Lady Flashman's Diary

(What follows is an extract from the diary of Lady Elspeth Flashman, wife of the celebrated Victorian soldier Sir Harry Flashman, Hero of Afghanistan, the only man to stand with the Thin Red Line and charge with both the Heavy and Light Brigades at Balaclava, winner of the Victoria Cross during the Indian Mutiny. Lady Elspeth's diary consists in the main of commonplace Society gossip, but on the occasions that her husband returned from his regular, unwilling campaigns in far flung corners of the Empire her diary becomes both more intimate and more humorous.

Lady Elspeth Flashman was known as one of the beauties of her day, and both internal and external evidence suggests that she was well aware of her charms. Whilst her husband is now known to have been a thorough-going rake, cad and shirking coward, we should not be blind to the possibility that Lady Flashman was somewhat less naive than her writings suggest, or that her fidelity was more assumed than apparent.

Readers are advised to read between the lines and not accept Lady Flashman's account of this event, undated but probably sometime late in 1856, to be an entirely truthful account.

With apologies to George Macdonald Fraser. I hope it gives you a fraction of the amusement up there that your Flashman Papers have given me down here.)

Dear diary, I am quite the flutter, and it takes all my Caledonian self-control to hold the nib steady as I write (though not as steady as I held Dear Harry's manhood for he was quite enraged and I am sure the Park is not the place for such behaviour). Harry was in a perfectly foul mood when we returned to Berkeley Square and his language was quite fearful, though how he ascribed the incident to me is quite beyond my ken. In truth all I did was flatter his Lordship in a fashionable manner as a respectable, though still young, married woman must if she is not to be shunned in polite society. And if in turn a most gentlemanly member of the House of Lords should condescend to someone of nearly equal rank it needs not be a matter of anything but polite comment.

Yet Harry persisted in calling me such base terms that I can hardly write them. Coquette, indeed! As if I had not only been in Paris in the company of my dearest husband. Forsooth, but I should remember his campfire ways are a result of his most chivalrous service to both Her Majesty and the country, and even to my poor self when we were but first married. Whenever my thoughts sway to that time in the forests of Madagascar when he loved me most tenderly whilst the Queen's soldiers searched for us I can do naught but forgive him. And thus I did so now when by rights I should have been livid. A husband has rights over his wife but this was lese majeste!

For as his Lordship turned his attention to Mrs Grey (though I thought she looked most dowdy and her habit was positively musty) Harry took me by the hand and pulled me towards some bushes. He was muttering the most lewd obscenities, and swore he would teach me something of marital fidelity and batting cow eyes at the man who ruined the Light Brigade! The like of it! Though it was somewhat titillating as it always is with my Hector. Truly, he is most energetic in his efforts to please. Unlike Lady Mottram's new maid, who had the temerity to place my reticule on an occasional table in the hallway! As if it were a mere flowerpot and not a lady's true domain.

But once we reached the bushes I really had to put my foot down for he was unbuttoning his fly and I had to bat his hand away when he tried to place his hands in places that should be reserved for tender marital encounters in the long watches of the night. Not in Hyde Park! And I had just seen dear Lord Palmerston monopolising Miss Dereham, and she no better than she should be, as all the Row are well aware. Harry was most red-faced as I left to pay my respects to Lord Palmerston but that was no concern of mine (and I affected not to notice him take a pull from the silver flask he thinks I don't know about). And so I forced him to be polite to one of Her Majesty's ministers, with preferment in his gift, and what thanks do I get? But I remembered Madagascar and all at once I saw again my dearest man, and I know I am unworthy but I do detect his most ardent admiration.

Such devotion deserves its reward but Harry was still in the fiercest of moods. I am most certainly not ashamed of using my femininity as that stage in the proceedings, for what better weapon do we women have against the veritable arsenal of male strength. Aye, but we know their Achilles Heel, and a few tears, strategically placed with downcast eyes soon had Harry playing a different tune.

For the life of me I know not what drew him to the wardrobe but I must confess it was most invigorating. He hustled me there precipitously, whilst removing his breeches in that most manly, soldierly way of his. I swear I goggled for he almost tore them from himself in his urgency!

Once in the wardrobe I must confess to a certain sensation of urgency myself, and I was most satisfied when he turned me and almost crushed me against the wall. I sometimes think he forgets his own power on occasion, though it is most surprising in a not unpleasant way. Less satisfying was his impatience in disrobing me and some buttons flew from my day dress. Harry was most gruff in his manner yet when he took hold of my chest I near swooned. And then he teased me most mercilessly, kneading at me as I gasped.

I felt my knees giving way but Harry was there to catch me and lay me most tenderly down on top of the chest where I keep my ribbons. He helped me to fully disrobe, though his impatience with my laces caused him to fumble. I know I shouldn't have giggled for Harry's mood changed from solicitous to something much more ruthless in a instant. Where previous I had but imagined he ripped his breeches from himself now he did rip the pantaloons from my trembling body.

I was now naked as he stood over me, at his mercy. Then he took his time removing his attire. He is most masterful as he does this, knowing that I am all-a-quiver for his deepest caresses, and his eyes never leave mine. As his shirt and cravat fluttered to the floor I gazed at his fine cavalry frame and the marks of his heroism, his scars giving him a most piratical appearance. This reverie left me as he finally stood naked, looking down at me such that I thought he would devour me. La! I shouldn't have minded if he did! When he looks at me that way he always fetches me. And he knows it, the bad lad!

Harry was now determined and I near shrieked as his strong hands pushed my legs apart. A moment later and his engorged manhood was pressing at my secret haven, and I had to take him firmly in hand to quell his ardour a touch before we commenced to that most exquisite dance. He made a most unnatural noise as I grasped him and then he moved most suggestively while I still held him in my hand. I think it was at this point that I bit down so hard on my lip that I drew blood, for he looked so manly at that moment I was quite overwhelmed and I fair forgot my previous objections.

I lay back to welcome him and he filled me. He was like a rutting bull, and I knew that my involuntary sighs and squeals only served to spur him to greater exertions. These exertions were most enjoyable, notwithstanding the hat-boxes that fell from the shelf as we continued our thrashing. Harry let out another oath at this and seemed to take it that it was my fault that the box with my best spring bonnet struck him upon the head. He redoubled his efforts, and I now began to feel that most delightful of conditions which I am convinced is only truly known to the gentle sex.

I urged him on, fascinated by the glistening sweat on his back as he ploughed back and forth, and I swear that my toes curled. Deeming it near the time of the ultimate caress I arched my back and pushed myself against him, a thing I know pleases him greatly. Then I saw stars as the most pleasant trembling flowed all through my limbs. Dear Harry recognised I was almost at my peak and he touched me in a way most intimate. This touch of his is guaranteed to make my veins seem filled with hot ice, and I believe I may have yelled quite loudly at this point.

I was quite palpitating at this moment, not that Harry gave a care, and he continued to use me most despicably as I ineffectually pushed my heels into his behind in a vain attempt to make him desist. But he would not and, dear diary, the next moment I attained a height that I have only rarely reached before, and Harry must needs put his hand over my mouth for I was wailing. So it was gratifying to feel him stiffen as I charged rapidly to delirium (and in truth I think I may have been so afflicted for a short while) for when I came to my senses there was my dear Harry, wrapping me in one of my riding cloaks and whispering rough, soldierly endearments. Though I know not what 'tup' means, nor why Harry should good-naturedly (I hope)compare me to a bucking Mustang, whatever one of those is...

(At this point the diary entry descends into somewhat scurrilous gossip about more or less prominent society persons of the day and finishes with a summary of the weather)