Undying

I tried a diversion by stating the obvious. I said, "It would be my honor to marry your daughter and I will certainly do so as soon as we come to an agreement about the dowry." I knew that would set the old miser down a new path. He blustered and said, "So is this attachment based on my money, Sir?"

I shrugged and said, "As you've pointed out many times, I am not well-off. You DO want to keep your daughter in the style to which she has become accustomed." He could see that I was asking for a big bag of cash. He also might have considered me a gold-digging scoundrel. But the old reprobate loved his daughter. So, he said with hesitation, "All right then. I agree to ensure your livelihood and future." With that, I was a married man.

What I'm describing might not sound romantic. But, in Victorian England, marriages within a certain social class were financial transactions. A gentleman never wanted to work in trade; or even worse, with his hands. So, what we had been discussing wasn't odd for the times. What WAS odd was the fact that I had been manipulated into it by a mere slip of a girl.

*****

Ophelia and I set up housekeeping in a lovely Bloomsbury mansion. It was a short walk to Horse Guards, where I was permanently posted. The Baron Litchfield's money had ensured that. I was now a Lieutenant with the 11th. That was also purchased, not earned.

All-in-all married life was acceptable duty. Ophelia was a perfect wife, submissive in public and a wild animal in the bedroom. Victorians never discussed sexual topics, on pain of ostracism from society. But from whatever conversations I overheard, or drunken comments that were made, it was clear that my wife had an exceptional sexual appetite.

Her lack of a hymen was a bit suspicious. But then again, day-in-and-day-out she was a perfectly docile little Victorian spouse. Of course, she couldn't cook, or clean. That was for the servants anyhow. Still, Ophelia was an asset at every ball and social event, flirting impeccably within the ironbound social dictates of our era. Even so, the ardent quality that the romantic poets raved about was totally lacking from our marriage.

I didn't have any sense that I was missing out. Ophelia was a beauty and that added to my status with the other men. And she could sail nicely over all the jumps in the boudoir steeplechase. We got along companionably at the breakfast and dinner table. But then again; in Victorian England, men were men, and women were women. So, we had little to talk about outside of the contents of the Times.

Ophelia's money underwrote my manly pursuits; drinking and gambling at Whites, horse betting at Epsom and the occasional drunken romp at a high-class London knocking shop. While she spent her time in womanly activities, which mostly involved tea and mindless chatter with the other wives. You might think we were a couple of self-involved, supercilious twits. That would probably be a fair assessment. But then again, marriage was something our class did to fit into society. I had seen very few marriages that were built around abiding love.

Ophelia, as was her duty, gave me all of the necessary respect. My opinions were her opinions and she was properly submissive in public. Yet, the money was Ophelia's, not mine. So, I learned to tread lightly when it came to flaunting my status as the man of the house. The prior year had been full of excited speculation about the Russians and the Ottomans, who had been at each other's throats since early 1853. Hence, not surprisingly, the word came down in March of 1854 that it was to be war.

The night of the 28th was rainy but the crowds were in the streets, all celebrating the declaration. The Regiment held a small fete, just the officers. Even Cardigan himself showed up.

There was singing, toasting and extravagant boasts about how we would give those Ruskis a good hiding. As usual, I had liberally imbibed in the rum punch. Ophelia sat sipping champers in a cloud of ladies and acting like the belle of the ball. She would occasionally exchange companionable glances with me.

I was over in the corner, with Lieutenant Cooper and Captain Fairfield, wittily assessing the question of whether Cardigan had been dropped on his head as a baby. That was the point where James Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan himself, condescended to join our lowly band.

He was a peacock; a little bandy rooster, who didn't quite come up to my mustache. But his self-opinion and arrogance made him ten feet tall. The conceited ratbag said with forced jovially, "Wambert, Haw-haw!!" His lisp was one of his less attractive features. Of course, nobody had the balls to tell him that. I wondered alarmed , "What's this all about?!!"

Brudenell looked in Ophelia's direction and said covetously, "Quite a wovewy woman don't cha know!!" If anybody else had made that remark I would have dunked him upside down in the punch bowl. But since Cardigan was my commanding officer, I meekly agreed.

