Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 1 of 14
---

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

This story is dedicated to Hecate, who inspired its conception, aided its
execution and, out of her beautiful generosity of spirit, encouraged me in
moments of despair.

(If you ever find anything by me on a pay site, please let me know.
I don't give permission to pay sites to reproduce my writings.
I'd rather people gave their money to a good cause - such as ASSM!)


Part I
------

"Hey, Carter!"

"Oh, Shipman! Not now, dear!"

It is break-time at the Hepplewhite Academy, that pioneering institution for
the education of the daughters of the most modern, free-thinking parents.
Despite rising rolls throughout the early 1860s, and an increasingly
illustrious roster of old girls, occasional establishment figures voice
their disapproval: "What can a young woman learn," they ask, "that cannot be
best learned at mother's knee? What benefit can there be to mankind if women
study history, philosophy, mathematics, politics, science?" But the argument
has rebounded upon them: for a new generation is in turn learning these
vital arts, at mother's knee - where better?

And so we see two lower sixth-formers, hurrying in opposite directions: Lucy
Carter, to attend to the necessities of nature, and Felicity Shipman, to her
locker to plunder a necessary biscuit or two. (Rations are not over-generous
here at Hepplewhite: too much food gives the girls an abundance of excess
energy, and energy spells trouble. Also, food is expensive.) As they pass,
Felicity turns and hails her friend.

"Oh Shipman, can't it wait?"

"No, Carter, this is important, honestly! You'll want to hear this!"

"Very well, tell me, then!"

"Come, sit with me a moment."

"Why, what is it?" Carter is jigging up and down agitatedly.

Shipman, who has younger siblings, recognizes the symptom at once. "Oh, come
and sit! Just cross your legs, girl, and listen!"

Reluctantly, Carter sits beside her friend on the hard oak bench.

"I thought we weren't supposed to cross our legs."

"Whoever told you that?"

"Well..." Carter blushes. It is one of her endearing characteristics - that,
and her amazingly deep blue, almost violet eyes, one of which seems always
to point in the wrong direction. "It was Nanny, of course. She said it
wasn't lady-like."

"Oh, pooh! If gentlemen can sit like that, why can't we?"

"But surely..."

"You know what Miss Paulson says: the morality of our society is just the
wishes of those in power!"

"But Nanny wasn't in power!"

"No, silly! How do you think she learned what was supposed to be lady-like?
Why do ladies have to do it this way and that way, while the men can do as
they please? Why do you think the men have it all their own way?"

"Because they have all the power?"

"Yes! They make the rules. They've even got us so that we enforce their
rules for them. That's what Miss Paulson says."

"Goodness! I never thought of it like that before. How I wish I could go to
those lectures!"

"Well that's what I wanted to tell you about, so listen! You know how Milady
Walmthley always looks tho fondly at Mith Paulthon, and how she's always
sucking up to her after lectures?" Shipman rolls her eyes as she does her
celebrated impression of Carry Walmsley's lisp.

"Well, yes, of course." They laugh good-naturedly: much as the girls mock
her for her little-girl mannerisms, Carry is renowned for her sunny
temperament as well as being by common consent a formidable battledore
player.

"She told Benson, and Benson told me, that she - that's Miss Paulson - is
thinking of setting up a science laboratory!"

"What? Here?"

"Yes! Isn't that exciting?"

Lucy Carter shakes her head delicately and blinks. "But why?"

"Don't you see? It's like I was telling you! If boys can do science, why not
girls, don't you know?" Miss Shipman loves to adopt the mannerisms of the
landed classes, and this modern "don't you know" impresses her contemporaries
no end.

"Oh, it must be wonderful to attend her sixth form lectures!"

"They are so inspiring, Carter! The things she says!"

For a moment, both young women stare blankly ahead, the one with longing,
the other with visionary zeal. Only the most intelligent girls from the
lower sixth are invited to attend Miss Paulson's lectures, and at first
sight it is surprising that Carter feels no jealousy of her friend's
privilege, but only the sincerest admiration.

"What has she been saying, then?"

"She says that one day, women will be at the forefront of every discipline!
We have minds every bit as good as men's - she says. It is only because,
from ancient times, the weaker sex has had to serve the stronger, that we
have not been allowed to take part in manly activity. But in schools like
this, don't you know..."

"Oh, Shipman, I am so sorry! I should love to hear more, but I must go,
really I must."

"Don't be silly! Clamp your legs together!"

"What?"

"Squeeze them together, silly!" And, in answer to Carter's puzzled
expression, "Your upper legs!" In these enlightened times, young ladies are
not expected to use words like "thigh" - and "belly" is positively obscene.

"Oh!" Carter blushes prettily as she does so.

"See?"

"Yes. Oh!" Carter tucks one dainty ankle behind the other and squeezes
again.  That is much better. "Go on..."

"Well: Benson says that if they allow it - Miss Paulson's going to ask the
Head, don't you know - I'm practically certain to be invited."

"You!"

"Yes. I got pretty good marks, you know, for my essay on the franchise."

"Oh, Shipman!" For a moment, Carter's expression is adoring.

"Yes. And I think that if I were to mention your results in mathematics..."

"Oh! You mean..."

"Yes. I think she might let you in. Science has lots of mathematics mixed up
in it, I believe..."

"Oh, Shipman! That would be wonderful!" Carter rocks to and fro, blushing,
her arms crossed at her breast, her fingers anxiously tapping at her
shoulders. For poor Miss Carter cannot spell to save her life: she still
lives under a cloud of shame for having misspelled her name "Lucy Crater" at
the head of her first Politics essay, and was thenceforth excluded from Miss
Paulson's lectures. It is a bitter disappointment, for all the girls hang on
Miss Paulson's words, and to accept them only at second-hand is to
experience daily the misery of the outcast. In a rapture of gratitude, she
turns her most radiant smile upon her friend. Neither the chaotic angles of
her jumbled teeth nor the drunken motion of her left eye can rob that smile
of its endearing pathos. "I'm so lucky to have you as a friend, Shipman!"

Shipman smiles back. Carter is so clever at mathematics, and so hopeless at
every other subject. And although she looks so odd, there really is
something very sweet about her. It is a pity that all the other girls are so
cruel about her. Impulsively, she gives her a peck on the cheek. "I must go.
Till later, then!"

"Oh... yes..." Carter's eyes relax as Shipman vanishes into the misty blur
of hurrying bodies. She gives her legs another squeeze. It is wonderful to
have a friend. She sits for several moments, savouring a warm glow of
contentment; but then the hand-bell rings, signalling the end of break. "Oh
goodness!" and she runs precipitately to the lavatory.

* * *

It is now one of Miss Paulson's free periods. Normally, she would be marking
her girls' work with her customary care and assiduity; but today there is to
be a much-anticipated interview with the Head. Her teaching has been going
well, she knows: her pupils' respectful gazes, and even the occasional
back-handed compliment in the staff room, assure her of that. But today
brings a fresh challenge: for if her ambitions for her girls are to be
fulfilled, she is going to have to ask for money. And that is why, at eleven
thirty, she is sitting in one of the three chairs reserved for staff in Mrs
Cunningham's waiting room, a pamphlet upon her knee.

Although Mrs Cunningham is by no means a despot, she is forceful and firm of
purpose; her uncompromising demands for the very highest standards from
pupils and staff alike command respect and obedience. And by ensuring that
the pupils participate by shifts in the cooking, cleaning and even
kitchen-gardening, watched over by a complex prefectorial hierarchy, she is
able to run the school on a tight budget. For, despite modestly improving
rolls, money is still tight.

