Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 6 of 14
---

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

Part IVa


There is a knock at the Head Mistress's door.

"Come in!"

"Ah, good morning, Mrs Cunningham."

"Doctor Straker! Pray sit down."

"Thank you. I trust you are in excellent health?"

"Never better, I thank you, and I wish you the same. So this would be... the
half-termly report?"

"The very same."

"How time flies! I must be getting old..."

"Oh, indeed."

The eagerness of the doctor's reply confuses Mrs Cunningham for a moment,
but she soon recovers herself.

"And so - how are our girls?"

"Well, Head Mistress, I am glad to say that the surgery has been unusually
quiet.  I cannot recall having had fewer patients. We have had the occasional
bump and scrape and sprain, of course - the normal minor incidents of youth,
and soon mended. But of the more troublesome things - ladies' problems, you
know - rather fewer - in fact, far fewer."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"At first I thought it might be the unusually clement weather we have been
having, and of course the steady progress we are making in the matter of
hygiene.  But on reflection I am inclined to attribute this happy state of
affairs to the dietary improvements we have managed to negotiate."

"Ah. Good. I shall make a point of that at the next governors' meeting. It
was extremely difficult to persuade them to increase the catering allowance."

"I am sure. And I take it that there has been no evidence to substantiate
that ridiculous supposition?"

"I don't follow you, Doctor."

"I thought we mentioned it before. Some governors feared that a more
generous level of nutrition might encourage... a certain waywardness, mm?
Harmful secret practices?"

Mrs Cunningham blushes, despite the tactful delicacy with which the Doctor
has expressed himself. "Ah yes, I remember. No, I am glad to say that there
has been no evidence of such a thing. Carry Walmsley is an excellent Head
Girl, and she and her team of prefects have been particularly vigilant. I
have had no such reports."

"I am glad to hear it. Such injurious habits would, I know, swiftly
undermine this happy improvement - which, I might add, is particularly
noticeable among the more senior girls this year.  Really, from the sixth
form, I think I have seen scarcely one pupil. There is still little
Parkinson of the fifth, who is bleeding far too much.  Between ourselves, we
are worried about her. But for example: Felicity Shipman was in and out of
surgery almost weekly last year. This term, we have simply not seen her. And
there was another... yes, Miss Penrose..."

"Ah, Victoria Penrose."

"Yes. Just the same. Well, it is most satisfactory. I don't know what lies
behind it, but as a man of medicine, I can only hope that this blessing
continues."

"Most gratifying, doctor." Mrs Cunningham places her hands flat upon the
desk and leans forward.  "And are you aware that we beat Thomas More at
battledore for the first time in our history a few weeks ago?"

"I was not. That is remarkable evidence indeed. Yes, I feel sure that we may
attribute this happy state of affairs to the improved quality of the diet."

"But have you heard about the electricity treatment?"

"Electricity?" The Doctor leans forward. "That is interesting: tell me more."

"One of our more talented... to be frank, Doctor, our most talented teacher
has studied some form of electricity at the Sorbonne. She has been
subjecting the girls to electrical currents. They seem somewhat painful, but
the girls are benefiting tremendously."

"I should like to learn more of this."

"You must address yourself to our Miss Paulson. She has made a particular
study of the electrical force. Her father is a doctor also, I believe... Very
good, then, Doctor Straker."

"Very good, Head Mistress. I wish you a very good morning."

"Good morning to you. Please the Lord your next report will be as cheerful."

"Amen!"

Polite smiles, a bow and an inclination of the head conclude the interview.

Once the door is closed, Mrs Cunningham clicks her tongue contemptuously.
"Harmful secret practices, indeed! Pah!"

The next knock is less self-assured.

"Ah: Carter."

"Good morning, Mrs Cunningham."

"Good morning, child. What a pretty curtsey. Pray sit here."

Carter advances to the straight-backed chair before the desk, and sits
stiffly.

"Not too tired, I hope?"

"A little, Ma'am."

"Then you shall have the rest of the morning off lessons. After this, go and
rest. I have seen Walmsley, and I have spoken with some of your teachers."

Carter is pale, but attentive.

