The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded

The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded (Part 1)


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Beginning Notes:

The Garterbelt Series has been inspired by a trashy gay bodice-ripper cover. The idea behind this series is for me to play with bodice ripper cliches while deliberately miscasting Gilbert and Serge and forcing them to act out their roles according to their characters.

Thus Gilbert\'s stuck in the role of the blushing virgin whose virtue is in danger, while Serge\'s given the ungodly task of being the vile seducer. However, given their characters, the roles will switch around so that the pursued becomes the pursuer and vice versa, and the bodice-ripper convention takes on a different meaning.

This particular fic is a parody of Samuel Richardson\'s uber bodice-ripper, Pamela. Gilbert takes on Pamela\'s role, while Serge takes on the young squire\'s. Following the novel\'s format, this fic is written in a series of letters between characters, using a similar formality in language and the expression of sentiment.

Dedication: This series is dedicated to The Fablespinner, whose ongoing support and help in making this shrine possible have been greatly invaluable. Thanks, D. ^_^

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France, 1740


Dear Child,

Reading this is tantamount to giving me your most solemn oath to honor the wishes of your dying mother. I won’t be lon long as my strength fails me even as I write. No, this has nothing to do with money or your inheritance as I know full well that those things are the least of your concerns now or ever. You’ve always been a very good, virtuous, and obedient boy.

All the same, I suppose it would do you some good to hear this straight from me: that your fortune is secure, that you’re not to inherit debts or secrets of a disgraceful or scandalous nature. You, my dearest Serge, will be established without a single blot to your name, which is something that no other aristocrat or gentleman can boast of.

With that in mind, of course, I’m hoping—hoping—that you’d keep your head straight and not be so easily swayed by the opinions of that friend of yours—that godless whelp, Monsieur Biquet. Had I gotten my way, I would’ve asked you to give up such a dangerous connection, but I know how close you are with him, whom you’ve always valued as your true and only friend. I can’t deny my only child, but all the same…

Simply take care where he’s concerned. That’s all I ask.

I’m also charging you, Serge, to take very good care of Gilbert, who, as you know, has been a very faithful member of the household. He’s alone, and he’s young. He’s poor and has no connections that could very well work to his advantage. I’ve long taken the dear boy under my wing (as I’m sure you already know unless you haven’t been reading every letter I’ve sent you for the last two years) and have given him (or so I’d like to think) what he lacked in a mother’s care. He’s shown a lot of progress in his reading and writing as well, and I hope that you don’t fail in encouraging him to expand his mind. s yos you’re now the master of this estate, Gilbert is your servant. By NO means should you abuse your position and the clear advantage it places you over the poor boy. He has always been my favorite, and I expect you to treat him with no less kindness and compassion. He’s to stay with the family in the capacity that he’s been long used to unless circumstances arise that require him to give up his position and move on to something better.

In the meantime, my dearest Serge, you’re solemnly charged with the responsibility of protecting him as you would a brother.

I’m much too tired to continue. Don’t grieve too much for me, child. Be comforted by the thought that I wouldn’t change anything in my life if I were to be given another chance.

And now I prepare to see your dear father again. Adieu, my love.


Your affectionate mother,
Paiva Battouille, Avignon

P.S.
Don’t be too angry with what I’ve said about Monsieur Biquet. I’m sure he’s a nice young man, but without any religious guidance, I’m afraid that all that promise would really do him not much good. And he curses too much. Be sure to tell him that as I believe that there’s hope of redemption yet if he keeps his head. Why that boy chose to abandon God for science, I’ll never know.

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Dear Gilbert,

I’m sorry to hear about your late mistress. She was a good woman, her reputation being known far beyond Provence. Her compassion and her generosity were without equal, and you’ve been fortunate to serve such a paragon.

I also understand that she’d recommended you to her son.