Liberal the parents may be in their social views, but financial liberality
is for the most part the privilege of the landed gentry - a class more
zealous to marry its daughters advantageously than to educate their
intellects. No, the majority of her parents are from the professional
classes: doctors, academicians, lawyers and the wealthier clergy. It is
ironic that the most illustrious patricians she can boast, the Duke and
Duchess of Grantshire, are among the most financially embarrassed of all.
Nevertheless, by judiciously appointing their popular and vivacious daughter
Head Girl, and abetting the appointment of the Duke to the Board of
Governors, it is to be hoped that in due course a more wealthy and
beneficent clientele can be attracted.

Miss Paulson is well aware of the constraints, and that she will have to
argue most persuasively if she is to be allocated any funds. To fortify
herself, she reads once more from Miss Harriet Taylor's inspiring monograph:

"When the reasons alleged for excluding women from active life in all its
higher departments, are stripped of their garb of declamatory phrases, and
reduced to the simple expression of meaning, they seem to be mainly three:
the incompatibility of active life with maternity, and the cares of a
household; secondly, its alleged hardening effect on the character; and
thirdly, the inexpediency of making an addition to the already excessive
pressure of competition in every kind of professional or lucrative
employment."

In her anxiety, the words seem to flow into one another; she finds she has
to read the sentence again and again; for by the time she has read half way,
her mind has reverted to the image of a frosty Mrs Cunningham, stiff in her
high-backed leather chair, combating all her arguments - or worse, flatly
denying her request.

Miss Hanson, the secretary, looks up from her ink-well and appraises the
preoccupied teacher. Although she cannot be said to be a conventional
beauty, Miss Georgina Paulson is nonetheless attractive. Her curly
copper-red hair, cut short just above the collar to reveal a slender neck,
gives her the aura of a mediaeval angel; and her plain sleeves, cuffed an
inch or two above the wrist, betray an elegant fineness of limb, as does the
ankle which extends demurely below the dark blue dress. And her face, though
a little pinched, has a feral beauty which somehow reminds Miss Hanson of a
fox: the pale, pale freckles upon Miss Paulson's cheeks almost suggest the
ruddy whiskers of the beast. And yet she knows, as do many of Miss Paulson's
admirers, the unsettling effect of those pale, serious eyes: the rimless
pince-nez and the short, fair lashes seem to give them a hypnotic intensity.

The tinkle of a hand-bell from the inner sanctum recalls Miss Hanson to her
duty. She stands and opens the door. "Mrs Cunningham will see you now, Miss
Paulson," she says with a curtsey; and with a sigh, Miss Paulson rises and
sweeps into the august presence, courteously inclining her head to Miss
Hanson.

Miss Paulson's fears, however, are confounded: for Mrs Cunningham has risen
to greet her, takes her hand, leads her to the sofa.

"Miss Paulson, how very good to see you. Do come and sit down over here.
Miss Hanson: bring us some tea, dear." Mrs Cunningham does not release the
teacher's hand, but smiles brightly and shakes it for emphasis as she
speaks. "Miss Paulson, everyone is so pleased with the impact you are having
on our girls.  Really, we are so fortunate to have you. I have been meaning
to have a little talk with you upon a couple of matters, as it happens. It
is simply the pressure of work that prevented me from doing so before you
made your appointment." Mrs Cunningham drops her voice confidentially. "You
see, my dear, at the last Governors' Meeting, your name was mentioned."

"My name?"

"Yes. Don't look so dismayed. Complimentary things were said. And in view of
those very complimentary things, it was agreed that although you've only
been with us - what is it now? - two years?"

"Two years..." Miss Paulson breathes the words, beside herself with quiet
excitement.

"...it was agreed that your salary should be adjusted to that of a senior
mistress, with immediate effect."

"Oh Mrs Cunningham! How wonderful!"

The Head beams kindly at the overwhelmed young teacher, and gives the
trembling hand a reassuring little squeeze.

"That means another twenty pounds a year!"

"Oh, but Mrs Cunningham, I can't tell you how grateful I am!"

"You are pleased?" the Head chuckles indulgently.

"Oh... Twenty pounds! It seems so much!"

There is a knock at the door.

"Oh, thank you Hanson: that was quick. - Sugar, Miss Paulson?"

"Oh yes, thank you, just a very little." Miss Paulson's hand is still
trapped, so she watches anxiously as Miss Hanson gingerly places a smallish
lump into the brown, cloudy liquid, and then a much larger piece into Mrs
Cunningham's cup. She retreats and closes the door, leaving them alone.

"And now there is another matter, rather more confidential."

With her free hand, the Head takes her spoon and stirs and stirs. Miss
Paulson looks wistfully at her own cup, doubting her ability to stir with
her left hand without causing a spill.

"You see, dear Carry Walmsley is such a nice girl, but really she seems very
distracted these days, and some of our teachers are getting, well, just a
little worried about her."

"Oh? I have had nothing but very good work from her, I'm pleased to say."

"Aha. Well, Miss Paulson, no doubt that is very much to your credit."
Another little squeeze. "But as you are well aware, we do so wish to
make a good impression upon the Duke and Duchess. And so I thought
that perhaps, given your very exceptional gifts, you might possibly be
persuaded to take Carry under your wing, and give her some extra
tuition. I wouldn't normally ask, but it seems that she is having
particular difficulty with her French, and I do know that you spent
some time in Paris..."

"Oh yes, with Professor Marcel Roger at the Sorbonne..."

"...Exactly. That is why I ventured to ask."

"But of course I would help Carry. It would be my pleasure, Mrs Cunningham.
You know I would do anything to help the school..."

"And naturally, it is only right that we compensate you for this extra
labour.  We were proposing the sum of ten pounds."

"Oh Mrs Cunningham, that's quite magnificent, but surely excessive..."

"Nonsense!" Another squeeze. "I am sure that the Duke and Duchess will be
very happy to know that their beloved daughter will be in such good hands."

"Oh, but Mrs Cunningham, what am I to do with so much money? My mind is all
in a whirl!"

Mrs Cunningham laughs delightedly, and pats the captive hand. "Now tell me,
Miss Paulson, what was the reason for your visit?"

"Well, Mrs Cunningham, I... I hardly know what to say. You see, I was
thinking of a new activity for the girls."

"A new activity?"

"Yes, one which would have great educational merit. Of course you fully
subscribe to the view that there is no subject of study which should remain
closed to the intellect of woman, by reason of some supposed infirmity of
our sex?"

"Yes, yes, of course, why do you think we're running this school?" Mrs
Cunningham sounds impatient, but amused.

"I am grateful, Mrs Cunningham... You see while I was in Paris I was
continuing my studies, studies which I began many years ago with my
father..."

Mrs Cunningham sighs, but does not relinquish the hand. "I suspect you are
about to ask for something expensive, Miss Paulson. You know we have very
little money. Go on. Tell me."

"Oh, Mrs Cunningham: you see - I was studying the Electrical Force."

"The Electrical Force?"

"Yes. With the help of some of the girls, we could continue the work. And
there is so much to be done - work which our girls could do, if only we had
some equipment... A science laboratory... Think of the honour it could bring
to the school..."

"How much?" Finally, the hand is relinquished. Mrs Cunningham's stare is
imperious.

"Oh... if we could use my classroom - we could have some cupboards - well,
if I were to forego the ten pounds for the extra lessons, and the twenty as
a senior mistress - I think that the sum of thirty pounds would suffice. If
I were permitted to, I should be able to bear the costs myself."

"What? You would pay for this out of your own salary?"

"It is for the girls, Mrs Cunningham; - and for science. It is to open the
doors of science to our sex."

The Head rises to her feet thoughtfully. Miss Paulson watches her anxiously
as she goes to stand before the window, looking out, thinking. There is a
long silence. Then she turns. Her face is grave.

"You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Paulson."

"Oh, I..."

