A Maid May be Better(part deux)
Posted 02-03-2010 at 10:10 PM by Fauve
In actuality, this is one of the letters which precedes the one I previously posted.
(FYI: Mary-Ann has a British accent)
-she is unknowingly writing to Sir Scott who is pretending to be Mr. McLay
Sir,
For Lady Kesiah knows not to whom she responds, she has solicited my aid. We both inferred that you are, indeed, familiar with our dear Sir Scott. Your knowledge of the sachet was suffice to merit a response. However, in the future, humour us with a signature.
Now, Sir, to the matter at hand. Lady Kesiah arrived in her parlour with cheeks as crimson as Guenevere’s dreadful locks, the ones she cannot tame, not even on the blessed day of rest. She is, of course, Sir Wilde’s Wednesday’s wiry wench. Then again, Monday’s Marguerite is also dreadful, as is Hortence, who comes every other Sunday. Sir Wilde always fancied the lower class whores. You know who I speak of. The man is Lady Kesiah’s ‘uncle’, or so they claim. Between you and I, I do believe he is Lady Kesiah’s mother’s secret amour. To what she, our Lady Simone, aspires, I know not. He always lingers about the study, sampling our cigars and books of questionable taste. Poor Lady Kesiah. The matron of the house never fails to dote on him, offering him crumpets and tea. The head of the household, sadly, passed away, one lazy day in June. The house has been astir ever since. It is all quite scandalous.
Lady Kesiah did indeed give Sir Scott said ivory pouch. Although I am aware of the contents, I surely cannot betray my Lady’s confidence. However, if you ever do happen to find the sachet in your vicinity, one might accidentally drop it, revealing the feathers of rustled and enamoured intent and doing, of one Lady to one Sir. Why do you think he is so protective of it? The ink was not the only thing spilled in the writing of them. But, I dare say too much.
Blast! Lady Kesiah would have me whipped about, and have me bathe her incessantly with oils, a tedious and cumbersome task, if she got hold of this letter. I will say that the true treasure has been ‘polished’ and re polished on several occasions, in our eating area, of all places. If Sir Scott has a, how did you put it? “a limp in his spring”, it must be all the bouncing about in the boudoir which may be the cause of it. You may appreciate your Master’s newfound demure, but we are left with a Lady sighing, and prancing about like a daisy in a whirlwind, always with a ‘Sir Scott is so this....’ or ‘Sir Scott uttered that....’. She also escapes to her library, hour upon hour, penning the man as a saint. She does, however, pay no attention to the Help’s lack of labourious chores. Her lavatory has been horrendous for days. She has no conscience of it. Well, I can’t blame her. I remember when I was plucked by a dandy rooster. This is of no relevance at this time.
My Lady does fancy words. It isn’t so bad after you get the grasp of them. She does rub off on you, I must agree. I can have Charles deliver a lexicon if you think it will help your cause.
Lady Kesiah was saddened that Sir Scott could not meet her sooner. Yet, she welcomes the timed and trusted Thursday. She knows not what to make of this day. Will Sir Scott want to pay a visit in her home or will he wish to escort her out of doors? Do aware us of your Master’s mind set on the matter.
My Lady wishes also to share last thoughts. She too tastes the lips. Oh! Must I absolutely write this? I think our keepers have gone mad. Don’t you? Yes. Yes. She, also, can feel Sir Scott in the bed beside her. Now! I think not. My weight in gold is not substantial enough to write down her next uttered words. I am assured a man as colourful as yourself may unravel the rest. I guess I can write that she believes that the pleasure she gave was not as wondrous as the pleasure she received; and, that Lady Kesiah longs to hear the feathers of Rupert finding his way back to her. She wants your Master to be privy that she will attempt to slumber, even with a pulsating quiver, the remains of the day.
Pardon my French, but when you write that he has a cheeky grin, are you implying that he looks like an ass?
I wish you farewell. I too am curious and anticipating the unveiling of this mysterious Master of yours. As for my Lady stopping her allures with Sir Scott, heaven help us if she continues! Lay your Master to rest. I know for a fact that she has just begun.