I’m sorry, Gilbert, if I happen to be overstepping my bounds here, but I write this as a good friend and one who has given a solemn promise to your poor father that I’d do what I can to help you survive all these trying times. First the loss of your mother to that ballroom accident—then your father’s death in that curious incident with the bull (I won’t burden you with my theories regarding this point, Gilbert, as I’m sure you’ve heard just about everything that’s out there)—then the loss of your fortune in that pirate ambush. And now…

Whate cae can I say?

Treat me like your brother. I’m always here to listen—or as the case may be, to read.

Now that you’re truly alone in the world (though I flatter myself in thinking that I hold a valuable enough place in your life, being your best friend), let me begin by charging you to take care. You’re a good-natured, sweet-tempered, naïve boy just fresh from the country. You’re unused to the ways of the world and so are a very tempting target for predatory folks, particularly those whose positions hold them at a great advantage over you.

I’ve heard of these abuses before, Gilbert—of wealthy employers taking advantage of their helpless inferiors when it would’ve done them good to set better examples of virtuous behavior.

In brief, I worry about you. I can’t help but feel anxious about your inexperience and what it might bring you.

Do write at once.


Your good friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

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Dear Carl,

I’ve just met my new master, and I’ll have to say that he’s rather good-looking and has quite a pert little bottom. I’m sitting by my bedroom window, watching him mount his horse while I write this. I hope he goes out for more rides later today.

He arrived from Paris yesterday in time for my mistress’s final hours. He was shut up in her room for a long time and came out looking quite broken. Today we buried her. After the funeral, the entire household met, an, and we newcomers—or at least those of us whom he hasn’t yet met—came forward to introduce ourselves. He seemed a bit reserved, but I think that has everything to do with his new responsibilities and certainly the loss of his mother.

He smiled sweetly enough and—like you—called himself a good friend and that, in deference to his mother’s wish, he declared himself to be “like a brother” and so asked me to treat him as such. I was touched, to be sure, but…

Well, that’s no good. Watching him walk around in those breeches makes me feel as though I’m lusting after my own sibling.

How horrid.

I don’t know how I could go about my day thinking incestuous thoughts. And he’s just elevated me to the position of a personal companion, too. Now I’m wondering if personal companions go riding with their masters as well. I hope so. Or at the very least I should be given the honor of helping him mount his horse.

I’m sorry if this letter’s much too short, Carl, but I’m just now being called downstairs. Many thanks for your good wishes and concern, but I can take care of myself well enough.


Your friend,
Gilbert Cocteau, Avignon

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Dear Serge,

Normally I’d begin with something more courteous, but there’s a pressing matter that needs to be addressed.

Damn my eyes, Battouille, I do not curse excessively! Who the devil gave your mother (may her dear soul rest in peace) such a ridiculous—or I should say slanderous—idea?

I’ve had time to reflect, as you’ve so kindly put it, on these damned accusations over a few glasses of my favored Spanish wine, and I’ll have to say that someone has been taking an appalling degree of liberty with my character! It’s a confounded outrage!

See, now you’ve gotten me worked up in such a passion that I can’t even hold my pen straight. Perhaps another glass will do the trick. Well, maybe not. Blast it all. I’m trying to keep these drinking sessions down to a minimum before a theological debate. That pompous buffoon, Rosemarine, has challenged me, and I aim to see the philosophes righted.

So now…

My good friend Serge is in a fair way to outclass the best of us, eh?

That’s great comfort, to be sure. Paris can drag even the best, strongest, heartiest man down, and I’m afraid that I’ll have to impose on your good nature—oh—maybe once a month—once every two months at the most—and avail myself of the wonderful seclusion and tranquility afforded by your estate.

Yes, I’m inviting myself over, thank you.

Then when I do, I’ll get my chance at seeing for myself this paragon of yours—Gilbert, isn’t it? From what your mother had noted in all her letters, he seems to be the epitome of—well—just about everything, really. Of course, he was your mother’s favorite, which pretty much skewed her perspective on things, but she’d never been one for hyperbole, being one of the most sensible women I knew (and damn me if I lie!).

So now that your mother’s gone, this bright, beautiful, sweet-natured lad from the country is entirely—in your hands.