"We are fortunate to have someone with such dedication on our staff. Very
well. You shall have your laboratory. For the time being, these scientific
activities will have to take place in the girls' free time."

"Of course."

"At least it should keep them out of mischief. Your contribution of the ten
pounds for Miss Carry's extra lessons: that I will accept. But your salary
increase you shall keep. The extra money..." Mrs Cunningham sighs deeply -
"I shall have to find, somehow."

She goes to her desk, takes her pen and begins to write.

Cautiously, Miss Paulson reaches for her teacup.

"Miss Paulson, if I could ask you to wait for just a moment... I'm just
writing a note for the Bursar, and I'd be very grateful if you could just
pass it to Hanson on your way out."

By now the tea is lukewarm, but it is the cup of victory, and it is sweet.

* * *

Felicity Shipman scampers alongside the wagon as it trundles into the school
courtyard.

"Is this the scientific equipment from London?" she calls to the driver.

"Yus miss," he says, touching his forelock; and, as she wheels away and
darts in through a door to find Miss Paulson, "That's a pretty 'un, Sam," he
says to his mate.

Sam is staring open-mouthed at the doorway, through which has just
disappeared what he thinks must be the most elegant posterior he has
ever seen: "Did ya see the way she swayed it, 'Enry? Didja?"

Henry laughs, sets the brake and gets down.

Shortly, Shipman returns with another girl, more sedately now. Sam cannot
now decide which of the two maidens is the more shapely, for the new arrival
certainly has the more imposing bosom; but on closer inspection, he finds
she has crooked teeth and a wayward eye, and so remains faithful to his
original sweetheart. It is thus with a great sense of gallantry that he,
too, clambers down and assists Henry in opening the wagon. One of the horses
neighs, and there is a chinking of buckles.

"Ah, shaddup, Rory!" spits Henry over his shoulder. At once, the girls put
their fingers to their mouths, hunch their shoulders and giggle. Sam looks
at them as if they are creatures from another planet.

"Miss Paulson says we are to take some of the lighter items," says Shipman,
"and then if you please to follow us..."

"Yus miss," replies Henry deferentially. "If you would be good enough to
take this, then, miss... and you this..."

"Oooh! Hehe!" Carter cannot help giggling and curtseying a little as she
takes a bale of wire wrapped in waxy brown paper. Now Sam cannot decide
whether those crooked teeth are quite such a bad thing, after all.

"An' here y'are, Sam," says Henry, handing the lad a surprisingly heavy
mahogany box with gold lettering upon the side.

Sam staggers, and begins to expostulate, "Oh, that's fffff..." but Henry's
wagging finger stops him just in time. Walking awkwardly with their weighty
Voltaic batteries, the men follow the girls' more graceful motion into the
cool, dark interior of the school.

* * *

Miss Paulson has just signed the docket, and with a final touch of his
forelock, Henry has tugged a bemused Sam back out into the yard.

Now Miss Paulson is kneeling by Number Two Cupboard, carefully arranging
bales of wire, packets of wax and bottles of various salts. Still upon the
table are the three large mahogany boxes - the Voltaic Batteries. Casually,
Shipman tries to move one. She does not try very hard, but it seems quite
impossible.

Content with her arrangements, Miss Paulson takes a large waxen bottle from
a light wood case.

"Now this, girls, is oil of vitriol, or more properly, acid of sulphur. Put
your hand in this fluid, and within quarter of an hour, only the bone would
remain, and that, too, would soon be gone. The least splash will burn." She
raises a brown paper packet. "In here, caustic crystals which will
neutralize the acid.  We have these in case of accidents. But like the acid,
contact with these crystals will burn."

The girls stare wide-eyed at these dangerous, fantastic substances.

And now Miss Paulson removes the stoppers from the batteries, and cautiously
pours the electrolyte into each cell. An acrid smell fills the air. To
Shipman, it is the smell of an impossibly exciting future.

The stoppers replaced, Miss Paulson manoeuvres a battery to the corner of
the table. She hunches her shoulders and takes a deep breath. Then,
smoothly, she lifts the battery and walks with it to the window.

"I shall set it down here. Would one of you kindly lift my skirt, so that I
may kneel?"

Shipman rushes forward to oblige, while Carter looks on, hand to mouth as
Shipman reveals the sweet naked curves of Miss Paulson's trim posterior.

"That's quite high enough, Shipman, thank you," says Miss Paulson smoothly
as she kneels and places the battery carefully on the floor; and "Why are
you blushing, Carter? Here, what do you think of these?"

Carter looks at the strange little waxen bundles in the baize-lined
beechwood box.

"Do you know what these are?"

"No, miss."

"These are the very latest thing: coils! They have most interesting
properties."

"Oh!" cries Carter, delighted. "Aren't they darlings?"

"Yes. Put them in Cupboard Number Three, on Shelf Two, at the far right."

Eventually, everything is tidied away, and Miss Paulson dismisses her young
helpers.

In the corridor, Carter whispers to her friend: "See? I told you she
didn't!"

"Perhaps she wears them in winter!" Shipman is obstinate.  Scurrilous
speculations are rife about certain foreign habits Miss Paulson may have
acquired whilst in Paris.

"She wouldn't, I tell you! It's just gossip!"

The two walk along in silence. Shipman is a little anxious about being seen
talking to Carter, but nobody seems to be about at the moment.

"Oh, Shipman, there was something I meant to ask you."

"Yes?"

"You know about sitting with your legs crossed?"

"What about it?"

"Do you ever do that?"

"Well... sometimes, if I wish. Why?"

"Have you ever noticed... feelings?"

"Feelings? What feelings?"

"You know: if you sort of squeeze your legs together, doesn't it give you
strange feelings?"

"How do you mean?"

"Oh! It's difficult to describe. If I do it for a while, I get a strange
sort of warm, achy feeling inside. Haven't you found that?"

They are approaching the dayroom now, and Shipman feels increasingly
self-conscious.

"No, I never have."

"Oh." Carter sounds disappointed. "Perhaps it's just me, then."

Most of the girls regard Carter as a freak of nature. Only yesterday,
Clark had made some malicious comment about Shipman's "strange
fascination" with "the changeling girl", and the others had laughed.
At the time, Shipman had felt quite indignant: just because the others
shun Carter, why should she do likewise? Nevertheless, she cannot help
feeling uneasy with Carter in the face of general, and increasingly
explicit, disapproval. She needs to make an excuse.

"Well, I'd better go and get on with my prep." She does not, cannot
meet Carter's eye. She turns and enters the dayroom, rightly
anticipating a chorus of questions about the new scientific equipment
from her form-mates.

"I'll see you later, then," Carter murmurs wistfully; and, under her
breath, "maybe."

* * *

The buzz of conversation dies down rapidly as Miss Paulson enters her
lecture-room with a clutch of paper at her breast, exactly one minute late
by her silver pocket-watch. The girls all stand in silence as she walks to
her desk. As one, they curtsey as she bows to them.

"Ladies, please be seated."

That is part of her magic: she says "Ladies" - most of the staff say
"Girls".  But that is not all: Miss Paulson almost sings it, and in
that one word she manages to concentrate hope, expectation and a kind
of conspiratorial complicity that never fails to evoke a gasp from one
or two of the pupils.

She looks out at them now, all eyes expectantly upon her - ha! with
the exception of one. But Carter's other eye is charged, brilliant
with hope.  For an instant, she looks down, shamed. She was too hasty
about Carter - the result of inexperience. For it is clear that
odd-looking girl has outstanding mathematical talent - talent which
she, Georgina Paulson, failed to notice in her anxiety to address only
the brightest, the best.

