Infernal Vices (Resurrectionist #3)

CHAPTER 25

SEABOURN ABBEY

I was surprised that during our journey Charles did not ask to peep inside the wine casket containing the snake-headed phallus central to Blake’s plan. The artefact was one of a kind and seemed to have a mesmeric hold over those who handled it, so I determined to keep it with me until the moment it was required for the final ritual. I knew from my experiences of sharing it with Sebastian during our lovemaking, that the obsidian phallus truly did retain arcane qualities that, for the life of me, I could not explain. When I held it the stone became warm in my hands and took on the silken heaviness of handling a real flesh and blood cock, even though my eyes told me it was carved volcanic glass. The snake carving entwined around it and the open snake head maw both melted into the shaft during our lovemaking. I knew that it somehow interacted in our erotic experience and enabled our climax to reach euphoric levels while afterward; our semen was absorbed into the object like a sea sponge. We had used the Staff three times and each time it heightened our connection with each other, making me feel as if I could read my lovers mind and give him exactly what he needed. We both found it to be spiritual and deeply satisfying.

Our travelling coach was deep in the Chiltern Hills of Oxfordshire now. It made a sharp turn from the rutted packed dirt country road and proceeded up a wide gravel roadway. The road cut through dense woodland and I remained alert, seeking a view of Seabourn Abbey in sunlit glimpses through the trees. After five minutes I saw the distant tip of a church spire above the tree line to my left. I recall Ashe did say the estate had its very own medieval church so I figured we must be close to the abbey. I gave Ashe’s boot a kick and he startled awake.

“We’re here?” He absently smoothed his moustache of spittle, pushed the rogue curl from his brow, and then scrambled to locate his pocket watch to check the time.

“Ah, splendid we’ve made afternoon tea. The journey went past in a flash, didn’t it?” he yawned, and then gathered up his drawing materials and slid the myriad of sketches into his portfolio.

“Indeed. It was not an unpleasant journey,” I conceded. “Luncheon at The Mucky Duck was the highlight. We shall have to stop there on our return journey,” I suggested.

“You have wounded me, Benedict,” Charles feigned dramatically, placing a hand on his heart. “I thought my dazzling company was your highlight.” I laughed. “ Friend, you are incorrigible!”

As we journeyed closer to the abbey thousands of sunny daffodils lined either side of the drive and the circular lawn in the front courtyard. The crunch of the small sharp pebbles of the gravel had alerted as to our arrival. The abbey itself was a mish-mash of architecture styles that spoke of a convoluted history. The facade appeared to be early Georgian Palladian in style, and not that of a medieval abbey, but the stable looked very old.

The coach finally halted and the white double doors of the grand entrance opened. Two male servants rushed down the stone steps to assist with our luggage. I glanced out of the coach window to my right. The view from the front of Seabourn offered a landscape symmetry that was most pleasing to the eye. From the courtyard I could see a large circular fountain adorned with cherub water spouts, and beyond a long flat expanse of well tended lawn that then led to a forested hillside. A vast, man-made gap between the trees led the eye up the verdant hill to the church positioned at its peak. This was the interference of man in God’s plan, indeed, man turning nature to his own design. The church appeared imposing, a silhouette against the powder blue sky. It called to me, and as we were six days in the country, I decided one of my outings would be to climb the hill and investigate the church.

The servants removed our travelling trunks from the roof of the coach. A third man followed and opened the coach door for us.

“Good afternoon sirs, I am Jacob Stroker, head butler. Welcome to Seabourn.”

“Good afternoon Stroker,” I said as, collecting my cane and the box that held the Staff, I disembarked to gratefully stretch my legs and fill my lungs with brisk chilled country air that tasted sweet. The scents of the country, the greenery, and flowers, even the stables, were a balm to my soul. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed a break from the hustle and bustle of London.

Charles stepped out of the carriage and reached up to stretch his arms and back. It was a pleasing sight as, I must admit, he was well made. A muscled blond young man in a billowy cream homespun shirt and britches rushed over from the stables that stood on the left side of the hall. He smiled and nodded respectfully as he passed the butler, Stroker, then paused abruptly, nearly falling over his feet and stared at Charles for a moment longer than was proper. Then he bit his lip and sent his blue-eyed gaze down, and stepped up to the horses. With the help of the coachman, they began to unbridle them in a dance that seemed as old as time.

“Well, isn’t this just splendid. I do believe I’m going to have fun exploring the countryside,” Charles said with a salacious tilt to his voice. I knew from the direction of his gaze and the fleeting exchange of looks that he was not talking about the woodland and verdant hills!