Hark, as the poets say! Methinks it’s time to brush the bob-wig, polish the shoe buckles, and pull the red-hot iron poker out of the fire. ‘Tis time for a Catholic posterior roast. I most likely will be hopelessly inebriated by the time I return, dear Serge, so I’m afraid I’ll have to break off here and force you to wait for res ons on my verbal duel with the honorable Monsieur Rosemarine. Blast his eyes.


Your brother-in-arms-of-sorts,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

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Dear Pascal,

Things have gone a lot more smoothly than I first anticipated. I feel blessed. No debts, no problems with neighbors of any class within the region, no household infighting. And the move back to Avignon has done wonders for my health!

I won’t bore you with details as we all know that Paris offers a good deal more for your overly active mind than the countryside ever could. Suffice it to say, I’m very pleased with my new role though still heavy of heart with my mother’s passing. But I’ve got plenty of things to do to keep my mind off my grief, thankfully enough.

Getting Gilbert used to his new duties being one of them.

Yes, as you say, he’s in my hands now. And—unfortunately—he’s also having a bit of a rough time getting used to my expectations of him. I’ve told him, when he introduced himself to me, that I wanted him to think of me like a brother or a friend at the very least. He’s been recommended to me by my mother, after all, and I’ve got strict injunctions from her to treat Gilbert fairly and sympathetically (not that I never intended to do it, mind you, as I know that he’s a good fellow and deserves no less).

He’s no longer a servant but a companion—an assistant of sorts. I don’t even know if what I’ve done is for the best since I didn’t want him continuing in the capacity of a servant, knowing that he’s really a gentleman’s son just fallen on hard times. He is, technica my my equal.

But he doesn’t seem to see that, or at least he refuses to see it.

I went out for a ride, forgot about him, and had to return. But when I asked him to join me, he refused, saying that he’s quite happy simply assisting me in preparing for the ride, including assisting me onto the saddle (really now—I’m not that helpless). When I decided to go for a walk instead, he continually fell behind, and I wasn’t even aware that he’d gone from my side till I had to turn in mid-sentence to find him sauntering a few paces in my rear, looking rather—thoughtfully amused.

I took him to the field that my mother used to frequent and gathered nosegays for her favorite sitting-room (I thought it a good thing to carry on the tradition in her memory). Gilbert insisted not only on gathering an obscene amount of flowers, but also on carrying everything in spite of my offers, which, of course, didn’t do him much good.

Several times along the way he’d drop a few bunches, and I had to bend down to retrieve them. Of course, he’d ask for them back and not let me keep them to ease the burden, seeing as how a bunch or two would tumble out of his arms every now and then.

I kept reminding him that he was no longer considered a servant and so didn’t have to serve me in such a menial capacity, but he just offered me this odd little smile and said, “With all due respect, monsieur, I’m quite content with what I do so long as it doesn’t offend you in any way.”

So I told him no, it doesn’t, and we carried on as before—with him dropping an occasional bunch and me stooping down to pick it up for him.

The rest of the time had been relatively quiet and uneventful though I still have to get used to Gilbert falling behind me every time we went somewhere. My neck’s starting to feel a little tight from all that looking over my shoulder just to speak with him.

I suppose I should give him more time. He’s just not used to this, having been elevated at such short notice and all.

Till then, Pascal. I hope your theological debate went well. Monsieur Rosemarine, I understand, is rather vicious.


Your good friend,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

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Dear Gilbert,

Now that you’ve had your fun at my expense, perhaps you’re now ready to sit down and listen to advice—good advice, I might add. Remember that I do this out of deference to your parents and as your friend.

Making jokes about your master’s bottom isn’t exactly conducive to a healthy working environment. He is your superior, remember that. He has power over you, which he can easily abuse as all young squires tend to do once they’ve gotten hold of a sizable inheritance.

Your elevation, for instance, concerns me. I find that much too abrupt and certainly irregular. What reason couldhavehave for raising you at such a short amount of time, even before he’s had the chance of seeiou pou prove your worth to him as a member of his household?