"I will be honest with you, Carter... Lucy. I feel we at Hepplewhite have
failed you. I wish that you had come to speak to one of us...  to me...
sooner. You know, I am sure, how very much I hate bullying and gossip. Such
things should not be allowed to blight the happiness of anyone's childhood
years.

"Now I will be honest with you, Lucy. You are a very unusual girl. You
have... shall we say... your little blind spots, hm? I don't mean to be
rude. For in other ways, you show signs of real brilliance. Schools like
this should make it possible for girls like you to reach your true potential
in a world which is very much controlled by men. Girls like you, Lucy, are
not one in a thousand, nor even one in a million...  Mrs Probert has been
talking to me about your mathematics."

"Please, Ma'am, Mrs Probert is a wonderful teacher..."

"I am well aware of it, and it does you credit that you say so, Lucy dear.
Mrs Probert tells me quite openly that some of your recent work she can
scarcely even understand. You know that Professor Anderton..."

"...Will be visiting next Thursday?"

"Indeed. He is very interested in you. I think he would like you to
work in his department, my dear."

Carter blushes deeply and kicks her feet to and fro.

Mrs Cunningham takes a breath and adopts a more sombre, portentous tone.
"Lucy, indeed we have failed you. I am so sorry that you have endured such
treatment for so long - without complaint. I know we're taught not to
complain. But to suffer so much, for so long, in silence... Why, Walmsley
was almost in tears when she spoke of it..."

"Mrs Cunningham, may I interrupt to say something?"

"Yes, Lucy?"

"Ma'am, Walmsley is good."

Mrs Cunningham waits for a moment, as if the sentence is incomplete. "Good
what?"

"There is no vice in her, Ma'am. Her heart is open. I don't know anything
else, but her heart is open. No one has ever known her do an unkind thing."

"Yes, Lucy, that is well said. We are proud of her... She even suggested
that it might be better if you were to share her quarters, which was very
generous of her. But of course that is quite impossible. - Nonetheless,
you cannot remain in your dormitory. Things have clearly gone too far."

"I should be so grateful, Ma'am."

"Walmsley tells me that your bed was found to be excessively damp."

"Oh yes. I thought that was well known. People like to say that I wet the bed."

"This is intolerable!"

"It is one of the jokes, Ma'am. Sometimes it is merely water upon the pillow."

"How it pains me to hear this, Lucy! I am ashamed of our prefects for not
preventing such disgraceful bullying. I apologize to you, and I shall do my
utmost to ensure that such a thing never happens again at Hepplewhite. As
for you, I think it best that henceforth you stay in the home of one of our
members of staff, as a member of the family. I have spoken both to Mrs
Probert and to Miss Paulson..."

"Miss Paulson!"

"...And both are very willing to accommodate you. You would prefer to stay
with Miss Paulson?"

Lucy blushes and nods, biting her lip.

"Then it shall be arranged. Now go and rest, dear."

* * *

"Why, Benson, what's the matter?"

Benson has just burst into Carry's study without knocking. "Walmsley! Have you
heard what they're saying about you?"

Carry's surprise is genuine. Having learned that it is Denning's time of the
month, she has had to transfer the anonymous letter surreptitiously to
Shipman's pigeon-hole: only three hours have elapsed since.  Truly, the word
has travelled quickly.

She affects ignorance: "Will you tell me, then?"

"It is a scandal, Walmsley. They say that you have taken Carter into your
bed. Of course I said that was absurd. But we must do something, Walmsley.
Things are getting out of hand!"

"I shall tell you an interesting story in a moment, Benson. But first,
please just look quietly into my bedroom. Try not to make too much noise."

When Benson returns, she is pale and staring.

"So it is true! And she is quite obviously naked! Walmsley, you must be mad!
Are you trying to get expelled? And what about her?"

Carry stretches back in her chair, reaching into the air with her fists. She
smooths her long blonde tresses.

"Her bed was wetted last night. It was a practical joke. I decided to let
her sleep here with me. I informed Mrs Cunningham first thing this morning -
and I might say that she commended me for my kindness. It appears that
Carter's parents are exceedingly rich, Benson. Mrs Cunningham was very
unhappy to learn that we prefects had been unable to protect Carter from
bullying. She is very much afraid that unless we take extreme care of Miss
Carter from now on, her parents might take exception and whisk their very
gifted daughter away from Hepplewhite. I need hardly say that Mrs Cunningham
does not relish that prospect."

