Chapter 20: May's End
The scent of strong coffee and fried bacon filled the warm kitchen, battling the lingering woodsmoke from the fireplace. Margot hummed a jaunty tune, flipping golden pancakes at the stove, her vibrant red curls escaping a messy bun. Rupert sat at the worn wooden table, nursing his mug, the steam warming his face. His sandy hair was still damp from the shower, his expression slightly dazed, as if replaying the previous night’s clandestine encounter at the manor.
"Sleep well, darling?" Margot asked, her voice bright, sliding a plate stacked high with pancakes and crispy bacon in front of him. She leaned in, planting a quick, syrup-scented kiss on his forehead. "You look like you wrestled a particularly troublesome spreadsheet all night." Her eyes held that familiar, knowing glint.
Rupert managed a weak smile, spearing a piece of bacon. "Uh, yeah. Fine. Just… busy thoughts." He hesitated, then blurted, "Elizabeth. Last night. It was… intense."
Margot’s eyebrows shot up, a delighted grin spreading across her face. She abandoned the spatula and slid into the chair opposite him. "Intense? Oh, Rupert, don't tease! Details! Spill!" She propped her chin on her hands, leaning forward eagerly. "Breakfast theatre. My favourite. Did she like the calendar pose? The one Dolores chose?"
Rupert shifted, colour rising in his cheeks. "She… uh… approved. Vehemently." He took a large gulp of coffee. "She's… demanding. Very… direct."
"Direct is good!" Margot enthused. "Life's too short for pussyfooting around." She winked. "Literally, in this case. So, the manor? The four-poster? Henry lurking?"
"Master bedroom. Fire blazing. Velvet curtains. Henry… prepared towels." Rupert’s voice was low, still processing. "He… disappeared. Tactfully."
"Bless his submissive little heart," Margot sighed, not unkindly. She reached into the pocket of her vintage floral apron, pulling out her phone. "But wait! The post-game analysis has arrived!" She tapped the screen, her grin widening. "Elizabeth is nothing if not efficient. And surprisingly tech-savvy for someone who still employs a butler."
Rupert frowned. "Analysis?"
"Feedback, darling! Professionalism!" Margot held the phone towards him. On the screen was the Women's Institute group chat, specifically labelled 'Calendar Project - Debrief'. There, pinned at the top, were two photos. Both were tastefully composed yet undeniably explicit: one captured Elizabeth sprawled gloriously on the rumpled velvet of the four-poster, bathed in firelight, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face, naked skin gleaming. The second was a closer shot of the bed itself – the deep indentations, the scattered crimson petals, the discarded vibrator gleaming near the pillow. Rupert recognized his own framing, the angles he’d instinctively chosen under Elizabeth’s commanding gaze.
"Christ," Rupert breathed, his fork hovering forgotten above his plate. "She sent those to the group?"
"Of course!" Margot scrolled down. "Look! Each lady has provided a formal review of her… experience. Agnes gave you four stars for 'endurance and willingness to follow instructions'. Dolores said your technique showed 'promise, but needs more flair with the props'. Beatrice mentioned your 'reassuringly steady hands'." Margot chuckled. "Elizabeth's review is… extensive. Let's see… 'Subject demonstrated admirable stamina and adequate girth. Followed directives precisely. The DSLR documentation was a welcome addition. Overall performance: Exceeded expectations. Would utilise services again.'" Margot looked up, beaming. "Four-point-five stars! That's practically a rave from Elizabeth! And she docked you half a point for 'insufficient vocalisation'. Note for next time, love – grunt more."
Rupert stared at his pancakes, a mixture of bewilderment and a strange, unwelcome pride warring within him. "It feels… clinical."
"It's data-driven improvement, Rupert!" Margot declared, setting the phone down. "Essential for any burgeoning… enterprise." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But wait. There's more." She pushed her chair back and rummaged in the large tote bag slung over another chair. Her hand emerged clutching a slightly crumpled jiffy bag. "Trophies!"
"Trophies?" Rupert echoed, apprehension prickling.
Margot carefully opened the bag and pulled out five clear sandwich bags, each neatly labelled with a name in her looping script: Agnes, Beatrice, Charlie, Dolores, Elizabeth. Inside each bag, folded or crumpled, was a pair of women's underwear. Lace, silk, cotton. Delicate thongs, practical briefs, one pair of startlingly bold scarlet satin. All unmistakably worn. The faint, intimate scent of different perfumes and bodies mingled with the coffee and bacon as she laid them out on the table beside the syrup jug. Elizabeth's luxurious black lace looked expensive, even bundled in plastic.
Rupert felt the blood drain from his face. "Margot! Are those…?" He couldn't finish the sentence.
"The very panties worn during each rendezvous, my love!" Margot announced proudly, like a child displaying prized seashells. "Keepsakes. Agnes’s were a bit tricky – had to snag them from the laundry basket." She winked conspiratorially. "They haven't been washed. Authenticity is key."
Rupert stared at the intimate garments displayed beside his breakfast. "What… what are you going to do with them?" His voice was faint.
Margot’s eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "I thought," she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, "we could put up a little washing line! Right…" She scanned the cosy kitchen, her gaze landing on the wall between the Welsh dresser and the door to the pantry. "There! A tiny decorative line. Little wooden pegs. We’ll hang them up. Our private gallery of conquests! A reminder of your… extracurricular activities." She reached across and squeezed his hand. "A celebration! Proof that my brilliant, sexy husband still has it!"
Rupert looked from the vibrant, expectant face of his wife to the row of plastic-bagged underwear lying like bizarre offerings on their kitchen table. The scent of bacon grease, coffee grounds, and the faint, undeniable musk of other women filled his nostrils. The crackle of the fire seemed suddenly loud. He thought of Henry folding towels in a silent manor, of Elizabeth’s imperious commands, of the stern ancestors gazing down. And here was Margot, triumphant, holding up Agnes’s sensible cotton briefs like a battle standard.
"Right," he managed, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "A washing line. In the kitchen." He picked up his coffee mug again, needing the warmth, the anchor. "Where… where would we get the pegs?"
Margot beamed, jumping up. "The craft drawer! I knew those miniature wooden ones would come in handy someday!" She bustled over to a drawer, her energy infectious despite the sheer surreality of it all. She returned clutching a packet of tiny, brightly painted wooden pegs. "See? Perfect!"
She stood, surveying the chosen wall space with the critical eye of a curator. Rupert watched her, the absurdity warring with a reluctant, creeping thrill. This was Margot: unconventional, determined, fiercely loving in her own unique way, dragging him headfirst into chaos draped in lace. He pushed his half-eaten breakfast away, the scent of the trophies now overpowering the bacon. He stood up, the worn floorboards creaking under his feet.
"Okay," he said, the word feeling heavy, final. He met her sparkling eyes. "Let's hang our… laundry." He reached for the jiffy bag, his fingers brushing against the cool plastic of Elizabeth's black lace. The adventure, it seemed, was far from over. The crackling fire cast long, dancing shadows as Margot began measuring the space, humming her jaunty tune again, the tiny wooden pegs clutched tightly in her fist like the keys to their very peculiar kingdom.