You know what it is I’m getting at, my dear friend, and I’m sorry for offending your sensibilities, which I know are quite delicate (and certainly a source of great pride among your friends back home—we’re all very pleased with and protective of you, whom fate has chosen to suffer one unearned misfortune after another, but such is the way when ungodly forces decide to play with the lives of the innocent and the pure). Be assured that I know what it is I speak of, having been better-traveled than you and having seen, first hand, what the world is all-too-capable of doing.

Have a care, Gilbert. I don’t trust your new master. I suspect that he’s got designs on you. There are too many signs and too many precursors that are now causing me to lose some sleep on your account.

He’s spent much of his time in Paris, after all, and be assured that when a young man immerses himself in the culture of a decadent city, his corruption is complete and irredeemable. His return to a quiet and simple life does not mean a return to his old ways. Innocence lost, I’m afraid, is lost forever.

Do not, by all accounts, agree to assist him in his rides or to any other activity that may very well place you in a position of temptation and opportunity.

But let me strengthen your spirit and share with you this:

“But these men revile the things which tho noo not understand; and the things which they know by instinct, like unreasoning animals, by these things they are destroyed. Woe to them! For they have gone the way of Cain, and for pay they have rushed headlong into the error of Balaam, and perished in the rebellion of Korah. These men are those who are hidden reefs in your love feasts when they feast with you without fear, caring for themselves; clouds without water, carried along by winds; autumn trees without fruit, doubly dead, uprooted; wild waves of the sea, casting up their own shame like foam; wandering stars, for whom the black darkness ahs been reserved forever.” (Jude 10-13)

Commit those words to memory, dear Gilbert, as I know you’ll have great need of their comfort soon enough.

Please don’t give us any cause for great alarm. And do write back as soon as you can, with as many particulars as you can fit in two sheets of paper (back-to-back).

May God bless you.


Your concerned friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

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Dear Carl,

Monsieur Battouille (I can’t call him my master now) turns into this interesting shade of pink when he’s flustered. I’d like to say that it’s almost more in line with antique rose.

We sat and had a very serious conversation about my past as he was very keen on hearing my story from me (he’d been told before by my late mistress, but he preferred to get the information directly from the source—his words, mind you! How much more stiff and reserved can one get? Source, indeed!). So we sat in his sitting-room (this family has a curious habit of claiming specific rooms for themselves), where I told him everything over some sweet treats he’d requested for this purpose.

So, yes, I spoke about my mother and that ballroom accident, my father and that curious incident with the bull, and the loss of my fortune from that pirate ambush (and I hope to God those damned pirates get the scurvy and marry toothless harridans who’ll plague their hearts out till the day they drop).

I didn’t fall into tearful fits at all—simply told the truth—well, maybe I looked dejected enough—I don’t know. But whatever the reason, before I’d even finished my story, he was suddenly sitting beside me, holding my hands in his and speaking quietly.

Now I think I must’ve sat there frozen for several seconds, just staring at my hands, not even listening to what he was saying. The only thing that I was aware of was the thought that, by God, he likes me! Why else would someone in his position suddenly shirk all sense of decorum and behave so forwardly?

I was stunned!

And I did what any rational creature would’ve done under the circumstances.

I kissed him.

Every saucy thought I’ve had of him, every prickly sensation I felt when he was nearby—they were all poured into that kiss. That odd tingliness in my nether regions that I at first thought to be a result of indulging too much in Madame Dechenes’s veal-and-fungus dish came back to batter me a thousand times more, and I realized that it wasn’t the fungus. It was him.

I dare you, Carl, to find a poet who could draw out, in an epic or two, the sublimity of the moment—of kissing, finally, the object of your dreams, of holding him close enough to make the furniture blush, of the sheer decadence of the moment, tumbling off the divan and rolling on the floor, still locked together, lips against lips, tongue pressed firmly against tongue.

Then again I suppose it wouldn’t have to be an epic. A sonnet, maybe, considering the fact that the reason why we fell off the divan was because Monsieur Battouille had fainted dead away, and I was simply dragged down to the floor with him.