Benson sits down heavily in the armchair beside the revolving bookcase. She
swivels it aimlessly to and fro with one finger.

"I see. I must apologize. I fear I leapt to the wrong conclusion."

"Yes. You were meant to. Carter has been the victim of malicious rumours
before, you know, Benson. I decided to try to discover the source of those
rumours. That is why I myself started this particular one at ten o'clock
this morning."

"You started it?"

"Yes. Since I had my suspicions about her, I left an anonymous note in
Shipman's pigeon hole. And within a few short hours the story is all over
the school."

"Shipman!"

"Felicity Shipman."

"Then she must be punished! We must make an example of her! We must go to
Mrs Cunningham!"

"I fear the situation is not quite that simple, Benson. Consider: the
anonymous letter was a deliberate trap. I do not think Mrs Cunningham would
be pleased to know that I wrote it - nor should I like her to. And in any
case, Carter is quite adamant that she does not wish Shipman to be punished.
Rather, she wishes her to be taught a lesson."

"I see. But how?"

"I think this is something we may be able to deal with ourselves, don't you
agree?"

"I suppose so. What had you in mind?"

Musing, Carry takes a shuttlecock from her desk. "We have the away match at
the end of the week. I wouldn't like this to be damaged." She turns it to and
fro.  "Shipman is not really a bad person, Benson. No worse than all the
other people who spread rumours. But have you not noticed, during the
Scientific Society meetings, that friend Shipman has quite a sense of humour?
She likes to make people laugh, does she not?"

Eyeing the goose quills in the shuttlecock, Benson grasps Carry's meaning.

"You mean... as your mother likes to chastise the maids?"

"Precisely so."

"We cannot do it here. She would make too much noise."

"Shortly, Carter will have a room in Miss Paulson's cottage. She will be able
to come and go as she pleases. She will admit us."

"But what about Miss Paulson?"

"There are the staff meetings on Friday afternoons. They never last less
than an hour. That should be quite long enough."

Benson's eyes gleam like the sword of justice. "I should love to help."

"I was hoping you would offer. Perhaps you could obtain some rope from the
groundsman. Four three-foot lengths should suffice, don't you think?"

"It will be a very great pleasure."

"Thank you, Benson. And perhaps you could inform Mrs Cunningham about the
rumour. No doubt she will wish to call an Assembly."

"Certainly. And if I were you, Walmsley, I'd get young Miss Carter out of
here as soon as you can."

* * *

After dinner, Miss Paulson introduces Carter to her new accommodation.
Having helped her to put her clothes away in the spare bedroom, they return
downstairs to what serves Miss Paulson as both sitting room and study.

"See, we have an extra chair for you, and for now you may work at this end
of the table while I work at that. Are these your papers?"

"Yes, Miss Paulson."

"Why, what is this? May I look?"

Carter nods anxiously.

It is a sheaf of papers containing various diagrams and complex mathematical
formulae. The few words are written in a large, round, childish hand; and
several are most comically misspelt. Yet it is quite apparent that the whole
is the product of an astonishingly acute and rarified mind.

"Why Carter... this is most extraordinary..." Miss Paulson puzzles for a
moment over the misspellings. "It is a monograph upon... the resonance of
springs - is that so?"

Again Carter nods, biting her lower lip as if in fear of harsh correction:
for despite Mrs Probert's kind assurances, and the encouraging letter from
the Professor, she cannot forget the horrified disapproval her work
customarily arouses.

"That is most astonishing. I begin to understand why Mrs Probert speaks so
highly of you. Perhaps, when it is finished, you would like me to set it
down fairly for you."

"That would be a great kindness, miss. And..." Carter looks down for a
moment, as if searching for the appropriate words.

"Yes, Carter?" Miss Paulson prompts kindly.

"I was wondering if you could help me to set it down in French, you know."

"In French? Why, certainly, if I can. But why?"

"I wished to send a copy to my uncle."

"Is he French?"

"He is at the university in Saint Petersburg. See, these are his letters. He
has been most encouraging."

Miss Paulson sees the sheaf of letters, neatly tied with a ribbon.