He looked at me with meaning and said, "I'll be getting awong now." Then he walked purposely over to Ophelia bowed, and kissed her hand. She smiled politely as Cardigan indicated something on the other side of the room. They disappeared in the crowded ballroom. I just stood there. I was flabbergasted by the man's cheek. But there was nothing I could do short of calling him out. And inviting a peer of the realm to walk out with you simply didn't rise to the level of the offense. Plus, I knew that Ophelia could take care of herself.

Cooper said disgusted, "Let's go somewhere else old man. This is getting preposterous." I readily agreed and we finished the night at Whites. They were still reveling in the streets when I took a Hansom back to our place in Bloomsbury. Honestly; for all I would've noticed there could have been a Russian invasion going on. I'd had a skin-full.

I arrived home drunk most nights. But this was a personal best. I think Cardigan's attentions to Ophelia had caused that. I really didn't know what to think. 1850s society required women to be chaste and virtuous. Ophelia had exhibited nothing but Victorian rectitude in her daily life. Yet, she had an extreme fondness for pork and there was the troubling suspicion that she wasn't a virgin when I married her.

I knew that Ophelia was prone to crushes, as she had originally been with me. And even though Cardigan was physically unimpressive, he was a clotheshorse, and a Peer of the Realm. I didn't know what the man intended. But it was clear that he had set his sights on Ophelia and she wasn't exactly discouraging him.

I was half shot. So, I didn't bother to wake the staff, or let Ophelia know I was home. I just staggered upstairs and fell into bed, still clad in my tunic and breeches. I was woken an indeterminate period of time later, by the sound of a little night music. A woman was being absolutely rogered to death at the other end of the hall.

Like every Victorian couple of a certain social class, Ophelia and I slept in separate rooms and the wanton cries were coming from the direction of her bedroom. I was still drunk as I opened the door and weaved-my-way down the hall, trying not to lurch into any side-tables, or knock off any of the garish Victorian bric-a-brac. If I had been a bit more sober, I might have paused when I got to Ophelia's chambers. But squiffy as I was, I just threw the door open and stood there swaying drunkenly, trying to grasp what I was seeing.

Blimey!! My wife's bare legs were wrapped around the skinny ass of some half-naked chancer who was having at her like a demented Easter rabbit. She had her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open in an obscene "O." She was obviously experiencing an orgasm, thrashing in ecstasy and emitting loud shrieks as she came. Her noisy abandonment was what had alerted me to the presence of the fox in the henhouse.

The fact that I was being dishonored in my own abode sobered me up. I let out a roar of fury, strode three paces to the bed, seized the interloper by his waist. He was tiny. So, I easily lifted him off my wife and threw him backwards into the wall. He wavered there, stunned, rifle at present-arms. Then it discharged lewdly all over my fine Turkish rug. I could see in the lights from the streetlamps that it was Cardigan.

How many ways was this a total disaster? Let me count them. First and most obviously I had been cuckolded by my commanding officer. Second, although I would be well within my rights to beat the little bastard into a bloody pulp; I was a mere cavalry lieutenant. I would be trashing an influential member of the nobility. You can't win with the nobs, once they circle the wagons. Finally, and not insignificantly, Ophelia was the one with the money.

We all knew that the next few seconds would have a profound impact on our lives. Victorian society was unforgiving on the matter of infidelity; which was hypocritical in the extreme. Since, with the possible exception of Victoria herself, shagging other people's spouses was a common feature of Victorian life. I presume, that was the reason why exposing somebody else's adultery was viewed as such an egregious breach of good manners.

Even worse, since I was the one who was cuckolded, and Ophelia was the slut in question; the person who would come off best in the ensuing scandal would be Cardigan. He might even be glorified in some of the more rakish circles, and Cardigan knew that.

The egotistical ass recovered quickly. He casually gathered his pants and boots, turned and walked out of the room. As his skinny butt vanished out the door he turned and cautioned with cool superiority, "Wambert, not a word." His shrunken cock was coated with Ophelia's juices. It dangled obscenely as he stepped into his Cherrypicker pants and departed.

I stood there fists clenched snorting like an angry bull. Ophelia was huddled at the head of her bed. She had gathered the bedclothes around her to hide her nakedness. She was glaring at me with a mixture of guilt, sadness and defiance. She thought that she had the whip hand when it came to our finances. She said accusingly, "What are you doing here? I thought you would spend the night at Whites."

