Lady Emily's Guardian

Lady Emily’s Diary

27 March, 18—

After a fortnight of being confined to our bed, my husband has finally allowed me to take out my diary and put my thoughts to paper. Since our disastrous homecoming, he has insisted that I remain still and quiet at all times, and he has Dr. Yates’s wise opinion to back him up. But he knows that I cannot stop myself from thinking, and as we agree that I should not take medicine to sleep in my condition, he has relented.

I have not stopped mourning the death of my dear little Peter. I had not seen my sweet little boy since he was a tiny baby, and now he is dead and buried. I have not known such pain since the death of my father. I have cried so much, and my dear Mr. Singer, my loving husband, has held me and tried to comfort me, though he grieves himself.

Poor man! He was not honest with me about our son’s condition, but I know that he believed in his heart that Peter would be all right. Mr. Singer is mostly a level-headed man, and this is one of the qualities that I most admire in him, but he can delude himself at times. I am afraid that I have the same weakness.

Dr. Yates revealed the truth to me. We had a long conversation when my husband sent for him, after I collapsed in the foray upon our arrival. My husband picked me up and put me to bed, and here I have stayed. I came to my senses before the doctor arrived, and my husband was sitting beside me. I had never seen him so distressed.

“Our Peter,” I whispered, and he nodded, touching my face.

“Tatiana says that he died three days ago,” he said. “He is going to be buried tomorrow, beside your parents.”

“I want to see him,” I begged, but my husband would not allow that. I cried, I am certain that I became hysterical, and my husband straddled my waist, seizing my wrists and forcing me down against the pillows.

“Be calm, Emily,” he said, so patiently, though his grip on me was very tight. I struggled against him weakly, but he held me, and allowed me to cry. “Emily, my love, think of your child…”

“My child is dead,” I cried, and I quit my struggling and allowed my husband to hold me. I tried to calm myself, knowing that the doctor would be coming, but my husband was still drying my tears when he arrived.

Mr. Singer hesitantly left me alone with Dr. Yates, and I knew that he was standing right outside the bedchamber door the entire time. Dr. Yates sat beside me and examined me calmly, asking me questions about my pregnancy. I have had no pain, hardly any illness. It has been my easiest pregnancy of my three. I could feel Joseph’s child moving inside of me as I was being examined, and Dr. Yates seemed assured that I was well enough.

“Dr. Yates,” I said, “Please, what happened to my son?”

The doctor, who has known me longer than anyone, even my dear Mr. Singer, spoke gently but honestly. “Peter was always small for his age, Lady Emily, and more prone to ailments, but…perhaps only a little more than his own mother.”

I was not a sickly child, but I did have that recurring nervous condition. It tapered off as I grew older, and especially after I came to belong to my dear Mr. Singer, though I suppose it has manifested itself in my frequent insomnia. Dr. Yates continued, “His symptoms were quite similar to those that your father exhibited before his death. I do believe that he was struck down by the same illness.”

“Poor Peter!” I declared.

“Lady Emily,” Dr. Yates said calmly, “From what I understand, you have been through quite a traumatic experience. You have been…abroad, these past few years?”

“Yes,” I said uneasily. “Yes, and…it was a most unpleasant experience.” That’s all I would say to that, and Dr. Yates did not pry.

“That, with the shock you have suffered upon your arrival home, is an enormous amount of stress to bear. For the remainder of your pregnancy, you must stay in bed and rest as much as possible. No physically strenuous activities,” he said with a knowing look, and I felt myself blush a little.

Dr. Yates was about to leave, but I asked, “Please, and how is Mrs. Gainsley?”

“She came out of it quite well,” he replied. “The fate of the child was uncertain for a time, but it seems that the danger has passed. She was born so early.”

“Her child has been born?” I asked, amazed. Dr. Yates went to give his orders to my husband, who has been following them strictly ever since. When Mr. Singer came back to my side, I said, “Sir, have you seen to your daughter yet?”

“Mina has calmed down,” he assured me. “And I will allow you to see her again tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “But I meant the baby. Beatrice’s baby.”

He frowned. “No,” he admitted.

“Go and see her,” I insisted. “I am fine, sir, really, I’m going to rest quietly here, I promise.”

My husband was hesitant, even afraid of seeing Beatrice again I think, but he kissed my forehead and left me alone. I lay quietly, and when I thought of my poor Peter again, I cried. I was tempted to leave the bed and go to the parlor, where his casket would lay, but I did not want to disobey my husband.

The door to the bedchamber opened, but it was not my husband. My Mina came to me, looking so distressed, the poor dear. “Do you feel all right, Mummy?” she asked carefully.

I forced a smile. “Yes, Mina, I’m all right. Come and lay with me, darling.” And she did, and I was at least able to fall asleep for a little while with my daughter in my arms. Since my arrival home, I have tried to be cheerful and happy around her. I am truly happy to be with her, I remind myself to be grateful that she is at least alive and well and I know she has missed me and has been waiting for me. I don’t want to spoil her happiness.

I awoke briefly when my husband entered the room. It had grown dark, but he did not light any candles. He came and spoke to Mina quietly, not realizing that I was awake. “Stay with Mummy, all right, angel? I’m going to have a long talk with Auntie Bea. You’ll come and find me if Mummy needs anything?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Mina responded, and I felt him kneel down and kiss Mina on the forehead.

“You’re a good girl, Mina. Mummy is so glad to be home with you again.”

“She’s very sad, Daddy.”

“She’ll be all right,” Mr. Singer said, sounding confident. “We’ll be all be fine, darling. We’re together again.”

After he left, we slept a while more. I knew that my husband did not return to us until very early in the morning. I woke when he entered and we looked at each other briefly; the poor man looked so tired. We said nothing as he climbed into bed, our daughter lying between us, and we slept for a little while longer.

By midmorning, I was awake again as Mr. Singer sent our daughter from the room. He kissed me softly. “Good morning.” He rose and began preparing for our son’s funeral, which I would not be attending. As he dressed and I watched him silently, he explained what he would tell the other mourners, regarding my return (as I had surely been spotted in the station or the village by someone we know). “I will simply say that you were forced to go abroad, and that you’ve had a troublesome experience. We’ll let everyone get used to the idea…you’ll be tucked away for some time, anyway, so…”

“Oh, sir,” I said, “I truly do not care what anyone else thinks.”

