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Nestled between Hampton Bridge and Teddington Lock on the banks of the Thames, sits a rustic, fairytale cottage, with a peculiar, quiet charm. It is not the dark or foreboding dwelling one might encounter in the tales of Perrault or the brothers Grimm, but rather a bright and welcoming abode, complete with chintz curtains and fancy lattice-work. There is no haunted forest populated by hunchback hags foretelling doom, or pale, lost children chasing trails of breadcrumbs. There is only a forest of foliage, and trails of climbing ivory. When the season is upon us, clusters of lilies burst forth along the bank side, attracting flocks of butterflies. To add to the quaint tranquillity of the whole, the children of the cottage can often be seen playing on the grass beside the water. They are two fine, robust young boys, bursting with health and vigour. Indeed, at the present time the older boy is away at the most prestigious school in the Kingdom, while the younger is tucked up safely in his nursery. All in all, it is a place where – save for one or two humps in the road that are the inevitable consequence of domestic society of all kinds – joy and contentment reign supreme.
It is upon this very cottage that we descend – our presence, perhaps, not entirely welcome – on a sunny morning in the early spring of 1864.
‘Can that be a knock at the door at this ungodly hour?’ mumbled Mr Robert Audley, his mouth parched from the particular kind of sleep that follows several heavy glasses of good wine of an evening, followed by a good long puff on the Meerschaum. He rolled lazily onto his back, straightening out his night shirt, and pushing an abandoned French novel to one side. It must be owned that, contrary to the beliefs of his neighbours, Mr Audley had not yet abandoned the habit of consuming popular fiction. He let out a cantankerous groan, unhappy to have been jolted from the blissful land of nod at the tender hour of eleven o’Clock ante meridiem.
In recent years Audley had gained a reputation as a thorough-going person of action, a rising man about town. The rumours that circulated regarding his heroic endeavours in the case of one Lady Lucy Audley (a case that was so sensationally depicted by Mrs Braddon, resulting in no small financial gain for that lady) did his reputation no end of good. In fact – with just the slightest assistance from his dear friend George – he distinguished himself considerably in the famous breach of promise case of Hobbs versus Nobbs. His recitation of a set of colourful love-letters, penned by a certain unfaithful gentleman, revealed a talent for comedy few had suspected. One of the more mischievous society columns even suggested that he might one day have a career on the stage.
It must, however, be confessed that more lately Audley had drifted back into the indolent habits that Mother Nature, in her wisdom, so generously bestowed upon him at birth. Audley’s legal practice had become, shall we say, somewhat more relaxed, whereas his ability to manage a wherry had improved dramatically. This lax approach to life was a subject of some little annoyance to Mr George Talboys, who would rather his lover put in a little more effort when sucking his member.
No gentleman likes it when proceedings are suddenly abandoned at the crucial moment. And who can blame him? A languid nature is surely no excuse for such negligence.
The knocking at the front of the house continued, to which Audley responded by pulling his bed-sheet and blanket over his head, and closing his eyes again. Unwilling to be moved, he gently kicked his bedfellow into life, his large – and rather hairy – foot, making contact with the soft, tender flesh of his wife’s thigh. ‘Clara, my love, I believe there’s someone at the front door.’
Clara Audley sat bolt upright in bed, an alarmed look upon her face. ‘What now?’ she exclaimed, pulling her crumpled nightdress over he head, and running to the front window. Luckily for Robert, Clara possessed a more practical nature than his own. ‘It is cousin Alicia and Towers,’ she announced, ‘you must get dressed.’ Becoming annoyed, she returned from the window, and shook the naked figure sprawled out at the foot of the bed. Her brother turned over and continued to snore. ‘George, get out of bed at once,’ she cried more frantically, ‘the Towers have come to visit.’
Mrs Audley had experienced something of a trying time in the years since she married. Her discovery of the special kind of devotion that existed between her husband and her brother was a surprise that was not entirely welcome on her honeymoon. Then in the end it had all worked out for the best. As Robert was so fond of remarking, the Talboys siblings looked so similar that there was no reason why he should not be attracted to them both. And Clara herself had discovered a level of affection for her own dear brother that she had not thought possible. She had been astonished by the delights that can be achieved between three, rather than two, persons in the bedroom. Her favourite bedroom sport involved an object that George playfully referred to as The Peg. It was shipped from France via special courier, and had to be kept out of sight of children and servants at all costs. At first Clara was a little disconcerted by the process of strapping on, and thrusting, feeling that this end of the business ought really to be performed by a gentleman. She had, however, subsequently come to appreciate the pleasures of having something “at both ends” as George liked to put it.
The knocking continued. Clara threw an ordinary gown over her nightdress, and rushed down the stairs. Thank the Saints there are no servants in the house, she mused as she entered the parlour. Her relief was short-lived as she came face to face with evidence of the previous night’s exploits. Her dress lay discarded upon the hearth, complete with an unbecoming tear up one side. There was a mysterious stain upon the hearth rug, and The Peg lay abandoned, out in plain sight. Two empty decanters sat on the side table, and one of Audley’s more colourful French novels was open on the floor. The book was open at a page that contained an especially lurid illustration, which Clara recalled had been a particular source of inspiration in the heady hours of the early morning. She reflected that the French had a particular ability in the field of anatomical imagination, which the English rather lacked.
There was nothing else for it. Clara hurried to the kitchen where the bed linen was airing, and snatched as much as she could carry. She could still hear Alicia’s insistent voice calling out. Having done the best job possible in the seconds available, she rushed to the door.
‘What on earth is the matter,’ asked Alicia, a perplexed expression upon her brow. ‘And why on earth aren’t you wearing shoes, cousin dearest?’
Clara was quietly amused by the naivete of the young woman of fashion. ‘Nothing at all is the matter,’ she replied with a cool smile. ‘The servants are getting ready for the spring clean, so we had to cover the furniture.’ She kissed her cousin warmly on both cheeks. ‘Do both come out into the garden so that we can enjoy some tea and strawberries by the water.’
A rather dishevelled pair of gentlemen came down the stairs, and followed the party out into the garden. Audley and Talboys greeted the Towers warmly, and Robert proposed an afternoon of rowing on the river. The atmosphere was relaxed and congenial, but Clara detected a hint of worry in her brother's eyes. She had always possessed that special womanly ability of knowing when her brother was out of sorts. As they walked away George whispered fiercely in his sister’s ear. ‘For heaven’s sake Clara, don’t let them see the smoking room.’