Her eyes travel across the room. There is Abigail French; there Emma
Denning; there poor, poetic little Prudence Miller; and there, stiff and
eager as a whippet, that formidable Miss Felicity Shipman - a bright little
button, perhaps the brightest of all the girls. Her whole face glows with
cleverness; her every essay is painstakingly perfect; she is the very model
pupil - and yet, suppress it though she tries, Miss Paulson finds her
irritating, unspeakably irritating - it is quite irrational, she knows it.
And there, in the front row, bless her, is dear Carry Walmsley, her fair
hair drawn neatly back, her magnificent bosom heaving with expectation, her
eyes round and trusting like those of a little fawn. Why is it that everyone
loves her so?

"Now, ladies, I have here some detailed notes for experiments." It is a
formidable stack of paper, painstakingly written over many late nights, a
remarkable compendium of the world's knowledge concerning the Electrical
Force, detailing both what is known and what is unknown; a century hence
scholars will painstakingly reconstitute it from the archives of various
distinguished families. "And today we will finish by demonstrating the
galvanic principle, which will show you how the Electrical Force is the
force of life and motion itself." Again there is a chorus of enraptured
gasps.

And for the next hour, Miss Paulson explains the basic principles of the
Electrical Force: conductivity and insulation, circuits, batteries, coils.
There is only one slight interruption, and that is when Miss Paulson asks for
a volunteer to warm the lacquered wire - for unless it is quite warm, the
lacquer will not be pliant and the insulation will crack.

"I'll do it, miss!" says Shipman at once, her hand - as ever - the first to
be raised. Shortly afterwards, there is the sound of a brief scuffle and a
muted squeak. Looking up, she sees a guilty smile on Shipman's face and a
deep blush on the face of her neighbour, Lucy Carter.

"What was that?" demands Miss Paulson.

"I'm sorry... it was... nothing, miss," says Carter, tugging at her dress.
Miss Paulson gives her a stony stare, and resumes her disquisition.

And then, finally, it is time for the experiment.

"Gather round, ladies, come round the table."

There are little soft squeals of revulsion as with her tweezers she extracts
one of the frogs' legs from the jar of alcohol, and places it upon a dish.
Several of the girls make "ugh" noises. Miss Paulson chuckles. There is a
clatter; Carter blushes again, and Shipman dives to retrieve something from
the floor.

"Sorry, miss, I dropped the wire." She holds it to her cheek. "But it's nice
and warm now."

"I hope so. You might have broken it." But no: it is sound, and so Miss
Paulson dons her gloves, attaches lengths to the battery terminals, and then
advances the two wire-ends to the frog's leg. "One here..." There is just
the sound of soft, intent breathing as the girls crane forward to see the
magical spectacle. "...And one here."

There are soft squeals, and a number of the girls jerk backward. It is
unspeakably, miraculously exciting, for the leg, the leg of the dead frog,
actually twitched! Miss Paulson repeats the action several times, so that
all the girls can see, actually see the tiny muscle contract.

"Very well, ladies: now back to your places."

Almost without a sound, the girls return. If their gazes were expectant
before, they now stare at Miss Paulson as at a miracle-worker, one who has
raised the dead from the grave. More than one bosom is heaving prettily.

"For preparation, I shall ask you, ladies, to make careful copies of
these notes, and study them. Next time, we will discuss any points
which any of you do not understand. And then, I believe we may go on
to perform some interesting experiments. Some of you may wish to work
with me on a continuation of the work I began with my father, and
continued under Professor Roger in Paris. Some of you may wish to
explore the use of the coil, and its power of producing an electrical
current. This is indeed an exciting field, one where each of us may
explore and discover something new, something which one day may bring
health or healing to the world. But first, it is for you to learn what
is known already; so I shall expect very diligent study of the notes
which I have worked so hard to prepare for you.  Miss Walmsley,
perhaps I could ask you to organize a rota so that by next week, each
of you may have a complete set of copies."

* * *

That night, Miss Paulson is glad to get to bed early. She has been up
late for the past fortnight, painstakingly preparing the notes for the
girls, ensuring that they are both neat and clear. But how good it is
to see such enthusiasm!  As she drifts off to sleep, Miss Paulson
remembers the girls' shining eyes, their luminous faces and - oh yes,
that entrancing sideways slip of her jaw as Carry Walmsley said that
"Yeth Mith". Why is it that everyone finds that so adorable?

* * *

The object of Miss Paulson's reflections, exhausted by a particularly
punishing session of battledore practice with Kershaw, has also retired
early; and perhaps that is why, the next morning, she is awake before
the bell:  wise for her years, and wealthier than some, she is
indisputably at the peak of health and vigour. As Head Girl, she
enjoys more privacy than most, with a small sitting-room, study and
bedroom all to herself. At once she rises and goes to her wash-stand,
carefully dabs her eyes and cleans her teeth.  Then, slipping off her
night-gown, she studies herself in the tiny mirror.  The daughter of
handsome parents, she has the body of a thoroughbred; tilting the
mirror, she appraises its flawless curves, its full, generous breasts,
its immaculate, cream-pale skin.  Used to Nanny's praise, and the
fulsome compliments of dear Mrs Crichton, her governess, she accepts
her beauty as unquestioningly as all the other privileges of her high
estate.  For although she passes here at Hepplewhite as plain Miss
Carry, this ravishingly fair maiden is in truth Lady Caroline Artemis
Gloriana Walmsley, daughter of the Duke of Grantshire. As a girl, long
did she envy the Grecian statues in the orangery their graceful
curves, their shapely limbs; but now, full-grown, she outshines them
all.

It is time to dress; and Carry looks distastefully at her hated
corset, oppressive symbol of male domination. "Why should I wear that
thing any more?" she mutters crossly, with a little toss of the head
that, had she seen it, would have made Miss Paulson's heart flutter.
"Why should I be the shape men want?  Why should I be forever hot and
breathless? Why can I not move freely, as God intended me to move?"

Only yesterday, Miss Paulson had quoted Miss Harriet Taylor:

"When, however, we ask why the existence of one-half the species should be
merely ancillary to that of the other - why each woman should be a mere
appendage to a man, allowed to have no interests of her own, that there may
be nothing to compete in her mind with his interests and his pleasure; the
only reason which can be given is, that men like it."

"Well," thinks Carry, "today will be different." She slips on her chemise,
her petticoats, her blouse, her blue dress with frills. Yes - she moves so
much more easily. She twists and turns in unaccustomed freedom. The
unaccustomed touch of the soft silk upon her upper body fills her with a
delightful tingling.

* * *

It is the afternoon break, a few days later. Strolling through the grounds
in their long blue dresses, Victoria Penrose and Sarah Clark are deep in
gossip.  They walk close together: theirs is a long intimacy, the intimacy
of close confidences and shared secrets.

"So why do you think she lets that awful Carter girl follow around with her
all the time?" asks Clark, meditatively. Clark has been talking a lot about
Shipman lately: ever since they came up to the lower sixth, Shipman has
seemed more outgoing, more assertive, almost wild at times - nothing like
the quiet, bookish little creature they remembered in the fifth form.

"What makes you think it's Carter following Shipman?" asks Penrose slyly.

"Oh, you can't mean -"

"Why not?"

"But she's -"

"Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, don't you know." Penrose's tone is
derisive. "And besides, you know, her bed is next to mine. She's started to
do it, too."

"Do what?"

"You know..." Penrose points her finger discreetly. "Like what I caught my
nanny doing when I was little." Penrose and Clark have discussed that
incident several times. Nanny had been very angry at little Victoria's
intrusion, and assured the curious little girl that only if afflicted with a
"grown woman's pains" was it ever permissible to touch oneself "down there".
But still it seemed bizarre and rather disgusting.

"What, Shipman?" Clark seems incredulous.

Penrose nods, grinning, her eyes glinting derisively. "Every single night!"

"Every night?" Clark looks down thoughtfully. "Shipman too..."