My husband, straightening the cuffs of his shirt, smiled weakly. “I had a very interesting talk with Beatrice last night.” He promised to give me all of the details after the service, but he added, “She stayed right by his side as he lay dying.”

“She’s always loved Peter,” I said. I did not regret my decision to treat her mercifully, though she’s had a very different idea about what that means, as I would soon find out.

I was upset that I could not attend my own son’s funeral, but my husband reminded me of the doctor’s orders. I am now grateful to have been spared the misery. When my husband returned, bringing lunch for me, he was completely pale, and cried a little even as he forced me to eat. I obeyed him readily, knowing that he did not have the strength to fight me, so weighed down was he by his sorrow. We lay together quietly…that’s all we have been able to do, with my condition, but even that feels so good. Even with all of the pain we have suffered, we are still together, and it is still wonderful.

That evening, after we’d had our dinner (for my husband has taken every one of his meals in our room with me, not wanting me to be alone too often), Mr. Singer wanted to discuss his conversation with Beatrice. I knew that he wished to take our minds off of our tragedy, and I eagerly listened, and was more than surprised by what I heard.

“As I’m sure you may imagine, she claims to feel awful for the way she has treated you,” Mr. Singer said, his tone a touch mocking.

“Do you believe she is, sir?”

He frowned slightly, thoughtfully. “I do,” he admitted. “But she is no idiot…I still cannot understand why…”

“Has she tried to explain herself, sir?” I asked, though I needed no explanation. I understood Beatrice’s motives completely…understood them, and sympathized whole-heartedly.

My husband sighed, clearly agitated. “I cannot understand her excuses, Emily. But,” he added, finding his poise, “I have forgiven her.”

“As have I.”

“She has not forgiven herself,” he continued. “She wants desperately to make it all up to you. She begs to speak with you herself, but…I think that must wait. But I want to tell you her proposal. I must confess, darling,” he added, “I am quite pleased with it myself.”

My curiosity peaked; I bade my husband to continue. “In exchange for your ‘merciful kindness’ (her words, not mine, dear), and for you to raise her child as your own, she wants to give herself to you. Completely.”

I gaped. “I’m afraid that I don’t…”

“Don’t you, darling?” Mr. Singer asked teasingly, smirking. “She wants you to have her the same way that I have you…or more accurately, how damned Mrs. Morrison had you. But she is willing, Emily, she is quite willing, and eager to be yours.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I couldn’t, either,” my husband declared, and he could not resist laughing. I could see the humor in it, the once-timid Mrs. Gainsley offering herself up to me as my little toy, but I was too shocked to laugh. “Emily, you are not offended by this, are you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” I answered truthfully. “I am quite surprised, though. She…do you think she is sincere?”

“We spoke on the subject all last night,” he said. “Though she was able to fool me for a very long time, I…I have no doubt that she wants this. Or rather, she has convinced herself that she needs it. She needs atonement.”

“But I have forgiven her,” I protested. “I do not wish to exploit her guilt for our pleasure. That would not be right.”

“Oh, no, darling,” my husband agreed. “No, you’re absolutely right, my dear. The fact of the matter is, this is the only way that she could still be with me as well.”

I thought on this. I feel honestly that Beatrice has every right to love my husband. Why shouldn’t she? After all she’d done, he’d never want her again for himself, but…if she were mine, she would get to stay with us, in her rightful home, among her real family. For a moment, I pitied her…but then, I could not resist thinking of the fun we might have with such an arrangement…

“And you do like this, sir?” I asked. My husband admitted that he liked it very much. Ah! He still loved her, he really did, and I smiled at that. We could keep our strange little family together and add to our happiness, not take any more away from it. “Sir, I…I think I’d need to speak with her myself before I can decide.”

“Let’s give it a couple of days,” my husband said with a nod, and so it was. Over the next couple of days, only my husband and Mina were allowed in the room. Mina enjoyed being with me, but in short intervals after that first night. She has an abundance of spirit, and must run and be active, and when she grows restless sitting and talking with me, I dismiss her with a smile, knowing that I will see her again soon, that she is happy playing on the grounds of Wainwright Hall.

Ah, but such images bring to mind the loss of my son, and I shed an impossible number of tears those first couple of days. I was crying in such a way, in tiny sobs that I muffled with my hand lest my husband hear them and worry more, when Beatrice came to me. I looked at her in surprise, my vision blurry with tears. “Lady Emily, may I…oh, what’s the matter, my lady?” she asked, startled by my crying. She knelt down beside the bed and placed a comforting hand on my forehead. I seized her hand in my own and held it as I sobbed. She said, “Oh, Lady Emily, I’m so sorry for everything! This is all my fault, I…”

“Oh, Beatrice,” I said with a smile, even as my tears still flowed. “Peter’s dying is not your fault. Mina told me how you stayed right by his side, and…I’m so grateful to you, my dear.”

She was crying now as well. “I don’t deserve your kindness, none of it!”

“Please be calm,” I said, and I sat up a little and wiped my own tears. “Come, Beatrice, sit on the bed with me. My husband told me about your offer, and I wanted to speak with you.”

She obeyed me, and I took her hand again. “I want you to understand,” I said, “That you are still my dear friend. No, do not speak yet, dear. I forgive everything, I really do. Don’t…don’t think that you have to do anything to seek my forgiveness.”

“For what I’ve done, I’ve damned myself,” Beatrice said. She always had a way of being overdramatic, but I listened as she said, “You and Sir Aaron have shown me more kindness than anyone ever has. I…I was angry, Lady Emily, when I learned the truth about my husband,” she admitted, not looking me in the eye. “But I realized…it was for Tatiana, and she’d done it for me, and if she hadn’t, I…well, I don’t know what my life would be like.” She looked into my eyes again. “But it would not be as good as the one you have given me!

“You know this well, but I am in love with your husband. In another sense, I am in love with you as well. Lady Emily, I…I really did think that you loved Mrs. Morrison the most, and that you wanted some way to be with her. Or rather…” she said, looking away again, “I made myself believe it.”

“Oh, I did love Mrs. Morrison,” I admitted. “But not more than my husband, Beatrice. I’ve never loved anyone more than I love him.”