"I had assumed that those were from your parents."

"Oh no." Carter says it dismissively, as if she would as soon receive a
letter from the Emperor of China. "Were I to attempt a reply, I should only
remind them of their disappointment."

Miss Paulson sighs, remembering her own parents. "I take it, then, that like
me you have no brothers?"

"No, I have not; but that is not the only reason. Elsie, my elder sister,
wrote beautiful letters; but alas she died."

"Oh no!"

"It was long ago. I think they love me. They say they want me to progress in
my mathematics. But I do not think they can have any other hopes for me."

Miss Paulson is touched by Carter's wistfulness.

"Come, Carter: I have some camomile tea. We will brew it upon the fire,
and have a warming cup together before bed."

Delighted by the prospect of this unexpected treat, Carter can only hunch
her shoulders and beam a grateful, crooked smile. The light in her eye
radiates such surprised eagerness that Miss Paulson finds it impossible to
suppress a chuckle.

* * *

It is midnight. The atmosphere in the dormitory has been solemn, chastened
by Mrs Cunningham's severe words at the evening Assembly. One thoughtful
spirit, however, is very much awake.

"Psst! Vicky!"

"Wha... What? Oh, Shipman!"

"Let me in, I'm getting cold!"

"Bohhh..." Penrose turns over languidly. "Come on, then..."

Shipman chuckles, and holds her fingers to Penrose's nose.

"Pooh! Lord, Shipman, what have you been doing? As if I couldn't guess..."
Giggling, Penrose pushes Shipman's hand away. "Anyway, what do you want?"

"Well, I've been thinking about that note."

"Oh, yeah... The note."

"Well... Who could have written it?"

"I don't know."

"And why put it in my pigeon-hole? ...You didn't write it, did you?"

"No, of course not. Why would I do something like that?" Penrose yawns.
She is very tired; but Shipman's wakefulness banishes sleep.

"Well I don't know. Why would anybody? - Unless... Wait a minute. What was
it you told Carter? Someone had a crush on her, yes? And that if she
pretended to have an affair with you, she'd make that someone jealous. Isn't
that right?"

Penrose stiffens, and is silent.

"Well, isn't it?" Shipman persists.

"Yes, more or less..."

"That is what we agreed, was it not?"

"It was not quite as simple as that. You see, she didn't believe that anyone
could have a crush on her. I had to persuade her that it was true."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said that her mystery admirer was so afraid of the ridicule if anyone so
much as suspected, that she never missed the opportunity to speak ill of her."

"Oh! You didn't!"

"Yes, I did. Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Shipman is silent.

"Well, isn't it?" Penrose feels a flush of righteous anger on Carter's
behalf.

Shipman sighs into the pillow. Penrose senses her friend's contrition. Her
anger melts; she extends a comforting arm.

"You should tell her you're sorry."

"Yes." Shipman rolls on to her back and stares at the high dormitory ceiling.

"You were too upset to notice the harm you did."

"Perhaps."

"She will forgive you."

"Perhaps."

There is a long silence. When Vicky Penrose yawns, Shipman speaks again.

"Vicky: that changes everything, don't you see? Of course she wants to know
who it is that has a crush on her. Who wouldn't?"

"You mean...?"

"I mean she suspected me. That was why that note was put into my
pigeon-hole. To see if it was I!"

"You mean that the note was from Carter? But who would wish to create such a
scandal about herself - and implicate Walmsley, of all people?"

"Carter is not stupid, you know, Vicky. She made sure there was a perfectly
innocent explanation.  She couldn't have written the note herself, don't
forget.  She must have prevailed upon someone else to write it for her."

"Then who did write it?"

"Walmsley, of course. Lucy could never have allowed a rumour like that to
spread without Walmsley's consent." Shipman yawns too, now.

"You really think she could get Walmsley to do that?"

Shipman wriggles out of the bed. For a moment she stands, a pale, ghostly
figure, the white night-shirt streaked by her long black tresses.

"Lucy really is not stupid, you know."

Penrose reflects. It seems improbable; but perhaps Shipman is right. She
looks up to reply: but Shipman has gone.

* * *

The caretaker answers the knock at his window in the stable yard. It is
Shipman. "Good afternoon, miss, and what may I do for you?"