Goodnight Sir,
Maid Mary Ann
(FYI: Mary-Ann has a British accent)
-she is unknowingly writing to Sir Scott who is pretending to be Mr. McLay
Sir,
For Lady Kesiah knows not to whom she responds, she has solicited my aid. We both inferred that you are, indeed, familiar with our dear Sir Scott. Your knowledge of the sachet was suffice to merit a response. However, in the future, humour us with a signature.
Now, Sir, to the matter at hand. Lady Kesiah arrived in her parlour with cheeks as crimson as Guenevere’s dreadful locks, the ones she cannot tame, not even on the blessed day of rest. She is, of course, Sir Wilde’s Wednesday’s wiry wench. Then again, Monday’s Marguerite is also dreadful, as is Hortence, who comes every other Sunday. Sir Wilde always fancied the lower class whores. You know who I speak of. The man is Lady Kesiah’s ‘uncle’, or so they claim. Between you and I, I do believe he is Lady Kesiah’s mother’s secret amour. To what she, our Lady Simone, aspires, I know not. He always lingers about the study, sampling our cigars and books of questionable taste. Poor Lady Kesiah. The matron of the house never fails to dote on him, offering him crumpets and tea. The head of the household, sadly, passed away, one lazy day in June. The house has been astir ever since. It is all quite scandalous.
Lady Kesiah did indeed give Sir Scott said ivory pouch. Although I am aware of the contents, I surely cannot betray my Lady’s confidence. However, if you ever do happen to find the sachet in your vicinity, one might accidentally drop it, revealing the feathers of rustled and enamoured intent and doing, of one Lady to one Sir. Why do you think he is so protective of it? The ink was not the only thing spilled in the writing of them. But, I dare say too much.
Blast! Lady Kesiah would have me whipped about, and have me bathe her incessantly with oils, a tedious and cumbersome task, if she got hold of this letter. I will say that the true treasure has been ‘polished’ and re polished on several occasions, in our eating area, of all places. If Sir Scott has a, how did you put it? “a limp in his spring”, it must be all the bouncing about in the boudoir which may be the cause of it. You may appreciate your Master’s newfound demure, but we are left with a Lady sighing, and prancing about like a daisy in a whirlwind, always with a ‘Sir Scott is so this....’ or ‘Sir Scott uttered that....’. She also escapes to her library, hour upon hour, penning the man as a saint. She does, however, pay no attention to the Help’s lack of labourious chores. Her lavatory has been horrendous for days. She has no conscience of it. Well, I can’t blame her. I remember when I was plucked by a dandy rooster. This is of no relevance at this time.
My Lady does fancy words. It isn’t so bad after you get the grasp of them. She does rub off on you, I must agree. I can have Charles deliver a lexicon if you think it will help your cause.
Lady Kesiah was saddened that Sir Scott could not meet her sooner. Yet, she welcomes the timed and trusted Thursday. She knows not what to make of this day. Will Sir Scott want to pay a visit in her home or will he wish to escort her out of doors? Do aware us of your Master’s mind set on the matter.
My Lady wishes also to share last thoughts. She too tastes the lips. Oh! Must I absolutely write this? I think our keepers have gone mad. Don’t you? Yes. Yes. She, also, can feel Sir Scott in the bed beside her. Now! I think not. My weight in gold is not substantial enough to write down her next uttered words. I am assured a man as colourful as yourself may unravel the rest. I guess I can write that she believes that the pleasure she gave was not as wondrous as the pleasure she received; and, that Lady Kesiah longs to hear the feathers of Rupert finding his way back to her. She wants your Master to be privy that she will attempt to slumber, even with a pulsating quiver, the remains of the day.
Pardon my French, but when you write that he has a cheeky grin, are you implying that he looks like an ass?
I wish you farewell. I too am curious and anticipating the unveiling of this mysterious Master of yours. As for my Lady stopping her allures with Sir Scott, heaven help us if she continues! Lay your Master to rest. I know for a fact that she has just begun.
Goodnight Sir,
Maid Mary Ann
Total Comments 2
Comments
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Oh what a rollicking fun game of imposture! I loved the randy references which tickled my fancy superbly. You tapped my funny bone once again. I dig your British lingo much. I look forward to more of your goodies.
JohnPosted 02-16-2010 at 01:22 PM by goldenmyst 
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Glad you enjoyed. Tis fun writing them.Posted 02-16-2010 at 02:09 PM by Fauve
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