“And he loves you most,” Beatrice added, almost a little bitterly. “And my husband loved you  most. And I was jealous, Lady Emily, terribly jealous. Yes, it was jealousy that drove me to do it,” she said, as though it were a revelation of sorts, and not something that I already knew well.

“And what right have I, to envy the one woman, besides my own sister, who has been kind to me and has loved me?” she continued sadly. “God is punishing me for my envy, Lady Emily. I have no milk to give to my child.” She sobbed, and I held her, and could not image the horror of her situation. How much pleasure have I had in providing my children with my loving milk, in giving the same to my eager husband?

“Tatiana has been providing,” Beatrice continued. “But she has her own nursing child, and she is with child again, and she has been away from her husband’s home for so long already! The fact that you’ve come home with child, and will be nursing again…and the child belongs to your husband…it’s the only way. I want you to have my child. Please have her, Lady Emily,” she begged, crying more.

Oh, how I truly pitied her then! She did not want me to be a wet nurse, she wanted me to be a mother. The one thing she’d longed for, and waited so long for, and she was giving it up. But there was no talking  her out of it. She also presented her case for becoming my slave. “I want you to treat me the way that Mrs. Morrison treated you,” she said. “Tatiana allowed me to read your letters…I’m terribly sorry if I wasn’t meant to do so…”

“Oh, no, that’s all right,” I said. I was glad that she had a grasp of my situation.

“I didn’t know…I really didn’t think she would be so cruel,” she whispered shamefully.

“Beatrice,” I confessed, “I…I hated being away from my family, from my husband and children and you as well, but…what she did to me, I didn’t…I enjoyed much of it…” I knew I was blushing, and I felt a tingle run through me. I couldn’t let myself get too excited, as there was nothing to be done about it, doctor’s orders.

“But dear,” I added, “I have no desire to be cruel to you. You are my friend, Beatrice, and I love you.” I smiled, and she looked so surprised, as though she’d never quite believed in my love for her until that moment.

“Would you have me, Lady Emily?” she asked softly. “Would you let me stay here and be yours?”

I leaned forward (with some difficulty, due to my expanding belly), and Beatrice leaned in to me, and I kissed her softly, a tender, loving kiss, and I was so happy to have her. If she thought that it would save her, well…all the better. I do not yet regret my decision to keep her, as I will soon explain.

But I must cease in my writing; my husband has silently come into the room, and is sitting and looking at me sternly, though allowing me to finish. I will explain the terms of our new situation when I am permitted to write again.

4 April, 18—

It is a lovely spring afternoon, and my husband has opened the windows in the bedchamber to allow me a little fresh air. He knows I am becoming stir-crazy, but I try to remain calm. Beatrice has been very kind to entertain me, and I am not simply referring to the sexual shows that she puts on for me with my husband (as I will explain). On quiet afternoons, as I lay with my eyes closed (on my husband’s insistence, I snooze or feign sleep for much of the day), Beatrice reads aloud to me. Her voice is so soft, so soothing as she reads quietly, just loud enough for me to hear her.

The other morning, she was reading aloud from a rather poignant scene in a novel, in which a child dies. I noticed a subtle change in her voice, but she did not cease reading. Opening my eyes, I saw her tears flowing, and I reached out and took her hand. “I know, dear,” I said softly.

Beatrice sniffled. “Oh, my lady, please forgive me, but I did love little Peter as though he were my own…”

“I know it, and I’m so glad, my friend,” I assured her, and it was true. At least in my absence, my son was well loved. “You were more of a mother to him than I was.”

“And look how he turned out,” she moaned briefly, but she shook her head and calmed herself. “I’m sorry, my lady. Sir Aaron warned me not to upset you…”

“You may speak with me, Beatrice,” I assured her. “Unburden yourself to me, my friend, do. My dear husband means well, but I am not quite so delicate as he wants to believe me to be.”

At my insistence, Beatrice told me stories of Peter growing up. He took after me in some ways, sometimes melancholy, always polite and kindly, never disobeying his aunties or Daddy and always getting on with his older sister. I am quite proud of my sweet little boy, but even more sorry that I did not ever know him myself. Only as a tiny suckling…I only have those sweet memories of my lost child.

But just as often as I am saddened by the loss of my child (and admittedly, everything else that has happened these past few months, these past few years…I do not know how I have come through it all right), I am delighted by some of the aspects of our new arrangement. I am quite fond of the sweet little baby, Beatrice and my Mr. Singer’s daughter.

The poor little dear had not even been named when we had arrived home. Beatrice had not wanted to give the girl a name without our approval, though it was not until the death of Peter that she became resolute in her decision to give her up. My husband had taken to calling the little girl after her mother, and so she is young Beatrice. She is a darling little thing, so tiny, for she was born at seven months. But she has a healthy coloring now, a slightly darker shade like her mother’s side of the family, and is even beginning to fill out a bit (a chubby thing, as her mother is). She has some of the same sharp features as my husband, his chin and nose, and big dark eyes like her mother. She is beautiful.

My husband allows me a little time to bond with the child each day, for he has felt all along that I should raise her as my own. She is still nursed by her Auntie Ana, but I will be with milk again soon after my own child is born. I cannot wait, not only so that I will finally know my newest little love, who has been with me through some very difficult times, but also so that I might get up from this bed! And so that I might really get to play again…I do feel terribly restless, though my husband tries to keep me satisfied without putting strain on my body, licking me sweetly while I moan, grinding my pussy into my master’s face.

As noted, my husband plays quite a bit with Beatrice, and always in my presence. This was my idea. After I’d first spoken with her, and we had an agreement about our arrangement, I recalled the conversation in private with my husband. He looked very pleased; it had all worked out just the way he’d intended, and I was happy to comply. “Sir,” I said, “While I am bedridden and unable to play with you, I’d like for you to get your pleasure from Beatrice.”

“As you wish, my dear,” my husband said with a grin. He pronounced that anything they did would be done before me and at my command. “I must tell you, darling, that when I learned that she’d betrayed us, I told her that I would never please her again. And I am going to keep my word at that.”

“Very well, sir,” I said. He meant that, just as my pussy was all his, her cunt would be my personal property. Well, I have no intention of being a cruel mistress, but while I am in my current state, she will go unsatisfied. But she has been eagerly participating in all of our little games.

