The Touchstone

A little of the luck of the Irish seems sure to rub off on Archie Kennedy, when he pays a visit to his old friend George in Dublin on the Feast of St. Patrick, 1798 and in so doing, re-visits his younger----and far more innocent---self.
 
Part One

March, 1798

"George! For God's sake!" Archie called out, laughing in spite of himself as he scrambled forward on still unreliable sea pins. The boggy turf seemed to give way at every step and he stumbled yet again, grabbing the arm of the nearest stranger as he pitched forward, his right foot lodged in the muck. His smart new topboots were thoroughly coated in the rich, black sludge, his formerly pearl grey breeches hopelessly bespattered and begrimed. He supposed he must be grateful that it was not one of his good uniforms he was subjecting to this treatment.

A new uniform would be waiting for him, in fact, when he returned in two days time to the tailor's in Kildare Street, Dublin. Of the best yarn-dyed wool, with broad facings of fine, white Kerseymere, and buttons of real gilt, it would cost him the better part of what remained of his half-yearly allowance, but he cared not. His needs aboard ship were trifling. His commission had been hard earned and long in coming and he was, he thought, justifiably proud of his accomplishment. And there was no reason why Mr. Bracegirdle need go eternally uncontested as best turned-out officer in the wardroom, besides!

The strange man whom he had seized upon to rescue himself from landing face down in the mire grunted and turned, his bushy, sandy brows knitted, but his expression changed almost immediately, breaking into a sympathetic grin at the sight of Archie's flushed face and embarrassed smile.

"Hup, lad!" the big man said good-naturedly, taking Archie's arm and hauling him upright. "She's fine mucky, she is! Mind how ye go!"

Archie touched the brim of his round hat and murmuring his thanks, started forward again, trying to concentrate on maintaining his footing while at the same time scanning the dense, shifting crowd of men and horses, and at last picked out a familiar slight form in a well-tailored coat of deep evergreen, a stylish, high-crowned hat, and sporting a long, wrapped queue from which a tuft of hair emerged at the bottom, as brushy and as red as a foxtail.

"George!" Archie shouted again, and found himself embarrassed again by the small squeak of desperation in his voice. But at least he'd gotten his friend's attention at last. George turned around, head bobbing back and forth, up and down, looking for Archie, then starting back, threading the way through the mill, and finally, extending an arm.

"Well, come on!" George urged, linking arms with him. "I shouldn't have thought I'd have to drag you!"

"Sorry," Archie grumbled. "This isn't quite the way I imagined I'd be spending my leave, you know." Neither, were he to be honest, was it the way his captain believed him to be spending it. Upon putting in at Dublin Bay, the Captain had unexpectedly sent for him and inquired of him if he had not relations in the town, and would he not take leave to go and see them? It was a kindness, a reward, that had taken Archie somewhat aback.

 It would have been an injustice to say the Sir Edward Pellew outwardly showed any greater favor toward any of his officers to the detriment of any other, and perhaps it was only the fault of a faintly lingering self-doubt that Archie could not help but hold the example of himself up against that of his greatest friend and wonder sometimes that the Captain took notice of him at all! But that was folly. In truth, Archie knew his own worth, and that nothing was seriously wanting in his character, nor his performance as an officer. But it was as if he were made of silver, and Horatio of gold, and pure and polished and glittering though he might be, the value of the other would always shine the more. It was a simple fact, and one, truly, that bothered him not a wit, but only seemed to surprise him, occasionally, when the thought would come, as it had when he had been singled out by his captain.

"Gad, you're a sight!" George was laughing at him, green eyes crinkling at the corners, the fine lines the only sign of aging in a pale, faintly freckled face that was handsomely patrician, fine-boned, and reflected generations of aristocratic breeding. George was not exactly family, but a family friend of such longstanding and old association that surely the difference was not so great as to count as dishonesty? Well, if it did, Archie thought, feeling the cold moisture seeping in through the seams of his boots and soaking his silk stockings, he was paying at least some of the price of his deceit in discomfort just now. He'd thought to be pleasantly ensconced in a warm Dublin townhouse, bathed and fed and enjoying some unaccustomed good company, but instead here he was at a horse fair in Curragh, tired and hungry, utterly filthy, and chilled to the bone.

"Thank you!" Archie remarked, jostling his friend's shoulder, and regretting it almost immediately as the sudden motion made both his feet slide sideways in the greasy muck. Catching himself, he complained, "And who holds a horse fair the second week in March? Easter Monday at the earliest, is traditional in the civilized world. Look! It's nothing but mud!"

"Ah, but 'tis the feast of Saint Patrick and this is Ireland, and it is a fine, soft Irish day!" George exclaimed, waving one arm expressively in the air and affecting a convincing brogue. "What better excuse for a horse fair?"