"So many people seem to do that, Clark! So many! It can't really be woman's
pains, can it? How on earth can they bring themselves to touch... I can't
even say it!"

"What - you mean you don't know why?" Clark stops walking and turns to face
her friend. "You honestly don't know? You've never even tried it?"

Penrose blushes. "Why... Sarah! What are you saying?"

"I can't describe it to you, Vicky. If you want to know, there's only one
way to find out."

"Do you mean you've... oh my God!" Penrose's hands fly to her face. "Oh
Sarah!  You too! Oh no!"

Clark looks down, abashed for a moment by her friend's shocked incredulity.
But there is no turning back: she would rather Penrose take her for what she
is. She looks up once more, and her gaze is steady, unflinching. It is the
gaze of an adult; Penrose's, that of a startled child.

"I wonder if I could..." Penrose is suddenly daring. "I mean... Do you think
I should? Just once, to see what it is like?"

Clark turns and continues on the walk. "You could, I suppose," she says
tonelessly. "If you wanted to find out."

Penrose stands still for a moment, then turns and catches up with her
friend.  They walk on in unaccustomed silence, each with her own thoughts.

* * *

"Good morning, ladies!"

"Good morning, miss."

Miss Paulson seats herself with a mysterious, slightly smug air today. The
girls are aware of it at once. While her Politics lectures are always
interesting, they do not usually begin with quite this charge of excitement.
It is as if Miss Paulson has just been let in on an exciting secret.

"Ladies, I have recently been sent a paper - a most interesting paper. It
concerns the thoughts of that most zealous and distinguished Liberal, Mr
John Stuart Mill. As I hope you will remember, he is a disciple of Mr
Bentham. Can anyone remember what Mr Bentham is famous for?"

As always, Shipman's hand is up first. Miss Paulson looks around for someone
else. "Yes, Clark?"

"Please miss, the greatest happiness of the greatest number, miss."

"Yes, but what about the greatest happiness of the greatest number?"

"That is the principle of justice, miss."

"Quite good. Anyone else? Yes, very well, Shipman."

"Please miss, he says that we may judge a law to be good and right only if
it tends to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number."

"Yes, Shipman, that is very well said. Anyone else?"

"Please miss?"

"Yes, Kershaw."

"He says that happiness is the avoidance of pain, and the enjoyment of
pleasure."

"Yes, that is quite right. Very well. Now, girls, let me explain to you how,
according to this letter I have received, Mr John Stuart Mill has extended
this principle to cover the whole of morality. He proposes that those
actions are good which promote the greatest happiness of the greatest
number."

And so Miss Paulson expounds the theory which will soon see the light of day
in Mill's famous _Utilitarianism_. It is clear that some of the girls are
puzzled, while others are excited by the freshness of his vision.

"And so," Miss Paulson says finally, "are there any questions?"

"Please miss?" Miss Kershaw is the first.

"Yes, Kershaw?"

"If the 1850 census shows that there are more women than men, is it not true
that the happiness of women should be more important than the happiness of
men?"

"Why, yes, I believe it does."

"Why, then, miss, can women not vote for a Member of Parliament? And why can
a woman not become a Member of Parliament? And why must a woman lose her
property when she marries?" Miss Kershaw is a little flushed.

"These are very good questions, Kershaw. I happen to know that Mr Mill and
those of his party are very favourable to improving the rights of women.
There is no doubt at all that, according to Mr Bentham's and Mr Mill's way
of thinking, our laws are unjust in that regard. But we are discussing
morality today, and not laws, Miss Kershaw. I am sure you understand the
difference."

"Yes miss. Sorry miss."

"Not at all. But we must not lose our way. Yes, Miller?"

"Please miss, what about a martyr - someone who dies for what he believes is
right. Everyone says that's a good thing. But how does it improve
happiness?"

Miss Paulson is a little taken aback, and decides to throw the question
open:  "Would any one of you like to answer that?"

"Please miss, perhaps in the long run it creates happiness, because people
come to realize that you can't change people's beliefs by violence."

"That's very well said, Clark." Really, the girl has quite an intellect,
thinks Miss Paulson.

"But miss, why do some say that it is bad to seek pleasure?"

"Perhaps, Clark, that is because the immoderate pursuit of some pleasures
tends to create pain. For example, if you eat too much, you become ill. And
those poor creatures who drink too much spirit, as we know, can die of it.
That is why Saint Paul recommends us to follow moderation in all things."

"But miss, if a pleasure does no harm, then why should it be bad?"

"If it really does no harm, Clark, then it is not bad, clearly."

"Please, miss!"

"Yes, Walmsley?"

"If I have something that can give pleasure, why should it be better for me
to give it to someone else than to enjoy it myself, if the pleasure is equal
in either case?"

"Well," Miss Paulson frowns for a moment in concentration, "Mr Mill would
perhaps argue that to give it to someone else increases the total amount of
happiness, since the giver has the additional pleasure of enjoying the other
person's happiness. And it is often said that a happiness shared is a
happiness multiplied, is it not?"

"But what if it could give only her pleasure, miss?" asks Clark. Walmsley
blushes, and there is a low tittering among the girls.

Miss Paulson seems disconcerted by the extreme improbability of Clark's line
of speculation.  "Why, Clark, whatever are you thinking of?"

Clark blushes too, but persists bravely. "Well... perhaps there is nobody
else about to give the pleasure to, miss. Or perhaps it is not a pleasure
merely, but the avoidance of some particular pain or discomfort which only
Walmsley feels. Would it then be morally better to abstain from the
pleasure, or to enjoy it?"

"I suppose, Clark, that Mr Mill would say that it is better to enjoy than to
abstain, in such a case. Mr Mill does not appear to have a very high opinion
of the virtue of abstinence."

"Nor do a lot of people, miss," mutters Clark in an undertone, glancing
roguishly at the furiously blushing Head Girl.

Miss Paulson delicately inclines her head. "I beg your pardon, Clark?"

"Oh, nothing, miss."

"Please, miss?"

"Yes?" Oh dear: now it is Shipman, and Miss Paulson detects a strange gleam
in her eye.

"Miss, I was reading Mr Bentham's book, the one in the library, about the
principles of morals and legislation."

There is a faint intake of breath around the room. Everyone knows that
Shipman is keen, but to read such book as that! Even Miss Paulson looks
impressed.

"That is very good, Shipman. Well?"

"In the book, miss, Mr Bentham lists the types of simple pleasures, and I
wondered if you could explain them to us."

"I will try. I'm afraid I don't think I can remember them exactly. Perhaps
you can remind me."

"Certainly, miss." The class is spellbound. "They are: the pleasures of
taste; the pleasure of intoxication; the pleasures of the organ of smelling;
the pleasures of the eye; the pleasures of the ear; the pleasure of novelty;
the pleasure of health and bodily exertion..." Miss Shipman's voice is soft,
and she is speaking slowly, seductively. "...the pleasures of touch..."
Someone lets out a quiet gasp, but in the frozen classroom it seems loud.
"...and the pleasure of the sexual sense."

There is a long silence. Miss Paulson appears a little flushed.  "I don't
think this belongs in a discussion of morals, do you, Miss Shipman?"

There are several quiet, disappointed gasps of "Oh!", and Miss Paulson
decides to relent.

"Oh, very well, Shipman, what is it you want explained?"

"First, miss, I wonder if you could explain to us what is the pleasure of
touch?"

"Well, Shipman, if you were to run your fingers along a piece of smooth
fabric - velvet, perhaps."

"Oh, I see, thank you, miss. - Or... skin perhaps?" Shipman's face is all
wide-eyed innocence.

Miss Paulson bites her lip. "Perhaps," she breathes.