That evening, Mr. Signer invited Beatrice to join us in the bedchamber. She was timid as she looked at us, having not been in the presence of both of us together in so long. I held out my hand to her, and she knelt beside the bed, taking the proffered hand and giving it a gentle kiss. I couldn’t help giggling, and when I looked to my husband, I could see that he was unable to hide his grin.

“You may tell Lady Emily your good news,” my husband said, and I looked at Beatrice in surprise. She smiled.

“A letter came for you, not two days before your return. It was from Rebecca Flannigan…do you know her, my lady?”

It took me a moment to recall, but I did. “Why, yes...” I looked at my husband. “She is my dear old Nanny’s granddaughter…do you remember her, sir?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear,” he admitted. “You know I don’t have much of a mind for names, not as you do.”

“What did the letter say, dear?” I asked Beatrice.

“She and her brother had been cleaning her mother’s cottage…she had recently passed.”

“My dear Nanny’s only daughter?” I asked sadly. “Oh, my, the poor dear.”

“Oh, but my lady, your old Nanny passed herself. Just over a decade ago,” Beatrice said. I was more than a little surprised. I had never heard from my old Nanny again after she’d left us. I had written a letter to her, announcing my marriage to my guardian, and I thought she had disapproved, as I had never gotten a response. As though she read my thoughts, Beatrice continued, “Miss Flannigan found the letter in a box of her grandmother’s things. It had never been opened, my lady. She saw from the dates that it had arrived not long after her grandmother’s death, and it must have been put away and forgotten about.”

“How extraordinary,” I said, and I felt a sense of relief. I would sometimes think of my old Nanny over the years, the other person who helped to ensure my happy, safe childhood. It had broken my heart to think that she did not love me anymore, that she was disgusted with my dear kindly Mr. Singer. She had never known about it all…if she had, perhaps she would have been happy for us. We would never know.

“Miss Flannigan wanted to write and send her greetings,” Beatrice said. “She is quite young herself…”

“Yes,” I remembered. “She’d be no more than twenty, is that right?”

Beatrice nodded. “She inquired about a position as a nanny. I…I took it upon myself to reply and to encourage her to come. She has responded, and her letter arrived today.”

“Oh!” I said. I turned to my husband. “May I read it, please, sir?”

Mr. Singer smiled gently. “Why yes, my dear. And here it is, not even opened yet,” he said, taking the envelope from his inner pocket. He went to the desk to use the letter-opener, and brought the letter back to me, still folded. “Here you are, darling.”

As he knelt down to hand it to me, I kissed his lips in gratitude. He returned my kiss, his tongue briefly sliding into my mouth, but he pulled away, teasing me. “Will you read it aloud for us, Lady Emily?” I nodded and began.

Dear Mrs. Gainsley… “Oh, it is for you, dear,” I said. Beatrice only nodded, encouraging me to continue.

I am terribly sorry to hear of the troubles at Wainwright Hall. “How much did you tell her, dear?”

“I informed her of Peter’s death,” Beatrice admitted. “I…I also told her that you had been ill. I thought that you would not react well to…”

I nodded, and hastily read on. I must say, though, I am glad that I am able to offer my assistance at such an opportune time. I am planning to quit the Griffins in August. I looked at Beatrice questioningly.

“She has been the nanny for a wealthy family in London,” Beatrice answered. “The youngest child will be going off to school, and in her first letter, she’d written that she was seeking a new position.”

“Ah,” I said. I noticed then that the second sheet in the bundle was a letter of recommendation from Lord Griffin himself. I set it aside and read on. I would be very honored to work in the same home that my grandmother worked in for so long. She always spoke of her time at Wainwright Hall, and she loved Lady Emily very much. She saw me once in London when I was a small baby, but of course I do not remember the encounter. Still, I very much look forward to meeting the young lady and her family. I hope that she is well.

I will be eagerly awaiting a response about the position.

Very best regards,

Rebecca Flannigan

“Why, we certainly must hire her on, sir,” I said, and my husband nodded.

“I agree. When you have some strength, you may write your response,” he said. He took the letter from me, and kissed me again, another cruelly teasing kiss. Oh, but he was only just getting started with me. “I think this letter proves,” he said, as he went to put the letter on the desk, “that we must be very grateful for our blessings. Even in our grief, we have so much to be thankful for.”

I nodded in agreement. “Beatrice,” my husband continued, and she, still kneeling by the bed, looked up at him in eager surprise. He crooked his finger, beckoning her. She stood slowly, hesitantly letting go of my hand as she went to him. As she stood before him, he took her chin in his hand and lifted it, forcing her to look into his eyes. “So,” he said softly, “You really are going to be my wife’s slave from now on?”

“Yes, Sir Aaron,” she murmured. They were silent for a moment, and my husband, still holding Beatrice’s chin, turned to me.

“Well, sir,” I said, suppressing a giggle of delight, “What would you like to do to this whore?”

That same wicked glint, the one that I have always loved, shown in my husband’s eyes. His lips parted slightly, it was not clear if he was snarling or smiling. “I may have her ass?” he asked, knowing my response.

“Of course, sir. Beatrice?”

“Yes, my lady.” My little slave (I am still getting used to the idea!) did not need me to say anything more. She slowly began to remove her dress. As she stripped naked, my husband came to me and straddled my waist. I instinctively pushed my hips toward him, inviting him, but my husband frowned at me and shook his head.

“No, no, my naughty cow. You remember what the doctor said?”

“Oh, please, sir…” I had been denied for too long already…and I must admit, it has been torment over the last few weeks.

“Silence, whore,” he snarled, and I giggled but stopped my protests. Of course, he was right. He took from his pocket a short length of soft rope. “I know that while I am playing with your slave, you will want to touch yourself, perhaps even remove your nightgown.” For I have been clothed in my captivity, so that we are not tempted to play (any more than we already are). “Nasty little cow. I know you need my love, but we must be patient. Am I right?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I agreed, nodding, and I put my hands behind my back. He carefully tied my wrists together, no tighter than necessary. I being so large, it was a bit of a strain just to keep my shoulders back. My husband smiled, at least allowing me that small amount of pain, for he knew I so loved it.

My husband placed a pillow behind my head to ensure my comfort, and I watched as he approached a naked Beatrice. “Sir,” I said. He turned to me, smiling. “Please, sir, will you take off your clothes while you fuck my slave? Please, sir…your body is so beautiful.”