I knew what I was going to do, and I was astonishingly calm doing it. I said, "Well I didn't M'dear and that's your loss. You have dishonored me and your family by your wanton behavior and I will be discussing this with your father on the morrow." It was clear that was the LAST thing Ophelia wanted me to do. She wailed and said, "It was just a dalliance, nothing more. He forced me. I was too weak and girlish to resist. I still love you with all of my heart and soul husband."

I actually laughed outright and said, "The only person you love is yourself, you spoiled little dollymop." I added grimly, "Divorce would ruin both of us in society. So, we will just have to pretend nothing happened. But we are no longer married in any way. You are just a fellow resident of the same house. And if I EVER find you here with a lover, I will publish it in the Times. That is, after I've horsewhipped both of you naked down the street."

Was I angry? Frankly, my only emotion was good riddance!! How could I be so cavalier? Well, Ophelia HAD dishonored me. But I'd never felt anything for her in the first place except trapped. The best I could say about our life together was that it was "comfortable." I certainly didn't love her. Hence, it was easy to lapse into the sort of arrangement that our peers had; as long as both of us were discreet.

There was one crucial detail that I had to get out of the way. Given Cardigan's participation, I clearly couldn't stay in the 11th. That fact made me a lot unhappier than chucking my worthless whore of a wife. So, I called on Ophelia's father bright and early the next morning.

Blackmail is such an ugly word. I like to view what happened as coming to an "understanding." For my part, I agreed to behave as if nothing unfortunate had happened between me and the old skinflint's daughter. That would keep the lofty old fart's family out of scandal. In return he bought me a Captaincy in the Lancers. I also arranged a cozy permanent living for myself, independent of his daughter. That way the little cunny couldn't hold anything over my head.

That settled the matter. I didn't care what Ophelia did after that. We were both careful. We knew what even the slightest whiff of scandal would do. We even resumed marital relations. Ophelia was still the best fuck in town.

She DID fall pregnant. It was just before I departed for the Crimea. Her progeny later became a Bishop of the Anglican church. Hence, he was clearly not mine. My only association with Cardigan, after that fateful night, came when he took over command of the Light Brigade. We all know how that turned out.

*****

I was covered in sweat. Rivulets of it ran through the black powder grime on my face. I was exhausted and in shock. The Cossacks led me to a little holding area behind the Russian lines. They were reestablishing their batteries and picking up their own casualties.

The officer in charge walked over to the body that still had my saber sticking out of it. He put his foot on its chest and hauled the blade out, accompanied by a sucking sound. He casually wiped it on the dead man's uniform and muttered, "krestyanski."

Then, he walked back with the sword in his hand, gave it to me and said, "You deserve to keep this. We thought you people were drunk, charging us like that. But you seem to be sober. So, you must be a very brave man."

I had nearly pissed myself every time a shell burst. But I didn't think it was a good idea to share that with him. Instead, I said, "The honor is yours sir," and handed it right back to him. He smiled engagingly and said, "And he's also a gentleman. Come my friend. You will be my personal guest until you are exchanged."

That was how I met The Hetman Ivan Timofeyevich Razin. Razin was a tall martial looking man of sixty. The hairy, savages who had captured me were his Cossack cavalry. They were considered to be among the best light horse in Europe and Razin was the equivalent of a Cossack general. As a Hetman, Razin had huge estates in the fertile land west of Kursk. He was well educated, cultured and a true Russian aristocrat.

The Russians didn't have a rail system to speak of. Consequently, I was taken by boat up the Dnieper to Kiev, and from there to the Bojarski region of the Ukraine. I was considered to be a guest not a captive. It might seem strange that I was being treated so well, since I was an enemy combatant. But Razin was from the same social class as I was. So, we had more in common as "gentlemen," than Razin had with his own troops; who were peasants.

We both knew that I would be exchanged for one of theirs. In fact, it was common to accord a captured officer the same courtesy that you gave an honored visitor. So, he brought me up to his estate. I was free to roam. I certainly wasn't going anywhere. Russia is vast. Napoleon lost an entire army trying to walk out of there.

