Page 6 of Kept
Besides, she had served her purpose, acting as the 15th Mrs Montague. Her portrait will hang in the Great Hall, as all the previous portraits do, and I will stay in Ereston for one month, I think, if I can bear it that long. It has been the requisite 30 years, and it is time. I also need to interview a new gamekeeper, according to Butler Edward, the old one, Jones, recently died after 70 years of service.
I shall miss Jones, he was a man who knew how to butcher a deer and manage the foxes, as his father had before him, and his father too. But Jones misfortune was to never have a son – and so now I must scour the countryside for one who can manage my woodlands and my prized black deer herd. It is a pain in the arse and has put me in a dark mood, but I am resigned – people simply don’t last as long as they should.
And of course, it won’t be all boredom and interviews. I will need to travel to London at least once a week to feed.
It has been a while since I sipped a little blue English blood, I’m salivating at the thought. A blonde the first week, definitely, but later I fancy a redhead – their flavour is just that much more interesting, the Scottish heritage, no doubt.
Yes, a redhead with Scottish ancestry will definitely be on the menu.
I snigger as I read this, I like the handwriting and the flowing style, I have to admit. I think it must definitely be written by a man though because he is not giving his character any feelings of remorse or attractive qualities. If this manuscript was written by a woman, she would at least have mentioned what her protagonist looks like. Also, if they really wanted to write this as though it was a journal, surely it should have dates or days at the top of each page? And shouldn’t it be more retrospective and introspective?
This read like a book, definitely.
I’m tempted to start putting notes in red pen all over this document. I’m no English teacher, but I read a lot – perhaps it would be of some help to the author.
I pick up a pen, but then shake my head and take a sip of my hot chocolate. How would I feel knowing that a stranger had read my work and corrected it? Not good. I decide to read on; maybe it will get better.
New Entry.
The house is unchanged. It makes me maudlin sitting around in my father’s library. I still consider it his, although how many hundreds of years has it not been so?
How many times have I remodelled, though? Never. Why change what works perfectly and suits my personality.
And yet does it, when it makes me so down?
Perhaps I should have brought Celeste along after all, at least her presence might have filled a small section of the house, rather than all these ghosts.
Time for a drink – I think I will accept Lady Hortley’s invitation to her daughter’s 21stin the Garden Wing of Kensington. I’m sure to find a little thoroughbred there for dinner.
New Entry
Home again, satiated and strangely elated, despite my surroundings.
I went for a walk in the woods this evening, shaded by the waning light and the foliage of the oaks, and saw the first fawn of the season.
I skirted the lesser manor house gardens – my first order for my new gamekeeper will be to ensure the deer no longer graze there. It pleased me once, to see those pristine gardens destroyed, the roses eaten, the hedges trampled. But it satisfies me no longer; now I want the paddocks turned once more into gardens.
I’ve set aside four million pounds – that should be quite sufficient.
I will speak to the gardeners about it tomorrow and see about hiring a landscape designer. The last one was delicious.
Oh, and as was Lady Felicia; charming little Oxford graduate, early 30’s. She had slipped behind the marquee with me like the little whore I knew she would be beneath that milky white rose-watered face and started kissing me the moment I turned to her.
Earlier she had played the woman of the world so very well, and yet underneath, nothing more than a child. Acting as though she was in control amused her greatly, but she was soon breathless as I held her body to mine and pressed her against the trunk of the giant oak a few yards from the rear of the marquee.
Her body she offered without hesitation, and her heart too I knew would be mine for the taking after just a few kisses – and it was, I ripped it from her chest as she moaned and squirmed against me with such little effort it was ridiculous.
I would record our conversation verbatim for posterity, as is my wont in my journals, but there really wasn’t any.
I drained the last of her hot blood from the vessel as it frantically gave its last few pumps in my hand, before dropping it aside and sipping the rest from the cavity the organ had revealed.
Delicious, with just a hint of Bombay Sapphire.
I stop reading and look up as I hear the key in the lock and turn to see Margarita come in. The clock says barely 11.30pm, far too early for my little night owl friend, and I see immediately she has been crying.
“Hey,” I rise and throw the book aside, losing my place but not caring, “what happened? What’s wrong?”
“I saw something horrible, horrible, but funny, but horrible anyway.”