"I think you've got a fine, soft, Irish skull, my dear old friend," said Archie, unable to suppress a grin, in spite of himself.

"Besides," George went on happily, ignoring him. "It makes no matter the season. It is never anything but mud! Do come on!"

Archie found himself being pulled along through the throng. The damp air was rich with the mingling odors of woolens and pipe smoke, the peaty smell of new-broken turf, of Eau de Cologne and unwashed bodies, and overlying all, the warm and sweet, pungent and evocative stink of horse. There was a low hum of masculine voices, outbursts of laughter and shouting, snorts and whinnies, and from somewhere, floating above the din, a high, reedy sound, accompanied by a quick, savage staccato rhythm---the strangely haunting music of pipes and bones that always seemed to make the hairs on the back of one's neck stand on end.

"You'd've done better to have asked my cousin Alistair to accompany you here," Archie said. "I'm sure I can be of no help. I've scarcely looked at a horse in two years. Besides, I always pick 'em by the color I like best. I like white stockings, generally."

"Oh, I'm the very same," said George. "And I'm fond of a pink nose, for whatever reason! Hmph. Alistair. I've not seen Cornet Kennedy this age. Much too fine for the likes of me! Cannot tear himself away from his cavalry cronies and the entertainments of Dublin Castle, I suppose. Cockfighting and cards, drinking and debauch!  I've every mind to inform his mamma, you know. At the very least he might extend the occasional invitation, do you not think?"

Archie replied with a snort. "As a matter of fact, I would not put it past him to make the invitation, nor you to accept it! God, the dread Aunt Caroline! If she hears I've been in Dublin and haven't called in Merion Street, she'll be writing to my sister, certain sure! Don't tell her you've seen me!"

"I never do, dear boy," replied George with a wink and a grin. "You must know I have always preferred your company to Alistair's, and you'll more than do for my purposes. Come along. I've a hundred guineas on this next race!"

"A hundred---!" The crush of bodies was even more dense as they gained the low, stone wall topped by a splintered wooden railing that marked the periphery of the "track", a five furlong stretch of turf that if anything, was an even greater sea of black mud than the fairgrounds.

"Are you mad?" Archie whispered fervently as they hunched over the wall, jostled and pressed by the crush of men crowding the rail, trying to see to the start where a dozen or so horses fidgeted and fussed, looking, at the distance, like spindly-legged spiders, and their riders no more than tiny dots of color, their bright silks like vibrant sparks in the swirling mist.

"A hundred guineas, George?" Archie said again, under his breath. "You haven't changed. I wonder you're not ruined yet!"

George only chuckled and threw a careless arm across Archie's shoulder. "But I am rich, or have you forgotten? And my winnings nearly always outweigh my losses!"

"You sound a little like my friend Horatio," Archie said.

"The whist player? God, I hope not. Counting cards and running sums, where is the sport in that? A cut of the cards, a roll of the dice, a fierce cock, a fast horse---there's excitement! A risk to test the mettle---I confess, it is the thrill I crave and I cannot help it! Do you really fault me for it, Archie?"

"Less than some, I suppose," Archie replied, thinking of his two elder brothers whose gambling losses had been, and he supposed still were, a source of constant aggravation and violent argument between them and his father. George, on the other hand, did seem always to have the most remarkable luck.

"There!" George grabbed Archie's arm with one hand and with the other, pointed up the track at the crack of the starter's pistol. "The blood bay on the outside, there's my boy! The black that has the rail, that's Leinster's two-year old, Mohassan, a grandson of Diomed, out of the Duke of Cumberland's mare, Artemesia. Bloody fast, bloody, bloody fast—means to run him at Epsom in two months time."

"Then why have you got a hundred guineas on the bay running to the outside?" Archie asked.

"Because Leinster is an unbearable ass who's put it about the Turf Club that his horse can't be beat and he's put up a purse that he deserves to have taken from him is why! I never liked Leinster. Always such a great friend of the Earl's…" George's voice trailed off and Archie noted the grim set of the thin mouth, and a bit of a lost look in the green eyes.

