouldn’t it be in Greek?’
‘I suppose it should but very few of the audience understand Greek. More of them know Latin.’
‘As do I, sir. So what is your speech?’
Sir Henry declaimed a short prayer, to Venus, asking her to grant life to the statue.
‘I think, sir, if you have to speak in Latin, that it is reasonable that Aphrodite should be Venus, and Master Jeremy can be Cupid.’
‘Does that mean you’ll do it?’ Sir Henry asked.
‘I think so. If Mrs Jones agrees.’
‘Mrs Jones?’ Sir Henry turned to her.
‘I suppose so. It is only a Charade.’
‘Thank you. Thank you both.’
‘Sir Henry?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I, as Galatea, should respond to your speech.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes — I’ll respond in Latin, of course.’
Sir Henry blinked.
‘If that’s what you want to do, then of course the lady should have the last word.’
As he left, he kissed our hands again.
That evening I started to worry when I saw the dress I had to wear. Although it covered me from neck to feet it was very clinging, leaving little of my figure to the imagination.
I felt worse when Cecily insisted that I left my corset off. After a first trial of the dress Cecily rejected my shift as well. The shoulder straps made bulges through the dress and its short sleeves protruded. I had to wear the shift that had been supplied with the dress. It was made of fine silk and slithered down my body.
Once Cecily had laced up the back that shift felt like a second skin.
My arms were bare from the shoulders. Lady Margaret’s dress swathed in elegant folds around me. Although my body was covered I thought that the dress was held very lightly. If I moved too much, too quickly, it seemed as if it might slip off me, far too easily. Cecily dismissed my fears, saying that Lady Margaret had never had any qualms about wearing it. Perhaps not, but even before Lady Margaret had become pregnant again, she was slightly more endowed up top than I am.
When the time came for Sir Henry’s part of the Charades, Cecily led me behind the temporary curtains in the ballroom. She had to help me on to the dais. I should have insisted on seeing it. It was eighteen inches or more off the ground. It would be difficult to descend from it gracefully, even with Sir Henry’s helping hand.
Master Jeremy was there, dressed in a silver tunic and carrying a golden bow. He had a golden quiver, but Cecily assured me that the bow wouldn’t draw and the arrows were fixed in the quiver. If not, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Master Jeremy had decided to shoot Cupid’s arrows at random. He had that sort of look that means he might be up to something. I couldn’t see what trouble he could cause, but it didn’t pay to underestimate Master Jeremy’s talent for mischief.
When Sir Henry joined us, he and Cecily draped a large shawl of translucent tissue over me. Sir Henry would remove it just after the curtains opened. Cecily crept away with a stern whisper to Master Jeremy ‘Be good!’
Someone announced Sir Henry’s tableau.
The curtains parted. Inadvertently I blinked in the sudden light. I hadn’t realised that there would be Limelights. I hoped that no one had seen the slight movement through the shawl covering me.
Sir Henry unveiled me and stood back, holding a wooden spatula. He declaimed his speech to the Goddess Venus. I was sure that some understood what he had said. He had spoken very clearly, slowly and loudly.
There was a pause. Master Jeremy came from behind me, touched my right hand and kissed it gently. Sir Henry was still looking at the audience. He judged, from their reactions, when to turn around — after Master Jeremy had concealed himself
behind me again. Cupid, or Master Jeremy, must have brushed against my dress. I felt a slight tug at the back. I nearly panicked, thinking that my dress would slip.
I started to move, raising my right hand towards Sir Henry. He rushed forward, taking my hand. I stepped towards him and then I declaimed my speech in Latin. An English version is:
‘Sir, you have prayed to the Goddess. You have your answer. Here I am. But beware! I have been made by the Goddess. I am no longer common clay. You must worship me as a Goddess-created person, not as a mortal woman.’
I made to step down. Sir Henry’s hand supported mine. As soon as my foot left the dais I knew something was wrong. I was moving but my dress wasn’t.
My dress unwound itself from my body leaving me exposed in my fine silk shift. In the fierce Limelight that shift was wholly transparent. I was exposed to everyone as if I was stark naked. What could I do?
I carried on as if it was part of the Charade. I continued to descend, straight into Sir Henry’s arms. He swung me around so that his body shielded me from the audience. He lifted me and carried me behind the curtains which closed hurriedly.
There was a deathly silence from the audience and then loud applause. The narrator had to wait until he could ask the audience what Sir Henry’s tableau had represented.
One man, I won’t say gentleman, responded:
‘I don’t know, but I know I’d like to see it again!’
Some of the ladies present reproved him. I had buried my face on Sir Henry’s shoulder and was sobbing quietly as his hand stroked my silk-sheathed back. I felt Cecily wrapping that treacherous Greek dress around me and they led me back to Mrs Jones’ office. When we were there, with the door shut and with me dressed again, Sir Henry asked:
‘What happened? What went wrong?’
Cecily answered him.
‘It was that imp Master Jeremy. He had hooked your dress on something behind the dais. I couldn’t stop him, and before I could get out to unhook it, the dress was off…’
‘Master Jeremy wouldn’t have done that by himself,’ I snorted. ‘Someone must have put him up to it. He’s an imp but he is the son of a gentleman…’
‘I think I will have a few words with Master Jeremy,’ Sir Henry said in a fierce voice.
‘Be gentle with him,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m sure he only intended a joke, not what happened.’
I was right. Master Jeremy soon told Sir Henry that he meant that I should jerk as I stepped down. That’s what George had told him would happen.
George! Sir Henry dismissed George for causing distress to a lady. Sir Henry apologised to the family for the event which was ‘an accident’.
An accident it wasn’t. It had been deliberate and had really exposed me. I couldn’t stay. Not just the gentlemen of the family, and the guests, but most of the servants had seen me as a nude maiden.
There was an unexpected solution. Sir Henry decided that he had compromised me and the only acceptable amend he could make was to MARRY me.
I protested. He insisted. He was going to India as a senior Civil Servant. If I would accept him, we could go to India where no one would know that I had been a nude Galatea, and live like Lords.
He knew no other woman who could make speeches in Latin and correct his mythology and besides, he had seen enough of me to know what sort of wife he was getting.
Our marriage was a quiet one, in haste before we took ship for India.
My Henry was wrong about one thing. The story of the nude statue followed us to India, so much so that many people began to call me Lady Galatea, not Abigail.
I like being Galatea, especially as Henry still worships me.
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I felt some regret as I stopped being the slim, lithe Abigail/Galatea who married her Sir Henry, and resumed my tired middle-aged body. But I stretched in my chair, extended my legs and remembered that I could still dream, and when I couldn’t, Martha the ghost was there to tell me stories that could take me out of myself.
Blaze
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