Well, damn.

Damn the fungus, damn the divan, damn the whole damned day.

But he was none the worse for wear, thank God. He recovered quite nicely though was still slightly incoherent when I tried to attend him. A little jumpy, perhaps, but it was to be expected, of course. Poor man. I didn’t realize how soft he was—his sensibilities not at all ruined or incapacitated by his sojourn in Paris.

Now isn’t that a man worth keeping?

I’ll have to be more cautious—take it easy, be more careful in my dealings with him. How curious that a man who’s had the benefit of the urban culture would be so inexperienced in these matters!

He’s been apologizing to me since he regained consciousness, his face taking on this antique rose hue that one could only describe as enticing. He looked so embarrassed and completely flustered that I was forced to leave the room and have Madame Benoit take over for me before he could succumb to an apoplectic fit.

We haven’t had much of a conversation since then as he’s been suddenly busy (with what, I’ve no idea, seeing as how he’s got servants doing all the work for him and leaving him with all the time to go straddling that stallion of his), and he’d be gone from a room before I’d even enter.

One would think that he has some keen, supernatural sense that alerted him if anyone were within fifty feet of him. Trying to discover his whereabouts has been nothing short of a treasure hunt (ah, but I do like the sound of that, don’t you, Carl?).

How very, very tantalizing.

Well,s als almost noon. Time for me to pick up the search once more. I thI’m I’m going to like my new position (though I’d like it even better on the floor).


Your friend,
Gilbert Cocteau, Avignon

P.S.
I seem to have lost your letter. I hope you didn’t write anything of any significance like a sermon from St. Jude on bodily chastity and lust and those sorts of things.

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Dear Serge,

I’m well on my way to becoming a surgeon of the highest caliber. And when I reach that goal, the first thing I’ll do is ride to Avignon, crack your skupen pen with a spade, and replace your b.
.

I suppose this is a good enough indication that removing oneself from the city and shedding all the urban grime off one’s spirit also means leaving one’s sense behind.

You clod.

You wouldn’t know opportunity if it crept up from behind and bit a monumental chunk off your backside. Are you mad?

Here you are, heir to a sizable estate, king and master, lording over all, with a beautiful lad dependent on your bounty and goodwill and who, apparently, is very willing to do anything for you, and you—what—offer to carry the damned nosegays for him?

Look here, man. Physical attraction is nature. Nature is a fact. It’s there, and it can’t be disproved unless Science grabs you by your stock, shakes the living daylights out of you, knocks that bob-wig off your head, and slaps you with a new law that the most fanatical ecclesiastic can’t even begin to justify with the most obscure biblical verse. You fancy those of the same sex? Nature!

Why the devil should you, a rational man, deny your own being?

And don’t you give me any of that blithering nonsense about not feeling any attraction for your “companion”—a blind man could damn well see it dripping off your letter!

Ah, but I think I see what’s happening here. That modesty of yours needs a bit of help—a friendly little push in the right direction. Of the two of us, Serge, you’ve always been the romantic and the hopeless idealist. I know that you’re not so easily swayed by conventional methods of courtship and seduction. You—and don’t you dare deny this—prefer to be nudged, so to speak, by the right verses written by the right poets. Yes, this I understand completely, and as your good friend, I’m more than willing to help.

So let me begin with a sweet little verse (knowing your prudishness, one can’t hope to batter those defenses down right away)—from an Englishman—one Monsieur Herrick. I’ve taken the liberty of switching the genders to fit your situation (ah, methinks I can hear your skin crackle into that odd antique rose hue):

“Have you beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam,
A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream?
Or seem rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient, too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of his breast.” [1]

Enchanting how a poet can make nipples seem so metaphysical (or whatever the devil term you romantics use for body parts exalted in poetry).

So there you have it. Sit yourself down and think seriously about your situation, Battouille—then go and seduim.

