Thread: Maids in the Manor  (Prince of Smut x Alleluia Green)

See more Lord Kenneth Ashmore, Earl of Whimbley Manor, looked at the now worn letter one last time before folding it and placing it back inside the desk drawer. The study was still very much his father's room. Dark wood panels, uncomfortable leather chairs and a massive oak desk on one side. The walls were decorated with antique paintings of historical Lord Ashmores and mounted boar and deer heads, trophies of his father's hunts. The mantle above the hearth showcased his father's favorite rifle and on the desk rested an old riding crop, used many times on Lord Kenneth in his disobedient youth. In truth, all of the manor was still his father's house in his mind. After his father's untimely passing this Spring, Kenneth had been recalled from the decadent lifestyle of the idle gentry in London to become Lord of this miserable, drafty manor in the remote countryside. The manor was vast, with rooms and wings essentially unvisited for decades, furniture covered in sheets and windows tightly shuttered. It sat upon a hill, dark stone walls looming ominously over the surrounding empty heath and miles from tiny Whimbley Village. It was hardly worth Kenneth's time to ride to the village as there was certainly no amusement to be found there equal to even his most boring day in London. He sighed and poured another measure of scotch into his glass. It was not even mid-day and he was already on his third glass. About typical for him it seemed. At least he had no shortage of alcohol in this god forsaken place and drunkenness, so far, had been his only means of fighting the boredom and depression that this summer had brought. His letters to his companions in London had met only terse replies, regretting that they'd be unable to visit. Evidently his friendships went no deeper than being a convenient drinking or whoring companion. Now that he was a day away by train with limited amusements available for jaded urban gentry that didn't hunt, he had quickly been forgotten. And unfortunately he couldn't leave. His father's vast estate and lands were a significant source of wealth, but it had to be managed. There was no practical means to sell it in this age of industrialization and capital going to the big cities of London and Manchester. Even the farmers were losing their children to the factories. But, people still needed to eat and his lands and livestock were growing in value as more people lived in the cities and no longer tended their own farms. In the midst of a deep, alcohol fueled depression he had received the letter two weeks ago. It had immediately sparked his passion and his mind was inflamed for the first time in months to think about the future, rather than the dreary past. Indeed, while still drinking heavily, he had discovered an almost manic energy since sending his reply. He found himself obsessively reading the letter over and over, imagining this day like a jailed inmate savoring the promise of freedom. The letter had been simple and formal. The attorney of the late dowager Lady Kensworth had written to his father on behalf of her estate. Long a friend of her father's, the attorney wrote that in her will she had desired to provide for two young maids, twin sisters, she had rescued from poverty and trained as parlour maids. She wished them removed from the evil influence of London and wanted to transfer her legal guardianship to his Lordship of Whimbley, along with an endowment sufficient to pay their salaries for years, all of which they would remit to their ailing mother anyway. He had written a reply with trembling hand, informing the attorney of his father's passing, but that he would be pleased to accept the wardship of the girls and had need of new staff. The money was irrelevant, but his mind had been spinning at the thought of two young maids in this tired old manor full of ghosts. His father had kept a small staff of faithful servants, not one less than fifty years old, and the old servants and past weighed heavily on Kenneth every day. Two young girls, that he would be guardian of, that he could train, direct, control and mold... discipline if necessary. Yes, his father and the army had taught him the value of discipline and obedience. Unsavory and lascivious thoughts came to his head when he thought of them. He struggled to sweep them away, but lately had given in and let his mind linger to keep away his boredom. And he hadn't been with a woman in months. He would, of course, try to maintain propriety. But, he'd had enough rolls with parlor maids in London to know that there was a great chance he could find some amusement finally. There came a soft knock at the study door and Beckworth, his chamberlain, poked his wrinkled head in. M'lord, the maids have arrived by carriage. They await your reception in the parlour.