I couldn’t have pleased him more. He even flushed with pleasure as he had Beatrice undress him. She knew to run her fingertips slowly over his bare chest and only slightly soft stomach (my dear husband is quite fit for a man of 50); she had been his lover for quite some time, and she undoubtedly knew how to please him. For a moment, I felt a little sad, only a little. But the feeling subsided.

It is difficult to explain how it felt, watching my husband bend Beatrice over the arm of a large chair (which he brought to the foot of the bed, so I could watch more closely) and viciously fuck her ass. It was thrilling, especially to know that they were partly doing it for my sake, as well as their own. I was also frustrated, mostly due to the fact that I could not participate. Needless to say, by the time my husband came all over Beatrice’s exposed back and ass, and began spanking her with a swift, open palm, I was dripping wet beneath my nightgown, and moaning softly, biting my lip to silence it.

My husband spanked Beatrice’s ass and thighs until they were burning red. He looked at me the entire time, one hand slapping Beatrice, the other holding her long dark hair in his fist, and he grinned at me, relishing my torment.

He finished with her, and left her hanging over the side of the chair (for he had restrained her to the legs of the chair, of course) as he came to me. He smiled calmly. “Thank you, my love,” he said sincerely. He sat with me and touched my face, kissing me softly, his tongue teasing me again.

When he pulled away briefly, I moaned. “Oh, please, sir…”

“How can I thank you, my darling? What can I do?”

“Let me come, sir,” I begged. “Oh, please, sir, do let me come, I need to…”

“I think it would be good for you to come,” he agreed. “We will have to be gentle, though.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I agreed. “Yes, but please, do hurry.”

He laughed softly at my impatience, as he always did, and I knew I was flushing all over. He straddled me again, and kissed me, more deeply now, and I only realized then how much I had missed his hot, hungry kisses when we were parted. When he kisses me in such a way, I know he needs me, and loves me more than anyone ever could. He could not resist groping my tits through my nightgown, but he restrained himself and did not bare them for his pleasure, perhaps knowing that if he started playing with them, he might wish to torment them…no sense in further teasing each other.

He did crawl between my legs and pull up the skirt of my nightgown, exposing my bare pussy. “Spread as wide as you can, my lovely cow.” I did so, and raised my hips, so eager for him. He went down on me, plunging his tongue into my depths, and I sighed when he slowly swirled his tongue around my clit. I shuddered. I so loved the feel of his moist tongue inside of me that I held out a bit longer than I might have. He did not scold me, but kept licking and probing, not changing his sensual pace, even as I panted and moaned louder.

After I came, my husband cleaned me, and carefully pulled my nightgown back into place. He wiped his face clean before coming to kiss me again and hold me close. “You’re so pretty, my little cow,” he said, tears in his eyes. Since we’ve been reunited, he will sometimes look at me as though he can’t quite believe I’m really there, like I am a strange miracle. He gave me that look, and rubbed my belly softly. “I love you, Emily.”

“I love you, too, sir,” I said, and perhaps it is the fact that he was crying a little himself, and that I am a bit overemotional whilst pregnant, but I began to cry. I had cried a lot over the last couple of days, but these were tears of joy, of relief. I realized at that moment that no matter what happens, I will always have my dear husband, my wonderful Mr. Singer, my very best friend. Perhaps I have known this all along, but that feeling came to me then, and we held each other for a minute, until we heard Beatrice let out a timid groan.

I smiled at my husband. “Would you might untying my slave, please, sir?”

“Not at all, darling,” he said, and he went to Beatrice, and did untie her. “All right, Beatrice, playtime is over. Say goodnight to your mistress.”

Beatrice, still naked, her ass and the back of her legs raw and her back covered in drying cum, came and knelt beside me again. She was smiling cheerfully, and she took my hand and kissed it again. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, dear.” We kissed briefly, the sort of kiss that sisters might exchange, and she rose.

“Good night, Sir Aaron,” she said. My husband smiled at her, so kindly that I knew he really had forgiven her, and that our situation was all right.

“Good night, Beatrice, dear,” he said affectionately, and she left the room (and boldly so, wearing no clothing at all!). This made my husband chuckle briefly before he came to me, untying me and laying me on my back. “Time for you to rest, love. You’ve had quite enough excitement.”

“Sir, may we play like this all the time?” I asked. It certainly is better than not playing at all, even if my participation is minimal.

My husband smiled. “Oh, yes, Emily, we may. If you’re a good little girl and get your rest.”

I nodded, and I did feel quite tired as my husband extinguished the lights and joined me in bed. He held me, rubbing my belly comfortingly, and I slept much better than I had in years.

We do play with Beatrice almost every evening, and she seems to enjoy it as much as we do. She has been subjected to a number of harsh punishments, my husband doing to her what he wishes he could do to me. Just the other night, he shackled her to the wall (for those same shackles, which my husband had built in years ago, are still here) and viciously whipped her tits, unable to resist yanking himself as he did so, smiling over at me before he grunted and came on her leg.

I have basically explained the routine of my days in confinement. Meals with my husband, frequent visits from him, and Mina and Beatrice (and of course, the precious baby, a miniature Beatrice for certain) throughout the day, and quite a bit of sleep. I do feel tired much of the time, and am often still weighed down by my grief at losing my poor little Peter. Though I have been comforted with an image of my boy in heaven, united with his long-lost grandparents, and that my little angel is cared for by my mother, who never got to take care of me herself.

Ah, as much as I have lost in my life, my husband is very right. I must be grateful for what I do have. Two healthy little girls, and another child on the way soon. My sweet Beatrice, and many other good friends. And of course, my Mr. Singer, my husband, the man who raised me and loves me so much. I am also very lucky to have my fortune, and to be able to help others. My husband reminds me that in time, the pain of losing Peter will fade into something manageable. “Do you remember how heartbroken you were when you lost your father?” he asked me the other day, after I’d cried in his arms again. “You were a very strong little girl. You were sad for a while, so sad, inconsolable, but you found a way to move past your pain. You made me strong as well, for I felt very lost after losing my good friend. You helped me, Emily, and I want to help you.”

“You do, sir,” I assured him, taking his hand. He helps me more than he can ever realize!