Both Ashe and I took the stone stairs to the grand entrance. Mrs. Cordelia Cavendish seemed to enjoy putting on events. I recalled the décor and dressing for the Cavendish Ball at Devonshire House where she gilded every lily, and Seabourn Abbey was no different. I entered the square foyer to see that Mrs. Cavendish was aiming to bring spring into the grand mansion. The scent of the pure and clean woodland was from fronds of evergreen ivy woven around the balustrades of the staircase with yellow ribbons, paper flowers and decorated Papier-mach é eggs and rabbits. The vast foyer was festooned with vases of hothouse floral arrangements in yellow, violet, and white. We were met by girl of around seventeen in pink beribboned dress. She had her father’s dark hair and eyes.

“Good afternoon gentlemen, I see you’re the first to arrive. I’m Miss Martha Cavendish,” she said with precocious confidence as she offered her hand to Ashe who took only her fingertips to shake, then the handshake was offered to me, I bowed a little, and said ‘A pleasure”. The girl looked a little cross at this supposed slight.

“Sorry mother’s not here to greet you, she’s got a beastly headache and has taken to her bed. Father arrived not long ago and he’s in the library. Stroker, please see to our guests,” Martha said in a haughtier manner than before and then walked off down the hall. Mr. Stroker stepped up and stated,

”Your luggage will be taken directly to your rooms. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Stroker, much obliged. I’ll think go and change out of these travel garments.” I turned to Ashe and said, “Meet you back here in, say, twenty minutes, yes?” He gave me a playful salute. I ascended the staircase along with the two servants carrying my large, heavy trunk with my valise poised on top. They led me down the hallway to my allotted room.

The men stopped outside a door and put my trunk down. One then opened the chamber door and the two men carried my trunk inside and placed it on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. The room was as expected, large and, not to be petty; it was not in a state of optimal repair. Country houses like Seabourn needed constant upkeep and it seems that this bedroom was in dire need of a decorative reinvention. I was pleased to see that it at least had its own small bathroom attached .

“Will you be requiring a valet, sir?” one of the servants asked. “No, no, I left my valet in London and will endeavour to dress myself. Mr Ashe has offered to share his valet, Mr. Monkman should I need assistance to dress for dinner.” I smiled and the servant nodded and turned to leave. “I say, before you go, where are the rooms for Princess Nissa and her escort, Mr. Fairfax?”

“Mr. Fairfax will be in the room to your left and the princess shall have the suite across the hall,” the taller of the servants said. It always helped to be cordial to servants so I removed some coins from my pocket and tipped both young men. The under-butlers left the room and when I closed the door I stood for a moment holding the box containing the phallus sculpture. The brotherhood would know I had it with me in the house and I wouldn’t put it past Blake to steal it and flee. I wondered where I should hide it. In the bedroom there was a large double bed, an oak wardrobe with a mirrored central section, a writing desk, chair, and a side table each side of the bed. The coal fire was not yet lit and so the room was cold and had a slightly musty odour.

I strode across the room to the sash window, and opened it to air the room. I took in a view of the courtyard and grounds looking towards the church on the hill. It was a delightful vista. I continued to ponder on a hiding place for the box while I removed my travelling clothes, and unpacked my garments from my valise and trunk and placed them in the wardrobe. I selected a fresh white shirt and a green silk waistcoat to accompany a navy frock coat. Then took my toilet bag to the bathroom to freshen up. It was while checking my appearance in the bathroom mirror that I noticed the reflection of the panelled bath behind me. Several years ago, I was gifted with a Swiss Army knife that I always asked Troy to pack when I travelled afar. Apart from the occasion of uncorking a bottle of wine it had not seen much use, but it would be useful today. I searched in my trunk for the red folded utility knife, and on finding it, returned to the bathroom. I proceeded to use a blade to unscrew the bath panel and remove it just enough so I could ease the casket into the space beneath the bath. I then fastened the screws. Satisfied with the ingenious hiding place, I gathered my frock coat and left the room to meet with Charles and our host.

I paused on the stairs to inspect the huge canvases displayed there, one of a knight on horseback triumphantly holding aloft a flag that bore a coat of arms. I continued down the wide staircase and heard Charles ask the butler. “Ah, there you are. Be a good fellow and take us to the master?”