And as for the theological debate, I truly can’t remember a damn thing as we were all drunk out of our minds even before the session began—yes, even Monsieur Rosemarine had one glass too many. No one could recall with any degree of accuracy exactly what transpired, and those who I believe remained sober refused to speak.

I think I should be frightened, but I’m not.


Am always working on your behalf,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

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Dear Pascal,

A tiny misunderstanding has made life here a little more hectic around here. It happened when I was having a private conversation with Gilbert, and I’d urged him to speak more about his family and about himself. He was willing enough and seemed to be grateful that he was given an opportunity to unburden himself.

He’s had a very tragic past, did you know that? I’m sure you’ve got some idea, but I strongly doubt if you know the extent of his misfortune. I’d willingly share the particulars if I didn’t consider it a violation of his confidence.

I was already consumed by pity halfway through his narve tve that I couldn’t keep myself from moving beside him, taking his hand in mine, and offering my condolences and reassuring him that he’ll always be considered a member of the family, that all he needed to do was to confide in me for any little thing that he required, and it’d be his.

Unfortunately I must’ve been a little too forceful in my offers—perhaps gave them a little too much feeling—that within seconds of speaking, I suddenly found myself in his arms, the recipient of a deep, deep—amazingly deep kiss. Not that I particularly enjoyed it, of course. Why should I? Finding pleasure in any intimate contact with him would be violating my promise to my mother, and even if I never made such an oath, I still wouldn’t have enjoyed the kiss. I’m a gentleman who’s at a distinct advantage over him. Abusing my pion ion would be the basest form of villainy.

The moment—its suddenness—and I also suspect Madame Dechenes’s veal-and-fungus dish—had so shocked my system that I lost all awareness within seconds, and the next thing I knew, I was in bed, stripped to my shirt, with Gilbert hovering dutifully at my side, looking decidedly annoyed.

I can’t even begin to give you a more accurate sense of my mortification at such an embarrassing exposure—my failure, you understand, at being the gentleman I ought to be. I shouldn’t have been so forward in expressing my concern for him. Now he mistakes my duty to him as something much more, and I’ve yet to devise a way of proving to him that I meant nothing more than what I’d said—that I’m his guardian (of sorts), and he’s my charge—the’ree’re almost like brothers, for God’s sake!

I mean, really—there’s something distressingly incestuous about Gilbert and I—no, I don’t want to think about it.

Since that incident, I’ve been careful in keeping my distance from him—well, until I’ve sufficiently recovered from the whole thing. As it is, the effects continue to linger, and I’ve been trying to find ways of distracting myself, knowing that in time they’d all go away and leave me in peace. Have I ever shown you the lake behind the estate? The waters remain cool—bordering on cold—no matter what the season. I’ve been spending a good deal of time swimming there lately—to keep my mind off things, you see. It’s been very good exercise for me as well.

Unfortunately my hoold’old’s running too efficiently. Everyone’s going about their duties admirably and thoroughly, making no mistakes, and leaving me with absolutely nothing to do. I’m afraid my mother had trained them too well, and I’m now hoping that something would happen that would require my full attention—preferably one that would also requirveryvery long length of time to fix.

I’ve only spoken with Gilbert twice since that afternoon (it’s already been three days, five hours, and forty-three seconds), and I’ve simply told him that there were things that needed my immediate attention. He seemed to understand. At least it looked that way. He gave me that odd smile again, but I chose to ignore it.

At the moment, I’m beginning to appreciate the value of windows on the ground floor. The exercise I get from leaping through them at a moment’s notice (i.e., just when the door opens) has been very satisfying. I’m now growing more and more adept at clearing the shrubs in one single bound though it took a couple of torn breeches to get that far.

By the bye, I’m afraid I lost your letter. It’s quite upsetting as I’ve never gotten the chance to read it yet, so I’m hoping that you haven’t written anything of any importance like poetry about Gilbert’s nipples.

I must break off. I’ve got this overpowering need to swim in the lake again. You really ought to try it the next time you visit.


Your dear friend,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

(tbc)

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Notes:
[1] “Upon the Nipples of Julia’s Breast” by Robert Herrick