by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”
I find great cheer, dear lady reader, in your acceptance of my journal and I shall strive to keep my pen occupied during these crisp winter days with stories to amuse you since ’tis not the Season to journey to London for parties and balls.
Except for New Year’s Eve.
A grand time for dalliances and flirtations for the aristocratic ladies of the upper class, wearing gowns fashioned with yards and yards of silk and velvet and plunging necklines which no doubt invite rebuke from the Queen herself.
I was not born to such elegance and as a child I oft dreamed of being an enchanted princess. So on this New Year’s Eve I shall tell you a story about another young girl who also pined to be accepted for who she was and not what she was.
A house maid.
Her name was Clarice. A cheeky girl with a gift of a gab nearly as grand as my own, a spritely lass who made her way from Ireland to the vast beauty of the Northern coast of England with other laborers from the land o’green seeking work in the fine houses.
She found employment as a house maid in Adair Castle run with an iron hand by the Duchess of Darlingsmore. A feisty old termagant who believed that even the dust settling upon her gilt furniture should possess a pedigree.
Clarice did her duties as a girl should, but she had the bad habit of observing too much about the goings-on of Her Grace and giving them life in her thick Irish brogue.
That did not sit well with the duchess, who banished her to the kitchen. That was her first mistake. Her second breach was retiring to her rooms and taking a sleeping draught. She was snoozing peacefully and not available to greet her handsome grandson, Lord Edmond, the son of her second son but undeniably her favorite, when he arrived home from London. Tired and very hungry.
He went straight to the kitchen for sustenance.
“And who might you be, my pretty one?” he asked Clarice, hard at work getting ready for the festive time fast approaching, this being early December. The first snow had fallen, lighting up the dark moors surrounding the castle with a misty silver glow. As if the fae had shaken sparkling fairie dust from their wings in a fit of mischief.
“Me name’s Clarice, sir,” she said, curtsying in that way of hers that made her young bosom shake with what the duchess surely would have termed a vulgar movement.
But not to Lord Edmond.
With a grand smile that delighted the young girl’s fancy, he grabbed a sprig of mistletoe from the holiday box of fresh ferns and held it up over Clarice’s fiery head, her hair the color of ripe red berries.
Then he kissed her.
Hard. On the mouth. A sweetness wet her pantaloons, her sex contracting with delight as he grabbed her around the waist then squeezed her breasts. They played this naughty game for a week with Lord Edmond bursting into the kitchen each morn and kissing her and lifting up her plain petticoats, each day his hand moving up her thigh, a bit closer to her sex than the day before, until…
February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”