8 August, 18—

We’ve only just arrived in St. Tropez, and my husband has already ordered me to bed! We have come to spend the later part of the summer here. My husband says that it is for the sake of my health, though I know it is more for Beatrice. She still participates eagerly in our playtime, and when she is serving me she is all cheerful smiles, but she does seem terribly melancholy. I hope that our vacation will be good for her.

Over the last few months (and especially after the birth of my sweet little girl, my precious Charlotte, who greatly resembles her little Auntie Alice), I have started to feel more like myself again. My husband does a very good job of keeping me distracted, and he knew that a trip to France would raise my spirits. I was hesitant to leave Wainwright Hall again so soon, after being away for so long, but I have my family with me.

Rebecca, our new nanny, has joined us, having taken leave of the Griffins early in order to accompany us on this trip. She reminds me a bit of my nanny, sweet but a little stern, and she and my dear Tatiana butted heads a little when she first arrived. But I completely trust the children to her care, though I take an active part in their care as I always have. Two little baby girls can be quite a lot of work, but I still care for them myself in the night, with my husband to aid me.

My Mina is an independent girl. I cannot believe that she will be old enough to attend school in another year! I have been determined to make the most of our time together. I very much look forward to riding with her for the first time, and my dear husband has promised that he’ll allow me to do so upon our return home. I cannot help but regret all the time we have missed together, but I suppose that such feelings are not productive. I must continue to focus on the present and future…so much ugliness needs to be left in the past.

So it is myself, my dear husband, my Beatrice, the three girls, and our new nanny Rebecca here on our vacation. My husband is more outnumbered by women than he’s ever been, and he certainly loves it. He is already in the process of turning Rebecca on to our little games. She is a pretty thing, very lean and fair skinned, with vibrant red hair. I imagine that my Nanny had red hair before she went grey. Rebecca speaks with a lovely accent, Scottish but softened by her time in London (the Griffins were also Scottish, acclimated). She is good humored much of the time, though she is strict about keeping the young children to a schedule. I cannot yet tell if she would be willing to play our games, but I will certainly be glad if she does.

Since Rebecca joined us, Beatrice has spent little time with the children. I know it hurts her to be around her little daughter, her own namesake. I do not wish to take her child away from her, but she is determined to distance herself, and devotes all of her time to me alone. Though I’ve received more than my share of attention from my husband since recovering from an easy childbirth.

I know that my husband is expecting me to truly rest now, and if he is to catch me at my writing, he surely will not allow me to go to the beach this afternoon. So I will add the details of our vacation here when I can.

21 August, 18—

Such strange events that have transpired! And I must say, I feel terribly hurt by what has happened, though my husband comforts me as best he can (as he always does). He claims it is no big loss, that it will be for the best, but I cannot help having my doubts.

Beatrice has left us. Just this evening, she has packed her few belongings and has departed, and I fear that we will never see her again. Needless to say, this vacation has not cured her mood. Indeed, she had only grown more anguished over the past couple of weeks. She has always been prone to such fits of melancholy, but her downward turn since our arrival here has been most alarming.

Allow me to explain. As I’d previously noted, my husband had been eager to get to know our young Rebecca quite well. He was successful in swaying her interest, but we were left with one little complication. If we were playing with Rebecca, who would care for the young girls?

Mr. Singer felt Beatrice should, and I thought nothing of asking her. She was most courteous in her response. “Of course, my lady,” she said, smiling a little. Ah, but something was not right, and I felt a little uneasy about making the request.

But our first evening with young Rebecca was quite fun. She told us, as we lounged on the patio just up from the sea and enjoyed cool drinks, that she’d carried on an affair with both the Lord and Lady Griffin. “Only, we did not all three play together,” she admitted. “I saw them each separately…and they never did know about each other’s affairs!”

A strangely amusing but sad story! “Why did you not ever think to bring the two together?” I could not help asking. My husband gave me a briefly stern look, but he would not scold me for my meddlesome ways, never again.

“Oh, I did think of it, my lady,” Rebecca admitted. “You must understand, my lady, these two were not suited for one another. Quite a pity, they had such lovely children and such possibilities. But they were not meant to be together.”

“It is for you to determine this?” my husband asked, to my surprise. Rebecca’s pale face flushed pleasantly, but she was not afraid of being challenged.

“It was not my place to question their sleeping in separate bedchambers, sir,” she said, a bit defensively. “And they were happy with their arrangement.”

“Fair enough,” my husband said with a wave of his hand. He threw a wink to me, and I knew that we would never end up in separate bedchambers, that we could never be happy that way. “So you enjoy your fun, Rebecca?”

“Who doesn’t, sir?” she asked, polishing off her drink. Having left the children to Beatrice’s capable care, she was enjoying a night of freedom. My husband liked her immediately, and I respected her for her intelligence. She revealed (after a couple more strong drinks) that she wanted to further her education, and of course, I have started thinking of a way to help her along with her plans. I certainly do enjoy helping others.

But a sodden Rebecca helped us that evening. She was quite a merry drunk, red-faced to match her hair, and was quite enthusiastic in our playing. She was disappointed at my husband’s rules, for she seems to pride herself as being as much of an expert lover as I, and was eager to prove herself to me. But she was quite pleased (and I was very surprised) when my husband suggested that she give me a paddling.

“My dear Emily was not punished much as a child,” my husband said teasingly as he stroked my rock-hard nipples, squeezing my tits gently, enjoying their swelling. “And she does not believe in the corporal punishment of children, but my naughty girl needs some discipline now. Come, little Nanny,” he coaxed her, “Give my little cow what she needs.”

I’d kept on some of my pregnancy weight, at least for the time being, and I knew that he wanted me to keep it on. He ran his hands over my soft stomach and thighs, teasing me, standing before me and rubbing his hard cock against my opening, before he spun me around and bent me over the foot of the bed. He tied my wrists together, my arms over my head. He instructed Rebecca to retrieve the spreader-bar from the wardrobe, and proceeded to shackle my ankles, spreading my legs wide apart.

Goodness! Such a thrilling punishment…I had not had such fun with my husband in far too long! And Rebecca, well experienced from the punishments she’d administered to Lord Griffin, used the paddle with holes that I’d brought back with me from San Francisco. I quite enjoyed my bare-ass paddling, and when Rebecca paused to shove two fingers into my gaping asshole, I was reminded of Lydia, of the times when we had real fun together, before everything became so complicated.