"Then in that case, Miss Paulson, can you explain what he means by the
pleasure of the sexual sense?"

Miss Paulson looks down. She remembers asking her father to explain this
very point, when she was not much older than Shipman herself; and she
remembers how awkward and evasive he had been.

"That, Miss Shipman, is the pleasure that men feel when they... look upon a
woman."

"So this is a pleasure that is for men only? Women cannot have it?"

"So I have been told."

"And do you think that that is true, miss?"

"I... I am not sure, Shipman." Miss Paulson's voice is little more than a
whisper.

"That doesn't seem fair, does it, miss?"

Miss Paulson's voice is stronger now. "No, Shipman, no it doesn't."

"Thank you, miss."

"Why, Walmsley, whatever is the matter?" The blessed girl appears to be
crying.

"I'm... I'm sure I don't know... I'm sorry, miss."

"Would you like to be excused, Walmsley?" asks Miss Paulson, kindly.

"If you please, miss."

* * *

As the girls disperse, Clark calls softly to Shipman.

"What is it?"

The girls link arms and walk slowly, their voices hushed.

"About pleasure, you know... it's supposed to be the principle of goodness,
sort of..."

"Yes..."

"And... and the pleasures of touch..."

"Well?"

"I was thinking... about the Electrical Force, you know."

"The Electrical Force?"

"Well... it's the force of life, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose there's some connexion."

"What? You mean, between pleasure and electricity?"

"I was just wondering."

* * *

"Very well, Ladies. I trust you have been able to study the notes?"

It is the second meeting of the Scientific Society, and a number of the
girls seem rather glum as they anxiously turn their papers over. Only some
of the cleverest girls - notably Shipman, of course - seem relaxed and
confident.

During the next half-hour, Miss Paulson deals with several questions, at the
end of which the class seems a little brighter, a little more confident.
Miss Paulson is a good explainer.

"Well, now, ladies, perhaps we can turn to something a little more
practical, eh? It will help us to be clearer on the theory if we observe its
effects in practice. Last week, we observed the galvanic reaction in a
frog's leg. This evening, I shall show you something even more remarkable:
its effect on one of us. I shall be asking for a volunteer. Now before I
start, I should say something about safety. It has been observed that the
flow of electrical current stimulates the nerves, and that these in their
turn control the muscles. Clearly, if certain muscles are disturbed in their
functioning, it would be very dangerous. Can anyone tell me of a muscle that
should on no account be disturbed?"

For once, Carry Walmsley's hand is the first to be raised.

"Yes, Walmsley?"

"The heart, miss."

"Oh yes, Walmsley, that's right. The heart." Miss Paulson's flutters: it is
that beautiful little sideways motion of the jaw. It is... almost
electrifying.

"Well now - where were we? Ah, yes: if a current passes across the heart,
the heart muscle may be shocked and the heart stop beating. And if we attach
one wire to one hand, and another to the other, the current will go across
the body, and the heart is at risk. Therefore we avoid any circuit which
might go across the chest. Is that clear?"

The girls all look quite convinced.

"Very well, then. For our first experiment, we will go to the opposite end
of the body: the foot. And I will demonstrate how the motions of the foot
are controlled by muscles in the legs. Later, we can see how to trace the
paths of the nerves that control those muscles.

"But first, in the interests both of safety and of scientific observation, I
must acquaint you with the scientific method. When we experiment upon a
human subject, we must take careful note of all the subject's reactions, not
merely those we happen to be interested in. So, for example, if the subject
is afraid, or in pain, this can affect our results. Unlike dead frogs' legs,
we humans are very complex creatures. So we will need to have several
observers on the look-out for various signs. Now what signs in particular
should we look for?  Heavens! Yes -" Walmsley's hand goes up immediately -
"yes, Walmsley?"

"The heart, miss?"

"Yes, ah, goodness gracious, yes, that's right, Walmsley, the heart. Fear or
pain may influence the heart rate. What other signs might there be?" No
hands are raised. "Anyone?" No. "Well, sweating is another sign of
disturbance. And where might we observe that? Yes, Shipman?"

"The armpit, miss?"

"Yes, that would be a good place. Now, finally, not only must we observe
these things: we must record them, also. Who will volunteer to take our
notes for us?  Yes, thank you, Miller. Now, we need a volunteer. It won't
hurt. Who will step forward?"

The girls look a little pale. Eventually, Clark steps forward.

"Ah, I'll volunteer, miss."

"Excellent. You are very brave, to be the first. People do not always
recognize the courage required of the scientist. We naturally fear the
unknown, yet in science we are dealing directly with the unknown. Now I
think it would be best, Clark, if you were to remove your dress."

Demurely, with a becoming modesty, Clark removes her dress. Beneath her
chemise, the dark outline of her bodice, and the shadowy outline of her
nipples, can just be discerned.

"And just slip off your shoes. That's it. Now: up upon the table, please.
And lie down. That's it. There's nothing whatever to be afraid of. You must
just tell us if anything makes you uncomfortable. Now, ladies, gather round.
You, Shipman, since you're there, you shall check for undue perspiration.
Walmsley?  Here's my watch. Do you know how to read someone's pulse?"

"I think so, miss."

"Good. Please to read mine."

Carry takes Miss Paulson's wrist and looks at the watch. After a few
seconds' silence, she frowns for a moment, then says, "Sixty-eight."

"Very good. That is normal. Now please to take Miss Clark's pulse."

The exercise is repeated. "Eighty-four."

"Again, very good. Our subject is a little nervous, that's why it's a bit
high. Shipman: see if our subject is perspiring."

"Ah... how, miss?"

"Put your hand through and feel under her arm."

Shipman does so. "Dry, miss."

"Good. Not too nervous, then. Now in order to detect any tremor or strange
movement provoked by the electrical current, we will just tie this little
bell to the subject's toe. Please try to keep your feet still, Miss Clark."

Miss Clark looks abjectly into Shipman's eyes. "No! No!" she whispers.

"Miss Clark!" says Miss Paulson sharply. "Why can't you keep your toes still
for one moment? They're like a sackful of puppies."

"I... I'm sorry, miss." The toes are momentarily still, and then suddenly
begin moving frantically again.

"Miss Clark!" Miss Paulson is losing patience. She looks up sharply, to see
a naughty grin on Shipman's face, and a subtle motion of her arm. "Shipman!
What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Paulson. I was just tickling her."

"Well don't. You are being tiresome. Any further childish behaviour and I
shall have to ask you to leave."

Shipman blushes and looks cowed.

"Now, ladies, you will note that I have connected two batteries to the
contacts this time. Can anyone tell me what effect that will have? Yes,
Penrose?"

"Please miss, will it increase the voltaic force of the electricity?"

"Well done, Penrose: that is quite right. Since a human being is
considerably bigger than a frog, we use a higher voltaic force. And now I am
going to put the contacts here... and here," says Miss Paulson, brushing
Clark's underskirts up to her knee and indicating two spots on her calf.
"The current will stimulate the nerve, and that in turn will cause a muscle
to contract. Very well: starting from now, Walmsley, I want you to call out
the pulse every half-minute. Clark, you will tell us what you are feeling."

"Ninety-two," says Walmsley, looking at the watch.

"Do you observe the precise location of the contacts, ladies? Now, Clark,
what are you feeling?"

"I... I don't feel anything, miss."

"And now?"

"N..nothing."

"And... now?"

"Oh! A kind of warmth." The bell on Clark's foot jingles twice.

"Ninety-six," says Walmsley.

"Perspiration?" The toes begin to twitch, and the bell jingles for several
seconds.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. She's just ticklish. Nothing," says Shipman.

"And... now?" The bell jingles again.

"It... tingles. It... doesn't hurt exactly," says Clark.

"You see how her toe is moving? Have you noted that, Miller?"