"But---" Archie found his argument drowned by the swell of shouting voices and thundering hooves as the field came pounding down the stretch. Bay and black and chestnut and mud-streaked grey, the colors of their riders a flurry of brilliant reds and yellows, blue and black and purple and white and gold and green. As they came closer and closer he could hear the squelching of mud under flying feet, a roaring of breath, could see great clods of black mud and green turf tossed high into the air. He was taken back for a moment to the rare occasions in his childhood when he had accompanied his father and brothers to the races on Newmarket Heath, and a time in particular when his eldest brother Malcolm, in an unusually indulgent mood, had hoisted him onto his shoulders just as the horses came in sight near Choak Jade, laying in at the turning. There was no denying the thrill of beholding such a sight, and a boy could not help but believe that these were some of the most beautiful animals in creation, and to be in awe of the raw and perfect power of the beasts as they flew, struggling for superiority, stretching every muscle and sinew to obtain the prize and reach the goal. It was as if the horse desired to win above all else, every bit as much as the tiny, insignificant little human thing that clung to its back. And though the man might flail away with whip and spur, Archie could not believe that a creature of such nobility could ever be coerced or cowed, or driven to such a height of courage and exertion by any but the power if its own will.

"Come on, boy! Come! Come!" George was screaming, and digging rigid fingers painfully into Archie's upper arm as the field swept past with a rush of wind and an extravagant spewing of mud. A great cry went up, but Archie could see nothing as he was suddenly shoved hard against the stone wall when a rather large and over-enthusiastic patron sought to gain a closer view of the finish. For a moment Archie thought he was about to toss up his accounts at the very least, or have his very guts squashed out of him at worst, and in a desperate act of self-preservation, brought back a determined elbow, jabbing hard, and was rewarded by a most satisfactory "oomph" as he made contact with a well-padded middle that promptly receded, once more giving him room to breathe.  

"Ha!" George was crowing. "A hundred guineas! At twenty-to-one!"

"I take it you've won?" Archie wheezed, cradling his bruised mid-section.

"Did you doubt?" George returned, looking at Archie with raised eyebrows and seeming to puzzle, if only for a moment, at what was making the other appear so very greensick. "I knew you'd bring me luck, Archie!" Another wink and a mischievous grin. "Come, we must think on your reward!"

****

"Ahh! I call that an excellent morning's work!" sighed George, flopping down alongside Archie onto the smooth horsehair upholstery as the coachman shut the door of the closed carriage on them. "I only regret that I did not get a look at Leinster's face when they handed off that purse. Don't suppose it would've done for him to have seen me there, though."

"As much as you'd have relished it," Archie said with a smile, and slouched in his seat, carelessly resting a mud-encrusted boot on the bench opposite. The coach gave a slight lurch, and began to move slowly. It was nine miles back to Dublin. And the road would be slow, as well, Archie thought, with the mud.

"It's true! But still, one has to be discreet if one wishes to carry on with one's little entertainments," George said, plucking a wilted bit of greenery from the band of the high-crowned hat, and twirling it between long, white fingers.

"Another lucky charm?" Archie inquired, inclining his head toward the drooping shamrock.

"One can't have too many!" his friend replied, and within a minute produced from a waistcoat pocket a hare's foot, a disgustingly withered bit of the caul of a first spring lamb, and a penny on which the King's head had, by some mischance, been struck on both sides. Then too, pinning the folds of a remarkably spotless cravat was a little jeweled gold pin in the shape of an upturned horseshoe. "A hundred guineas, after all, dear boy." said George gravely. "It doesn't do to take chances!"

George then cast a critical eye upon Archie's utterly befouled person, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, Archie, the state of you! How did you manage it?"

Archie sighed in mock despair.  "I have been sadly put upon. Marched all over bloody, muddy Christendom upon the whim of my dear friend George. But I do have hope, I am told, of a reward."

"Oh, indeed?" queried George, sitting upright and turning to Archie, laying one long, white finger alongside a contemplative mouth and regarding him with twinkling green eyes. "And how do you propose we go about this, then? Turning, as one might say, 'our dreadful marches to delightful measures'?"

Archie laughed in surprise. "Why George! You do astound me!"

Georgiana, Countess of Trim, threw back her head and laughed, and the high-crowned hat toppled to the floor of the coach. Hair, red as flame, and thick and brushy as a fox's tail flew everywhere as she yanked the ribbon from her queue and shook her head from side to side.

"Richard the Third, Act One, Scene One? Do I have it? You see, I am not quite the philistine you have always believed me to be!"

"Oh, yes, you are!" Archie exclaimed, seizing her and pulling her across his lap. "Incorrigible and unredeemable! And you know it is why I have always loved you." The slight body was a delicious weight in his arms and he looked down at the merrily twinkling green eyes, the wicked smile, the blue vein that pulsed temptingly in her slim white throat.

"Go on then," he murmured, bending to brush his lips against the faintly throbbing place. "Show me more."

"You young men," she purred. "It's never enough for you, is it? Very well." Green eyes looked into blue ones that were deceptively innocent, she thought, as her hand stole slowly down his front and between their bodies, coming to rest at intersection of his thighs, cupping him firmly.