My husband replaced Rebecca when my ass was burning, and he shoved his cock into my prepared asshole. He fucked me hard as I moaned, grabbing my hair tightly in his fist and whispering to me. “Nasty little whore, you love getting a punishment from Nanny, don’t you?”

“Oh, God, yes, sir!” I cried. His balls slapped against my ass as he fucked me harder, his grip on my hair tightening, and I sobbed. “Oh, God, sir, please…”

“You’re a naughty girl, Emily, so naughty,” my husband snarled, and I moaned, wanting him to touch me, finger me, please me just a little bit. “Nanny, does my little bitch cow deserve pleasure?”

“Not yet,” Rebecca responded cruelly, and I knew what she would have me do. My chest, pinned to the mattress, heaved, and my ass clinched. My husband grunted, and slapped my ass in gratitude as he came inside of me. I groaned, grinding myself against the edge of the bed, my clit burning as much as my punished ass.

My husband seized me by the hair and lifted me to my feet. He removed the spreader-bar, then positioned my arms behind my back. He remained behind me, snarling teasingly in my ear as he gently put a hand around my throat. “My little cow loves pussy, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I nodded. His hand tightened, ever so slightly. I shuddered and stood up on my toes. Oh, God, I love it when my master is just a little bit cruel, just a little bit mean to me as he teases me.

“Look at your little Nanny, Emily. Isn’t she pretty?” Rebecca, her pale naked skin shining in the moonlight that came in through the open window, gave me a seductive look. She pushed her vibrant red hair, blanched in the moonlight, behind her pale shoulders, and spread her legs wide.

“Yes, sir. She’s beautiful.” She smiled at that, shyly, and beckoned to me. My husband helped me to my knees, and watched me crawl to her. She did not say anything as I, without hesitation, shoved my head up between her legs and shoved my tongue into her pussy.

Rebecca moaned, grabbing me by the hair (my head was throbbing a little after that particularly rough playtime!) as I licked her quickly, sucking on her when I located her oversized clit. As I lapped at her teasingly, I noted the tangled red hair around her pussy. But she did not leave me much time to examine her by sight as she grinded herself onto my face while shoving my head further against her thrusting crotch. My tongue explored her, circling about along the lining of her pussy walls, and she cried out loud, unable to resist me as I nibbled on her clit, and I was rewarded with a face full of sticky cream.

I licked and cleaned her, dirty as I was, and she returned the favor by toweling off my face and kissing me softly. Her lips are thin and pale, but so soft and warm. She stood and turned to my husband. “I think she’s deserved her pleasure, sir.”

“As do I, Nanny,” my husband agreed, and approached me. I smiled up at him, and he looked down at me, his look loving and tender before that same wicked glint appeared again. He put a hand on my arm. “Stand up, my child,” he instructed me, and I giggled, standing with his gentle help. He put a hand between my legs and stroked me as he whispered, “You are my naughty one, Emily, but you’re so good, darling. So, so good.”

“Just for you, sir,” I whispered, and this pleased him greatly. He dismissed Rebecca for the evening before throwing me to the bed and having me, again and again, for the remainder of the night.

My husband enjoys watching Rebecca punish me, just as I know he enjoyed watching Lydia do so, back before everything changed. And so, over the last couple of weeks, Rebecca has joined us regularly, and Beatrice has been left neglected. I felt some small guilt about it, but she continued to smile and obey my requests, and I deluded myself into believing that all was well.

Then, last night, the truth was revealed. My husband and I had spent a pleasant evening alone together. We were walking along the beach at twilight, enjoying the quiet. We have kept mostly to our private portion of beach and sea since we’ve been here, and have not socialized with other vacationers, though they are around. I am not lonely for the company; obviously, I’ve not been able to spend adequate time with everyone in my own party.

But none of this was on my mind as my husband held me by the arm and we walked together in bare feet, our shoes left by the door to our villa. The sand was pleasantly cool and we walked close to the gently lapping waters, and talked pleasantly together, strolling along. We talked of our friends, the Sheltons, who were so happy to be reunited. I knew that Tatiana was getting on well with young Alice, and getting along very well with my dear Joseph. I have missed them while we’ve been on vacation, but knowing that they are safe and well, at least, makes me feel better.

We have not all yet played together, but my husband promises that we will do so upon our arrival home. Of course, with Beatrice gone, I don’t know if Tatiana will be able to forgive us. “She knows her sister’s ways,” my husband assures me. “She knows that Beatrice has been unhappy for quite some time…she won’t begrudge us for it.” But I have my doubts. I know how much Tatiana loves her sister, and I would hate for her to blame us for all that has happened…

But on the beach that evening, my husband and I were perfectly carefree. After we walked along for a while, we were quite away from any other houses. Nobody was around for miles, it seemed. My husband stopped and turned to me, touching my face softly. “You are happy again, my Emily?”

“Oh, sir, I…” I had to be perfectly honest with him, as I know I always should be. “I am still sad about our son, to be sure, but…yes, I am happy. So happy.” And I smiled, and my husband did not frown with worry anymore. He kissed me deeply, hungrily, but only briefly.

“The water is quite warm this evening,” he observed, and I knew what he meant to do. He helped me to remove my white dress, and I helped him out of his shirt and trousers, and he carried me naked into the water as I laughed. The waves were not very high that evening, so we went out further than we might have dared. My toes still brushed the sandy bottom as I expertly treaded, and Mr. Singer stood easily, a protective hand near my waist as he bent his knees to submerge himself to my level.

He took me by the waist, and I wrapped my legs around him securely as we kissed again, laughing as the water lapped around our faces. My strong husband stood a little higher, holding me up while kissing me with the same intensity. I could feel him going hard against me, and I was thrilled at the thought of finally fucking my husband in the sea (we had not had an opportunity yet!).

We drifted to shore, and my husband positioned me beneath him, just above where the water was breaking, so that we were frequently soaked while we fucked. As thrilling as it was, the sand was a bit uncomfortable, though not necessarily unpleasant (cleaning up afterward proved quite difficult, though!). When my husband finished with me, we walked naked back to the villa (not even bothering to retrieve our clothing!) and went to our room to clean up.