"Yes, miss."

"One hundred and four," says Walmsley.

"A little perspiration," says Shipman.

"Good. We'll take a short rest, then. All well, Clark?"

"Yes, thank you, miss."

"And how do you feel?"

"Oh... strange."

"Strange?"

"Well... I could feel that I was moving, but it wasn't I who was making it
happen, if you see what I mean."

"Anything else?"

"Just some... strange prickling. Like a..."

"Yes?"

"Like a worm under my skin."

"No pain?"

"Well... not exactly..."

"Pulse, Walmsley?"

"Eighty-four."

"Now, Ladies," Miss Paulson resumes her lecturing tone, "We are going to
stimulate the very same nerve, but higher up this time. You should observe
exactly the same reaction." She draws Clark's underskirts much higher on one
side, taking care not to expose more than is necessary. "Again you will
observe that I moisten the areas where the contacts are to be applied."

"Oooh!" cries Clark, and,

"One hundred and eight," says Walmsley. The bell rings. Miss Paulson looks
sharply at Shipman, but she is not even touching the subject.

"Ready, Shipman?"

"Oh, sorry, miss," says Shipman, getting her fingers into position; "Nothing
now."

"Aaah..." from Clark.

"One hundred and twelve," says Walmsley.

"Feel anything?"

"Ooh... No."

"And now?"

"Ah..."

The bell begins to tinkle persistently. Miss Paulson raises and lowers one
of the contacts, and the toe flexes back and forth as before. Then she keeps
the contact in place, and the toe begins to oscillate. The bell rings
violently.

"Ah... Ah... oh, my!"

"One hundred and sixteen."

"What are you feeling?"

"Oh... gosh..."

"She's perspiring."

"One hundred and twenty."

"There! That's enough. Have you got all that, Miller?"

"Yes, miss."

"All well, Clark?"

"Oh, miss... I feel strange."

"One hundred and sixteen."

"Shipman!" Miss Paulson's face is thunder.

"Oh, but miss... I was just taking my hand away, when I noticed..."

"What were you doing?"

"It's true, miss. I noticed too." This from Kershaw.

"You too, Miller?"

"Yes, miss."

Miss Paulson is perplexed by this strange development. "Very well, Shipman."

"Thank you, miss." Shipman takes her hand away.

"And Clark, how are you feeling?"

"Oh, miss, it feels most odd! My whole leg!"

"Does it hurt?"

"Well, maybe a little... No, not quite... Oh!"

"Try to describe it for us."

"Sort of... fluttery."

"Fluttery?"

"Yes. And higher up..."

"Yes?"

"Strange."

"Strange?"

"Yes."

"And painful in any way?"

"It is a little like a kind of pain, but..." Clark breaks off with a gasp.

"Yes, Clark?" Miss Paulson tries to be patient. Really, the girl seems so
vague, so incoherent, and it is most frustrating to the scientific enquirer.

"It's a kind of ache... it comes and goes... not too unpleasant... and I
feel strangely warm... and a sensation of fullness."

"Fullness?"

"Yes... Ohh! - It seems to come and go."

"Have you got that, Miller?"

"Yes, miss."

"One hundred."

"I'm just taking the bell off now, Clark."

"Oh miss, ha ha ha!"

"Sorry, Clark, and thank you. - Help her to stand, ladies. - Well done for
being our first subject. You can let her go, now, Walmsley.  I think a round
of applause, ladies, don't you?"

There is brisk applause, and, "You were marvellous!" quietly from Kershaw.

Afterwards, Clark is rushed off by her friends, their arms through hers.

"What are you feeling?" they whisper.

She can only giggle and repeat, "Strange."

* * *

Shipman and Carter help Walmsley and Miss Paulson tidy the laboratory; but
Miss Paulson dismisses them before the work is finished, saying, "Thank you,
ladies. I need to have a few words in private with Miss Walmsley."

Curtseying, they go out.

"What did you think, Carter?"

"It was amazing!"

"Wasn't it? Do you want to try?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"But what, you ass? Didn't you see?"

"Well, it's just that..."

"Go on!"

"Well, did you read that stuff about coils?"

"Coils? Who wants to know about coils?"

"But Shipman: with coils, we could make electricity do all sorts of things!"

"Like what?"

"Well... move things!"

"Move things?"

"Yes! And... we could make our own electricity! We'd need help, of course."

For the moment, Shipman is more interested in the possibilities of the
galvanic experiments; but she senses an opportunity.

"Perhaps next time, Miss Paulson could help you with the coils."

"Oh - do you think she might?"

"I'm sure she would. Tonight was just a demonstration, remember. She won't
want us all doing the same thing, now, will she?"

"I suppose not."

"We'll get her to help you, Carter."

* * *

Meanwhile, in the laboratory, Walmsley and Miss Paulson have finished the
tidying away.

"Thank you, Walmsley. Now I believe that you need some extra tuition."

"That's right, miss."

"In French?" Miss Paulson raises an elegant eyebrow.

"Yes, miss."

"Ah. Well, that's... That's very good, Walmsley. I know that your duties
keep you very busy. Would you chance to be free for half an hour tomorrow
evening?"

"It can be arranged, miss."

"Very good, then."

"Thank you, miss."

"Good night, then, Carry."

"Ooh! Good night, miss."

* * *

"Hey, Clark?"

"Yes, Shipman?"

"How was it? The electricity?"

"Oh, Shipman. It was... It was strange."

"What do you think, then, about this connexion you were talking about?"

"What?"

"You know, between the Electric Force and the principle of morality."

"What... with pleasure?"

"Yes. With pleasure."

"Um... Shipman? Do you know... do you know anything of the pleasure of... of
touch?"

"Why?"

"You do, don't you?"

"Well... A little."

"Would you happen to be free during recreation this afternoon?"

"I suppose so."

"Would you care to take a walk with me?"

"Why?"

"I know a nice bank. Where we could sit. And... talk about it." Clark looks
around anxiously. "Nobody else goes there. Ever."

"A walk? Very well then."

"Where shall we meet?"

"By the big clock?"

"At two?"

"At two o'clock."

* * *

At the third meeting of the Society, Carter makes a special request:

"Please miss, I think I've had an idea for an experiment with the coils."

"With the coils?"

"Yes, but I need a machine to be made, and I was wondering if you could
advise me, miss."

"Why, certainly. - Walmsley: while I work with Carter, perhaps I could ask you
to take charge of the others. You could continue to investigate the effects
of electric current on the body, perhaps."

"Certainly, miss. Come, girls! Let's get the battery into position. So who's
going to volunteer today?"

"Can I go again?"

"No, Clark, let someone else have a try."

"Oh very well - I'll try it!" says Kershaw bravely.

"Good for you, Kershaw! - And Clark: since you were the volunteer last time,
you shall apply the electrical contacts."

"Ah, Walmsley, may I please be excused removing my dress, so I can be spared
Shipman's roving fingers in my armpits?"

"Of course. I am sure Clark will notice if you start perspiring, won't you
Clark? We'll keep Shipman out of mischief. Here, Shipman, you take the
watch.  You can be heart-rate monitor. I'm just tying on the bell, Kershaw."

"Oh my goodness..."

"Why whatever is the matter, Kershaw?"

"It's just that... my feet..."

"Oh look out, girls, we've got another ticklish one. Come on, Kershaw, try
to be serious. So where are you going to place the contacts, Clark?"

"I thought I'd try... a little higher up."

"Very well. Can you do a drawing to show the position, Miller? - Oh really,
girls, there's no need for everyone to look: only Miller needs to see."

"Eighty."

"Oh my Lord! Oh Lord!"

"Now what is it, Kershaw?"

"It's just that I'm so ticklish there! Does she have to do it there?"