My time spent on the estate was more of a vacation than it was captivity. I had comfortable quarters, plenty of food and my run of the place. The architecture was neo-classical, with the columns and frontage of a Greek temple. They bedded me down in the main facility, I hesitate to use the word "house" because it was larger than most of our civic buildings. I had a nice view across the lawns and all the servants catered to me.

There was one servant in particular, a little Russian dumpling. She was young, perhaps eighteen. But she had an insolent smile. huge bouncers and a big sturdy butt. It wasn't three days before I was riding her like West Australian at the Ascot Derby. She even whinnied when she came. She didn't speak English and I never knew her name. But her enthusiasm was matchless. Needless to say, I was enjoying my captivity immensely.

We'd just finished a strenuous bout in the linen closet, and I was wandering around the Great Hall looking at the trophies. Russian Hetmen must love to hunt. Because, there was an entire herd of antlers mounted on the wall. I was looking at an antique boar-spear when a melodious voice said in effortless English, "Do you hunt?" Luckily, I'd put the spear back in its rack. Otherwise I would have dropped it on my foot.

The source of the voice was a woman and my reaction to her was remarkable. Have you ever been in a situation where you felt like the entire course of your life was leading you to one inevitable point in time? Well, this was it.

Up to that moment, I had been an unbridled libertine; whose only aim was to enhance his own pleasure. To me, women were nothing more than the means to my selfish ends. I never viewed them as having legitimate hopes, dreams and fears. Because frankly, they were just props in the egotistical drama of my existence.

Then suddenly, the course of my life changed. Here was a person I felt the deepest empathy for. The feeling was complicated and subliminal. But it was a profound connection. I wanted to share my intimate thoughts with her. I wanted to be her partner. And inexplicably I also knew that she would be the only woman who would ever understand me.

I could accept thinking that way; if we had been lifetime lovers. But my sense of contentment, the feeling of finally reaching safe-harbor, was utterly unnerving. That was because the woman was an ABSOLUTE, TOTAL STRANGER.

She was a true Russian beauty. Her long thick chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. It framed her perfectly proportioned heart shaped face. She had high cheekbones, a dainty, slightly snubbed patrician nose, full kissable lips and huge blue eyes. She was small, perhaps five two, with a dusky complexion. The contrast with the blue of her eyes was striking.

An uncomfortably long period of time elapsed, while we just gazed at each other. I stood there gaping like an idiot, with my heart beating like it had during the Charge. She was standing with one hand over her mouth and the other pressed against her delectable heaving bosom, looking just as poleaxed as I was. She finally said in a voice filled with wonderment, "I feel like we've known each other forever. But I don't know your name."

I mustered enough of my shattered reason to say, "It's Lambert Madame; Captain Tom Lambert of the Queen's Seventeenth Lancers." I then bowed formally, without any of my customary rascally impudence. I had no idea what had come over me.

She was equally flustered. She said, "I am the Grand Duchess Tatiana Gregorova." So, she was part of the royal family. She added still agitated, "I am here to become acquainted with my fiancé, Count Aleksey Ivanovich."

Ivanovich was the only legitimate son of the Hetman; and a debauched little rodent he was. Razin had whelped over a hundred kids. But his wife, the Countess was short, hideously obese and more religious than the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church. So, it was likely that little Aleksey was one-and-done for him.

On the other hand, Count Aleksey was nowhere near a proper match for this unearthly beautiful woman. Rather than being short and fat like his mother, he was short and frail. He DID have his mater's imperious eyes, weak chin, and prominent nose; which hovered over his rat fur mustache like a mountain ledge. He also had the Cossack aversion to bathing. So, he stank.

Aleksey's father was at the Crimean front, where all good Cossacks ought to be. However, Aleksey's mother had insisted that her twenty-five-year-old "boy" had a "nervous condition" that necessitated that he be kept away from unpleasant things. That was a genuine condition alright. We called it cowardice.

So, while the rest of his brethren were fighting us; Aleksey lounged around the palace; drinking with his equally decadent buddies and fucking anything with a functioning cunny. He especially had it in for me. Since, the girl I was galloping had initially been his plaything. Still, because he was a coward, he never actually confronted me.