We were diverted by the sound of arguing voices coming from the nursery. Alarmed and irritated, my husband took me quickly to our room to dress (for how could we confront them in our current state?), and he went to squash the argument while I tidied up. I only washed my hands and ran a comb through my hair before covering it with a lace veil, and I joined my husband to find out what the trouble was.

In the nursery, I found my husband and Rebecca each comforting a baby; Beatrice stood alone by the window, looking out at the sea. No one was speaking; the only sound was the squalling of the awoken baby girls. I took little Beatrice from my husband and held her close as I asked, “What is going on here?”

“My lady,” Rebecca began defensively. “Your friend here…”

“Now, calmly,” my husband said, in his masterful way. He looked troubled, though.

“We were caring for the girls,” Rebecca continued, not much calmer than before. “She began to complain about our…arrangement.”

Beatrice turned to me with narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry, my lady, for not being forthright, but I have been dissatisfied…”

“Ingrate,” my husband spat, to my surprise. “Your mistress asks so little of you…”

“I thought it was understood,” Beatrice plowed on, her hands visibly trembling. “I thought it was understood that I was to be her…plaything. And this girl is the nanny,” she said, gesturing to Rebecca spitefully. “Not the only way around!”

“Oh, but Beatrice…”

“No, my lady,” Beatrice cut me off. She burst into tears. “You know it pains me to be around this baby, and yet you insist…”

I clutched dear little Beatrice more tightly. I did not know what to say. My husband angrily approached Beatrice, and she pressed herself against the window fearfully. “I told you, Beatrice, that you were welcome to go at any time. You are unhappy? Then go! And stop plaguing us!”

I gasped as Beatrice hurried from the room. My husband gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Emily.”

“Sir, you must not speak to her in such a way.”

“I only say what is true,” he said, his face red with his sudden fury. He reached out to me. “Come, give me the child. Rebecca and I will finish putting them to bed. Leave Beatrice alone, Emily, and take a bath. We’ll sort this whole mess out.”

I fought the temptation to go to Beatrice’s private room and obeyed my husband. I took a warm bath, and scrubbed away the sand and sea from my hair and skin, but I could not relax. By the time I’d put on my lotion and combed out my hair more carefully, my husband still had not returned to our room. I waited for him, uncertain of what else to do, and he came to me finally, as I sat restless and naked on our bed.

“Rebecca has told me that Beatrice has been quite hostile towards her,” he said quietly. “She had not wished to say anything before, as she was uncertain of the nature of your…relationship. But Beatrice was being particularly insufferable this evening, and I’m glad that Rebecca let her have it…”

“And so did you,” I added, not quite able to forgive his harsh words. He smiled sheepishly and came to me. I did not resist his touch as he took my face and kissed me.

“You know I am quick to anger at times,” my husband said. “And you understand that my feelings toward Beatrice are…complicated.”

“Yes, sir,” I acknowledged. “Do you really want her to go?”

He sighed. “Things can never be as they once were, Emily. I do still love Beatrice. I want her to be happy, and…she is not happy with us. I don’t think there’s anything we can do to make her perfectly happy, try as we have for so long.” It was true. Even in our early days together, she had always been dissatisfied, in some way. I sighed deeply.

“What is the fair thing to do, sir?”

“You are the one to decide,” he said, the answer I did not want to hear. But he added, “I will help you, and I will support anything that you decide. Shall we go speak with her and try to work things out?”

I nodded, and he helped me to dress and took me to Beatrice’s room. My husband knocked, but still entered without waiting for her to respond. She sat morose on the balcony, for her little room had quite a dazzling view. She turned to us sadly, and came back into the dark room to speak with us. Looking only at me, she said, “I’m so sorry, my lady. I do not know what came over me. Please, do forgive my behavior.”

“Of course, dear,” I said uneasily as she knelt before me. As much fun as it had been to have my own little slave at first, I find that the role of mistress does not suit me. Perhaps if Beatrice had truly been happy and satisfied under my care, I would have taken to it. But it was not right. “Please, get up, dear, we must talk.”

She was evasive, but after some time (during which my husband sat in silence and merely observed, never interjecting, and I appreciated that more than I could ever hope to express), the truth came forth. Yes, she loved me dearly and sought my forgiveness and love. No, she was not happy in our situation, though she did try, she wanted us to know. After finally getting to the heart of the matter, I said, “Beatrice, I know what you want more than anything in the world. But you know that it is impossible, don’t you?”

I was referring, of course, to her love for my husband, how she wanted to be his only one. She nodded sadly, sneaking a short look at him, the only time she’d dared to look at him since we’d all sat down together. He wore a neutral expression on his face, and she crumpled to see it, and seemed to realize then, truly, how impossible her dream really was. “My dear,” I went on, “I’ve always loved you, and I’ve always wanted to make you happy. All things aside, what do you think would make you happy? What do you want?”

“I…” Beatrice was hesitant. But she finally said the truth, the harsh truth, for the very first time. “I want to begin my life again…and I never want to see you again, my lady.” She sobbed at these words, mortified at even thinking them. “Oh, do forgive me, my lady, I know how it must sound…but I can never measure up to you, don’t you see? And I want a man to adore me as your husband adores you, I want that, and I never will around you because…”

That was the end of the discussion, for all practical purposes. I tried to offer Beatrice money; she refused to take a cent. She said that she intended to be gone the next day (and she has kept her word, having departed only hours ago). “It will be better this way,” she said tearfully, the same words that my husband would echo later. I did not, and still cannot, believe that it is so.

But what is to be done? Beatrice made her choice, I suppose, and I wish her all the best. I hope that it is not the last that I see of her. We have such a history together. A rocky, unpleasant one, to be sure, but I love her as much as I could love any sister. I knew that this whole slavery business was a mistake, but I think I agreed to it because I was desperate to hold on to her.

My husband, it seems, knew all along that her time with us would not last. “Why do you think I named the child for her natural mother?” he asked later. “We’ll at least have something to remember her by.” He seems to believe that she will never return, and perhaps he feels that it is for the best as well, that she disappears and never comes back. I cannot believe him to be so heartless, but then again, we have had such terrible times…

My head is spinning with it all again, and my husband will be coming to me soon, I am sure. Why can we not find our footing again? Why must things become complicated again, just when they’d started to be so good? I had thought that I was happy again, that I could be happy as before, but now…perhaps we are cursed. But what have we done, what have I done, to deserve all of this?