I joined Charles as Stroker led us to the library. As was usual whenever I visited an estate of the landed gentry, I kept my auctioneers eye pinned on the décor. The interior of the house that was named Seabourn Abbey was of Georgian proportions with high ceilings, ornate plasterwork, and cornicing detail, so I deduced that the abbey that once stood here before was raised by the soldiers of Henry VIII and this vast stately mansion build in its place. The grand oil paintings in the hallway to the library were late seventeenth century works of hoity; grotesque pockmarked men in curly long wigs and finery. The canvases were thick with dirt and in need of cleaning. They were the ancestors of Cavendish’s wife, who was a Forsythe, and the Forsythe men were not an attractive lot! At the library door Charles said,

“Can you send tea and scones for three, Stroker?” The butler nodded and left us. I followed Charles as he opened the door without knocking and we stepped in. The Library was a somewhat sombre room with walls of dark green flock wallpaper and three-quarter height bookshelves in mahogany filled with dusty tomes. Above the bookcases were yet more gilt framed oil paintings of gentlemen. A grand candle chandelier was positioned in the center of the room but it was not lit and there was sparse natural light, so the room was not currently conducive to reading. Cavendish sat on a burgundy leather Chesterfield couch positioned opposite a roaring coal fire. His head was resting on the arm of the couch and he looked a little worse for wear.

“For God’s sake Stroker! I told you to leave me alone,” he barked. Ashe paused and pouted. He placed his hands on his hips as we took in the sorry sight.

“You look like deaths head upon a mop stick!” Charles cajoled. Benjamin opened his eyes then and turned his head slowly to focus his bleary gaze upon us.

“Ah, sorry, sorry. Charles, Benedict. First here, good-oh!” Cavendish said weakly then let out an ungodly belch. I understood that Leo and Blake had arrived several days ago, and Cavendish was to conclude constituency business and travel this morning. He appeared red faced and sweaty.

“Have you been hitting the sauce early old chap?” Ashe continued with his schoolboy ribbing.

“No, no, bad oyster, I’d wager. I breakfasted at Whytes this morning. I swear, Chef Andre will see the back of my hand when I return to London,” he grumbled with less fire behind his anger than usual.

“Goodness, Benjamin, you do not look well at all. Has Stroker sent for a doctor?” I asked with genuine concern.

“Yes, yes, a boy has gone to Abbotsham Village. I just need a tonic, preferably with a bottle of gin,” Cavendish said morosely.

“I’ve experienced the sickness caused by bad oysters when I was in Greece and wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I suggest you go to bed and drink lots of water. Come along, up you get,” Ashe ordered.

“Cordelia has a headache and has taken to bed. I value my tackle too much to disturb her,” Cavendish whined.

“This house must have, what, twenty bedrooms? We’ll find you another room for you to recuperate in,” I suggested.

Appearing ever dutiful to our brother, we each took one arm and hoisted Cavendish to his feet. The bilious green tinge to his complexion alarmed me. He lurched to vomit. As if with one mind Charles and I dragged Cavendish to the half full brass coal bucket by the fire and held him over it. All that came up was a loud, foul smelling belch. I turned a sour face away, and then said to Charles. “Let’s get him out of here.” We continued out of the Library with Charles roaring “A little help if you please,” to arouse any servants that were about. We had made it to the foyer before the two under-butlers rushed to relieve us of our burden.

“Get your master into bed, not in his original suite, the mistress is sleeping. Somewhere quiet, and ensure he drinks plenty of water. The doctor has been sent for,” I said urgently. The servants nodded and did as required taking an arm each and carrying Benjamin up the stairs.

It was then that a maid pushed backward through a door behind the staircase, when she turned she was carrying a large tray and she startled a little at seeing us, the teacups tinkling as she shuddered.

“Ah, good afternoon,” I gentled. “Master Cavendish is unwell and has been taken up to bed. Where is the best place for myself and Mr. Ashe to take our afternoon tea?” I said pleasantly. The girl was portly with an angelic chubby face, much like a cherub. She spoke with a country accent.

“Good afternoon sirs. I’d say the Orangerie’s best. It’s lovely and warm and has a view over the gardens, would that be suitable?”

“Yes, yes, lead on my dear, lead on,” Ashe replied whilst hungrily eyeing the tea tray laden with sandwiches and freshly baked scones.

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By four o’clock I was full and a little overwhelmed with having to converse for so long with Charles as my only companion. He told me he’d wanted to do a series of illustrations telling of country life and was veritably giddy with having “Such exquisite vistas to draw.” When we parted company, Charles headed toward the stables. I may be long in the tooth but I’d wager the ‘country life’ Charles was interested in was the strapping blond stable lad who made doe eyes at him while he dealt with our horses.

I returned to my room and lay on the bed to rest my eyes. I could hear the cacophony of a working stately home—the footsteps, the opening and closing of doors, the barked orders and distant murmurs of conversation. Then other guests began to arrive and demanded the attention of the now overworked servants. With a full house I was reluctant to put myself on display or open myself up to discourse until dinner. And so I remained in bed until just before the dinner gong resounded.

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