Chapter 13

Philip Templeton

"Happy the man, and happy he alone,he who can call today his own:he who, secure within, can say,Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today." ― Horace

He had woken this morning in a sombre mood, much as he had for the last week, ever since his return from London. He was usually of a cheerful and optimistic disposition, so he had expected that these gloomy reflections would be short-lived and that he would soon be back to his usual self. Not so. That thing that had happened at Tremayne's had caused a shift in his whole pattern of thinking. One could almost call it an epiphany.

Before that revelatory moment, there had been nothing to suggest his life was about to take a different turn. It had been running along its usual hedonistic course. Philip Templeton had determined early on in his life that he would devote his time to the pursuit of happiness. His own happiness, that is. Not for him the dutiful, self-sacrificing life. He was keen to spend his time indulging in the two things he enjoyed most—painting and women.

He had resolved on a simple rule to follow. Thirty per cent of his time would be devoted to the unenjoyable but essential tasks required to maintain his lifestyle. Under this he included scrutinising the accounts, reading the financial section of the newspapers, regular surveys of his property and tenants, exercise—to keep his physique in good shape—and last of all, going to church every Sunday. If he was going to engage in lewd behaviour behind closed doors, then it was fitting that he present a most Christian-like appearance in public.

The remaining seventy per cent of his time he decided would be spent in pleasurable pursuits. Over the years, he had been meticulous in maintaining that ratio of duty to pleasure, and he had lived well as a result. He had travelled extensively and painted all manner of exotic landscapes. He had seduced innumerable women, and painted them too. He had indulged in the most hedonistic of orgies at the exclusive club in London of which he was a dedicated member. Twice a month, he took himself to his townhouse in the great metropolis and spent happy hours frequenting Tremayne's, named after the lecherous nobleman who had established it some decades ago. There, he partook of every debauched entertainment imaginable. Then, replete on fine wine and even finer orgasms, he would return to Oxfordshire in time to attend church service on Sunday.

There was nothing to indicate that this latest trip to London would deviate from the usual. As per his usual, he had visited Tremayne's, partaken of a well-cooked meal served by a barely dressed and very comely maid—though that night he had not been minded to pay her attention—and then found his way to the room of pleasure. There, he had allowed a nubile young woman to undress him, watching dispassionately as she had unfastened buttons and pulled away material to reveal the magnificence of his naked form. Soon, he had been surrounded by a bevy of unclothed revellers wanting to touch and stroke and kiss him. A wonderfully buxom female had paid homage to his muscular chest with licks and nips. Another had presented him with her moist cunt and he had obligingly set his tongue to it. Below his waist, another eager female had taken his cock into her mouth.

He should have been in seventh heaven, his cock hard and ready to plunge into action. Instead he had felt by incremental degree, boredom, annoyance and then finally, profound disgust. He was not sure where this disgust had come from for what had once been a pleasurable pursuit. Maybe it was to do with that hollow feeling he had experienced in his chest last week at the christening of young Henry Sedgwick. He had stood and watched a radiant Grace Sedgwick smile at her newborn son, under the loving gaze of her husband, and he had felt a painful tug in his chest. Of course, he had dismissed the feeling as unimportant—it was probably just hunger as he had missed his breakfast. That was surely it. Whatever the true cause might be, at Tremayne's that night, he had felt a repugnance for the revelry around him. In one sudden move, he had pushed himself to his feet, shaking off the people worshipping his body, and stridden out of the room, uncaring of his nakedness.

"Fetch my clothes," he'd barked at the bemused, barely dressed serving maid, who had skurried off to do his bidding. A short time later, she had returned with them, and he had dressed quickly then taken his leave. On arrival at his townhouse, Philip had bid his servants to prepare him a hot bath, no matter that it was the middle of the night. Then, having cleansed the stench of perfume and incense from his skin, he had gone to bed to a troubled sleep. He had woken up the following morning, still troubled and despondent. And so it had been in the week since his return from London.

Philip stared absently at the painting of a sapphire Aegean seascape which hung above the mantlepiece in the dining room. What was it that had gone wrong with his perfectly ordered life that he was so cast down? None of the things that had once brought him joy seemed to appeal to him anymore. Just now, he had opened the post to find an invitation to a house party that would undoubtedly lead to sexual frolics, and his first instinct had been to decline. He had not been able to put brush to canvas all week. Artistic inspiration seemed to have vanished into the ether. The book he was reading, a titillating tale of a young man's sexual exploits, published privately by a friend of his, held no interest for him at all. And yesterday at Dr Benson's, he had felt not an ounce of desire for Mrs Benson, with whom he had conducted a salacious affair for several years. Nothing and no one held his interest anymore.

The only time he had not felt bored or despondent all week had been with Miss Cranshaw yesterday, when he had helped her rescue a small boy ensnared by a man trap in Squire Johnson's woods. He laughed to himself. Strange things indeed had come to pass when the best part of his week was spending time with an upstanding spinster, doing a good deed. Was he turning over a new leaf in his dotage?

Perhaps so, but there was more to it than that. In a rare burst of self-perception, he realised something else. Here he sat, alone in this great dining room. And confound it, he did not wish to be alone any longer. It would not be so bad if he could have a companion to share this life with. Someone sensible, for he could not stand female histrionics. His mind returned to Sarah Cranshaw, that oddly attractive and eccentric female whom he was quite sure harboured tender feelings for him. On an impulse, he stood and walked out of the dining room, leaving his luncheon uneaten.

"Jenkins," he said briskly, addressing his butler. "Send word to the stable to have the phaeton ready."

"Yes, sir," replied the old retainer who had served his family for two decades and more.

Philip donned his boots, coat and hat, then strode down the front steps of his great house to his waiting vehicle. His destination? Ivy Cottage.