on the panelling, and as I goggled she pushed one knee through the silky tresses and pouted at me.
We never went near the bed, for it would have been a shame to disturb her tableau vivant, much; I just heaved her up and piled in against the panels, grunting for joy, and I’ll swear the boat rocked at its moorings, for she teased no longer when it came to serious work, and I wasn’t for lingering myself. It was splendid fun while it lasted, which was until she began to shudder and scream and tried to throttle me with her hair, so I romped her up and down all the way to the lavatory, where we finished the business under the patent showerbath, once I’d got the knack of the dam’ thing, which ain’t easy with a mad nymph clinging to your manly chest. Most refreshing it was, though, and brought back memories of Sonsee-Array, my Apache princess, who was partial to coupling under waterfalls – which is deuced cold, by the way, and the pebbles don’t help.
Miranda Spring knew a trick worth two of that, for when we’d come to our senses and towelled each other dry, with much coy snickering on her part, she showed me to a little alcove off the main cabin where an excellent collation was laid out under covers, with bubbly in a bucket. We recruited our energies with lobster and chicken, but when I proposed that we finish off the wine on deck, she came all over languid and said we would be ‘ever so comfee’ on the bed – and if you’d seen that exquisite young body artfully swathed in her hair, with those fine ivory poonts thrusting impudently through it, you’d have agreed.
But she must finish her dessert, too – like all chi-chis she had a passion for sugary confections – so she brought it to bed, if you please, and gorged herself on eclairs and cream slices while I fondled her, well content to play restfully for a change. Not so madam; being a greedy little animal, she must satisfy both her appetites at once, and call me conservative if you will, I hold that a woman who gallops you while consuming a bowl of blancmange is wanting in respect. I left off nibbling her tits to rebuke her bad form, but the saucy little gannet stuck out her tongue and went on eating and cantering in a most leisurely fashion. Right, my lass, thinks I, and waited until she’d downed the last cherry and licked the spoon, settled herself for a rousing finish, and was beginning to moan and squeal in ecstatic frenzy – at which point I gave an elaborate yawn, hoisted her gently from the saddle, and announced that I was going on deck for a swim.
She squawked like a staggered hen, eyes still rolling. ‘Sweem? Wha’ … now? But … but … oah, no, no, nott yett –’
‘Why not? Better than all this boring frowsting in bed, what? Come along, a dip’ll do you no end of good.’ I gave them a playful flip. ‘Keep you in trim, you know.’
‘Boreeng?’ If you can imagine Andersen’s Mermaid moved from dazed bewilderment to screaming passion in an instant, you have Miranda. ‘Boreeng? Me? Aieee, you … you –’ But even as I prepared to parry a clawing attack, to my amazement her rage gave way to sudden consternation, and then her arms were round my neck and she was pleading frantically with me to stay, kissing and fondling and exerting her small strength to pull me down.
‘Oah, no, no, please, Harree, please don’t go – please, I am ever so sorree! Oah, I was wicked to tease – you mustn’t go up, nott yett! Please, stay … love me, Harree, oah please, don’t go!’
‘Changeable chit, ain’t you? No, no, miss, I’m going topsides for a swim, and some sunshine –’
‘No, no!’ It was a squeal of real alarm. ‘Please, please, you must stay here!’ She fairly writhed on to me, gasping. Well, I’ve known ’em eager, but this was flattery of the most persuasive kind. ‘Please, please, Harree … love me now, oah do!’
‘Wel-ll … no, later! If you’re a good little girl, after my swim –’
‘No, now! Oah, I shall be a badd big girl!’ She gave a whimper of entreaty. ‘Stay with me, and I will be verree badd! Don’ go, and I will …’ She put her lips to my ear, giggling, and whispered. I was so taken aback I may well have blushed.
‘Good God, I never heard the like! Why, you abandoned brat! Where on earth did you hear of such …? At school! I don’t believe it!’ She nodded gleefully, eyes shining, and I was speechless. Depraved women I’ve known, thank heaven, but this one was barely out of dancing class, and here she was, proposing debauchery that would have scandalised a Cairo pimp. Heavens, it was new to me, even, and I told her so. She smiled and bared her teeth.
‘Oah, then you will certainlee not go on deck just yett!’ whispers she. ‘You will stay with wicked Miranda, yess?’
Well, a gentleman should always indulge the whims of the frail sex, even if it does mean forgoing a refreshing swim, but I confess that if I hadn’t been a degenerate swine myself, her behaviour thereafter would have shocked me. I’d have thought, at thirty-six and having enjoyed the attentions of Lola Montez, Susie Willinck, my darling Elspeth, and other inventive amorists too numerous to mention, that I’d nothing to learn about dalliance, but by the time young Miranda (seventeen, I mean to say!) had had her girlish will of me, and I was lying more dead than alive in the showerbath, I could barely gasp one of Spring’s Latin tags: ‘Ex Africa semper aliquid novi,fn9 by gum!’
I must have managed to crawl back to the bed, for when I woke it was growing dusk, and Miranda was dressed and wearing an apron, humming merrily as she cooked omelettes in the galley for our supper, while I lay reflecting on the lack of supervision in colonial finishing schools, and wondering if I’d be fit for more jollity before the mail tender left in the morning. I ate my omelette with a trembling hand, but when she teased me into sharing asparagus with her, nibbling towards each other along the spear until our mouths met, I began to revive, and was all for it when she said we should spend the night aboard, and her butler would see my traps taken down to the wharf in good time.
‘But I shall be quite desolate at parting, for I have never knoawn anyone as jollee as you, Harree!’ cries she, stroking my whiskers. ‘You are ever so excessivelee wicked – far worse than Papa said!’
‘Then we’re a pair. Tell you what – let’s take a turn on deck, and then we’ll play picquet – and if you cheat, I’ll tie you up in that Rapunzel hair of yours, and show you what wickedness is.’
‘But I am thee greatest cheat!’ laughs she, so we went on deck, and I had to tell her the story of Raphunzel, which she’d never heard, while she nestled against me by the rail in the warm darkness, with the water chuckling against the hull and the last amber glow dying above the western rim. It was the place to linger with a girl, but presently it grew chilly, so we went down to our hand of picquet. She was no cheat at all, though, so I had to teach her, but once or twice I wondered if her mind was on the game at all, for she kept glancing at the clock, and when it struck she started, and fumbled her cards, and apologised, laughing like a schoolgirl – ‘clumsee Clara!’
The nursery exclamation reminded me what a child she was – Lord love us, I’d been married before she was born. Aye, and a damned odd child, behind the vivacious chatter and mischievous smile, with her Babylonian bedroom manners. Peculiar lusts are supposed to be a male prerogative (well, look at me), but the truth is we ain’t in it with the likes of the Empress Tzu-hsi or Lola of the Hair-brush or that Russian aunt I knew who went in for flogging in steambaths … or Miranda Spring, not yet of age, smiling brightly to cover a little yawn. Jaded from her mattress exertions, no doubt; we’ll brisk you up presently, thinks I, with a few of those Hindu gymnastics that Mrs Leslie of Meerut was so partial to …
There was a vague sound from somewhere outside, and then a heavy footfall on the deck over our heads. The butler from the house, was my first thought – and Miranda dropped a card in shuffling, retrieved it, and offered me the pack to cut.
‘Who is it?’ says I, and she glanced at the clock. Suddenly I realised she was trembling, but it was excitement, not fear, and the smile in the black eyes was one of pure triumph.
‘That will be Papa at last,’ says she.
There is, as that sound chap Ecclesiastes says, a time to get,