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand," she began with perfect gravity, "This holy shrine…"

Archie laughed softly, and leaned in close, "Oh, very well done!"

"…The gentle fine is this," she went on softly, frowning at the interruption. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand, to soothe that rough touch with a tender…kiss." She moved her hand on him, rubbing slowly, and lay her head back a little, lips parted, for the kiss.

"Good pilgrim," he whispered against her mouth, taking up the part of Juliet to her Romeo, and shifting himself a little, as he felt his inevitable response to the warm squeeze of her hand, insinuating itself even now, easing his buttons, working the way inside. "You do wrong your hand too much!"

He smiled down at her. "Which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss."

Her hand was closing around him, squeezing gently. "Have not saints…lips?' she asked hesitantly, after a moment. "A-and holy palmers too?"

"I must say, you're doing very well, George," Archie remarked, impressed. "Aye, pilgrim, lips they must use in prayer…ah!"

"That's done it," Georgiana giggled, continuing to stroke him. "'Fraid I don't remember the next bit!"

"Shall I tell you then?" Archie asked huskily, his voice sounding a little thick in his ears. "Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do…as hands do."

"Ah," she kissed him lightly. "How could I have forgotten?"

Soundlessly she slid from his lap to kneel on the floor. The space between the seats was narrow, and gently she pushed his thighs far apart to give her more room. Smiling slyly, she looked up into his eyes as she worked his shirttails out from the top of his breeches, and with practiced fingers released the last few buttons.

She did think him the most beautiful boy in the world, with clear blue eyes and red-gold hair, and such lovely skin, so fresh and pure, and when aroused, flushing pink as a girl's with a hint of most delightful and very pretty shame. But the smell of him---warm and with that slightly rank whiff of musk that never failed to bring an automatic rush of heat to her loins---was unmistakably male.

His belly was hard and smooth, the skin faintly golden, and a light, soft trail of dark blonde hair led from his sweet round navel to the lush thatch of his groin from which his beautiful cock now rose, wonderfully chubby, perfectly solid and smooth, with just a bit of curve to the underside. Oh, shaped to fit, just so! She wrapped her long fingers around him, amazed, as ever by the incredible hardness, the living power of the thing, the exquisite delicacy of silky smooth skin gliding over flesh hard as stone.

"Georgiana," he sighed, and his hands were in her hair, as he urged her gently down. Impatient, yes, the young ones always were, but to their credit, what they lacked in patience, they generally made up for in vigor. She mustn't tease him for too long, but she could not resist running her tongue lightly around the broad, crowning rim and sipping the first clear, salty drop that oozed from the tip as he shivered and sighed and strained towards her.

"You want your reward, don't you, pretty thing?" she cooed, rolling her thumb over the heated crown.

"Yes…gawd," he gasped. "Don't be so…wicked!" His smile was taut, his eyes, half closing.

Slowly, expertly, she moved on him, taking him all the way in, sighing with pleasure as she buried her face in the soft, springy hair, and inhaled the heady, masculine scent of him, tasting the salt and spice. His balls lay in the cup of her hand, cool and heavy, and she squeezed them gently, and stroked from behind the firm, bulging root of his manhood.

How sweet he was, her lovely boy. How strong and brave she knew him to be. Hers, always, for she had been his first, and whatever he would ask of her, she would always give: the comfort of her body, her friendship, her money, her home.

She suckled him, licking, kissing, caressing with lips and tongue in the ways she had learned a long, long time ago. She glanced up at him; his head was thrown back against the sleek, black squabs, the muscles in his neck rigid, his face rapt---Archie, her perfect angel. He groaned, and his hands gripped her shoulders and she let him take control, only holding him lightly to keep him a little in check as he pumped her soft mouth in that rhythm as old as men and women and pleasure. His concentration was all-consuming, almost reverential, until all at once she heard a soft low sound, a long, sweet sigh of release, and she placed her hands on his belly and lay her cheek to one side as his body jerked, and she felt the tension leave him. The flow came, jet after jet, warm and soft as liquid velvet on her tongue and she swallowed him down. The coach rocked gently, rumbling along the bumpy, rutted road.  She lay perfectly still until slowly he softened, and she let him go.

***

"Was that pleasant?" Georgiana asked, taking her place on the seat and trying, somewhat vainly, to gather the unruly bush of her hair into a knot at the back of her head.

"God, yes," Archie said, grinning, as he leaned back, happily sated. "Do let me know if there is ever anything I can do for you---climb a mountain, kill a man…"

"Alas, you are too late, Mr. Kennedy," she said sweetly, leaning over to stroke his flushed cheek with the back of her hand and tenderly pushing one stray golden lock behind his ear. "My lucky charm. Don't you know the pleasure is all mine?"

Go to Part Two