"Well, Kershaw, it seems to me you're ticklish just about everywhere. No,
it's too late to change it now. You'll just have to put up with it in the
name of science. Oh, come on, Clark, I'm sure the skin is quite damp enough
by now."

"Ninety-two."

"Oh hold my hand, someone!"

"French, hold her hand, for heaven's sake. And Benson, you hold the other
ankle. Ready everyone? Very well, Clark!"

"Ninety-six."

Kershaw begins to whimper.

"What does it feel like, Kershaw?"

"Ohh... a kind of prickling... tickling... It's so strange..."

"Shall I take them off now?"

"Ohh... no... I think I'm beginning to get used to it."

"One hundred and eight."

"It's not hurting at all, is it?"

"Oh no. Not hurting, just prickling slightly. But... oh, my gosh!"

"What is it, Kershaw?"

"It's making me want to move. It's... oh, goodness..." Kershaw is beginning
to pant a little. She seems very flushed.

"I do believe she's getting all squirmy, girls. Just try to relax, Kershaw."

"One hundred and twelve."

"She is squirming, isn't she?"

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh..."

Kershaw's toes begin to waggle and the bell starts to ring.

"Right, I think that's enough now, Clark."

"Oh goodness, everybody!" Kershaw is round-eyed. "It's so amazing!"

"How do you feel, Kershaw?" asks Benson anxiously.

"I feel wonderful! Just wonderful!"

"I say, do you notice something, Walmsley?" asks French.

Walmsley follows the direction of French's gaze. "Do you mean...?"

"They're rather swollen, aren't they?"

"They are. I noticed that last time with Clark, but I thought that was just
Shipman messing about. Make a note of that, Miller: slight swelling
noticeable."

"Where? Oh! There." Miller blushes and continues her hurried note-taking.

"One hundred and four."

"Very well, Shipman, I think that's enough. Perhaps we should let someone
else try it. How about you, Miller, since you've been working so hard on
taking the notes?"

"Oh, goodness, no, er... no thank you!"

"All right. Anyone else?"

"Why don't you, Walmsley?" asks Shipman mischievously.

"Yes, good idea!" says Benson.

"Oh, very well then. You take over, Benson."

Charlotte Benson likes to be in charge. She gives a quick little lop-sided
smile.

"Benson, may I help Clark this time?" asks Shipman innocently.

"Very well, Shipman. French, you take the pulse this time."

Shipman surreptitiously winks to Clark and mouths the word "Higher". Clark
nods imperceptibly.

"Shipman," warns Walmsley, "if you tickle me, I and several senior prefects
will exact a lengthy and terrible revenge."

Shipman turns a little pale.

"Eighty-four," says French.

"Very well, moisten the contact points," commands Benson; and, "Hey? How can
you see what you're doing if you don't lift it up higher?"

"Oh, we can do it by feel," sys Clark nonchalantly.

"Oh my! Oh my! Hee hee! Hee! Right Clark, Shipman, I warned you, you two are
for it!"

"I can't help it if you're so ticklish. We weren't doing anything, Benson,
honestly! Were we, Clark?"

"No, Benson, truly!"

"Now just a minute, Walmsley!" Benson is wonderfully authoritative. She
gestures Clark and Shipman aside for a moment. "I seem to recall that you
were not terribly sympathetic when it was Kershaw's turn. You put me in
charge and I am going to make sure that we conduct this experiment properly.
Human knowledge cannot be held back just because Miss Walmsley happens to be
a little bit ticklish. French, can you manage? Denning: take the other hand,
and you, Penrose, hold her ankle - yes, and her knee. Make sure she doesn't
move. Very well, Clark and Shipman, proceed."

"One hundred and two."

"Hahaha! Benson, they're killing me! - Ohh, thank heaven..."

"Shall we put the contacts on now, Benson?"

"Ready, Walmsley?"

"Very well. Ready. Aah! Oh goodness! Oh goodness!" It is clear that Walmsley
is extremely receptive to the effects of the electricity. She begins huffing
and puffing immediately, and her complexion seems to gain an additional
lustre.

"She's trying to move, Benson," says Shipman self-righteously.

"I'm not, it's just... Oh my!"

"What does it feel like, Walmsley?"

"One hundred and eight."

"I can feel it in my... Oh Shipman, Clark, could you move the contacts up
just a tiny little bit?" Clark and Shipman exchange a conspiratorial wink,
unnoticed by everyone else, whose gaze is fixed upon Walmsley's transfigured
countenance.

"Aah! That's amazing! Oh, ha ha! That's quite amazing! I can feel it! I can
feel it!" The bell begins to ring.

"Yes, but what can you feel, Walmsley?"

"It's buzzing and prickling and oh! It's just... I can't..." The bell is
ringing insistently, but the girls are too interested in the remarkable
effects of the electricity to pay much attention.

"One hundred and sixteen."

"It's like... I mean it's just..." Walmsley bites her lip and rolls her head
helplessly, but there is no doubt that whatever she is feeling, it is not
exactly pain.

"Right," says Benson sternly, "I think she's had enough, girls."

"Oh my! Oh my!" groans Walmsley as the tinkling of the bell dwindles to
silence. The girls watch the rising and falling of her well-rounded chest
with rapt attention.

"Have you noted everything, Miller?"

"Um... nearly everything. I just need to see the contact points."

"Oh go on, Shipman, show her. Look away, everyone else."

"Thank you, - oh!" Miller lets out a little squeak and nearly drops her
notebook.

"What is it, Miller?" asks Benson.

"Oh... n-nothing."

"One hundred and twenty."

"Benson?"

"Yes, Walmsley?"

"I... I think I could take a little more, honestly."

"But your heart rate! We don't want our beloved Head Girl to have an
apoplexy, do we, girls?"

"I feel absolutely fine, Benson. Come on, Kershaw had far longer. It isn't
fair."

"Well, just a little longer, then. Clark, Shipman, do it intermittently, one
second on and one second off."

"Yes! Ah!"

"Hold tight, there, French. Do you need help? Well just hold tight, that's
all."

"Ahh!"

"One hundred and twenty-four."

"Again! Again, come on!" Walmsley's long fair hair flails and falls prettily
over her eyes. "Ahh!"

Shipman and Clark cannot prevent her bucking her hips; it is difficult to
keep the contacts in place. "That was never one second!  More! Ahh!" Miss
Walmsley's gasps are becoming increasingly impassioned. The bell now is
jingling incessantly, as the pretty volunteer's toes writhe in nervous
excitation.  Everyone by now is becoming accustomed to the sound.

"One hundred and twenty-eight."

"Right, Walmsley, that's enough! Stop, Clark! Take it off!"

"Honestly, Benson, I'm fine! I can take more, much more!" Carry may be
panting, but her eyes are bright and her complexion lively.

"How are you feeling, Walmsley?"

"Wonderful! Just wonderful! I could run ten times round the school,
honestly!"

"You look as if you just have."

"Come on, Benson, just a little bit more. Please?"

* * *

"...I'm sure we could ask the clockmaker to manufacture such a thing, yes. We
will ask him to come tomorrow during the recreation period, and show him
your drawings. I think with those changes it ought to work, Carter."

"I think so too, miss."

"Now we'd better see how the others are getting on."

Miss Walmsley has just got down from the table. Flushed and glowing, she
feels as if she could fight an army. "Benson, I challenge you to a
battledore match!  Right now! Yes! The Power of Electricity! - Oh! Hello
Miss Paulson."

"Hello, Carry. You look... charged with energy. How did you find the
electricity?"

"Oh... it was... wonderful!"

"Miss... Please miss?"

"Yes, Shipman?"

Shipman winks and points furtively.

Miss Paulson looks. "Oh! Beau... Oh my goodness."

---

End of Part I

(to be continued)