Shipman is all wide-eyed supplication.  "Miss Walmsley sent me, Sir, to ask
if you would be so good as to oil the hinges of her doors - for the wretched
things are creaking so!"

"Ben!" The caretaker turns to his wizened assistant. "Take the oilcan up to
the Head Girl's rooms directly, if you please, and oil the locks and
hinges."

"Miss Walmsley will be so grateful!" Shipman flashes him a winning smile
and trips away gaily. Everything is going so well!

* * *

"Shipman! What in heaven's name..."

It is the afternoon recreation period, and Shipman is at Walmsley's door.
She is carrying a battery, and wearing a look of triumph.

"This thing is killing me, Walmsley. Do you have a bedside table?"

"Yes, but..."

"Please let me just put it down."

Mystified, Carry guides Shipman to her bedroom, where Shipman carefully
disposes of her burden and casts herself, exhausted, upon the bed with an
explosive sigh.

"How on earth did you get that battery?"

"Simple. I went to Miss Paulson and explained that since there was to be an
away match soon, you decided it would be helpful if the entire team could be
given a comprehensive dose of the electrical treatment."

"You said that I..."

"Yes." Shipman sounds very pleased with herself. "Rather than take up too
much of her time, you thought it would be more convenient if you were to
borrow a battery and keep it here. It worked like magic. Actually, Walmsley,
I think I saw her blush a little when I mentioned your name. Do you think
perhaps she feels a little tenderness in your direction?"

"My goodness!" Carry turns to the window for fear that Shipman will notice
her flaming cheeks.

Shipman does. "I thought you'd be pleased. Think of the fun we can have!"

"Yes, yes of course..." Carry murmurs vaguely.

"You could get the team to come and have a treatment each evening... and
you've got it all to yourself for the night." Shipman raises herself on one
elbow. "Aren't you pleased, Walmsley?"

There is a long pause; and then, suddenly, Carry begins to laugh. She sits
on the edge of the bed, laughing. "Shipman... You are astonishing. You really
are."

"So do I get my reward?"

"Reward?"

"Yes. There's an hour of recreation left, and I think I'd rather like a
proper dose of electricity without stupid people grabbing my ankles and
shouting out my pulse rate every fifteen seconds. Not to mention the outrage
of busybodies jumping like frightened chickens and whipping the contacts
away when I'm just about to come!"

"Yes, I see what you mean."

"So, is that all right, Walmsley? I've done well, haven't I? Remember,
you've got this thing all night."

"Yes, I suppose so, Shipman. You're the limit, you truly are the limit."

"Thank you." Shipman preens herself. "So... Do you wish to stay and watch,
Walmsley, or will you perhaps dance naked before me? Or am I to have a little
peace and quiet, now?"

"Oh, yes, of course..." Walmsley mumbles, rising and going out, shutting the
door. She shakes her head. "Why on earth did I not think of that before?"
Walmsley returns to her study, still shaking her head slowly. In truth, she
does feel rather slow-witted. No doubt it is the lack of sleep catching up
on her. She settles into an armchair and falls into a light doze.

* * *

"Hey Walmsley! Where were you? What, asleep?"

"Oh... Kershaw... what time is it?"

"It's half past four. I thought something was amiss when I didn't see you at
tea."

"Yes, I must have slept. I haven't quite caught up on my sleep, what with
talking to Carter, and... er... so forth, don't you know."

"Yes, yes we heard about that at last night's Assembly. How is Carter?"

"She's quite a tough little lady, as a matter of fact, Kershaw. Oh! I feel
giddy!"

There is a muffled moaning sound from the bedroom.

"Good Lord! What on earth was that?" Kershaw is aghast.

"Oh my goodness. That was Shipman. You won't believe this. She went to Miss
Paulson and said that I wanted to borrow one of the batteries from the
laboratory, to give the battledore team a good dose of electricity before
the match on Saturday. And what does Miss Paulson do? She agrees without
hesitation!"

"You mean to say..."

"Heavens, Kershaw... She's been in there for an hour and a half! We have to
stop her at once, or we will have a case of total exhaustion on our hands!"

"Will she not more probably be filled with a prodigious surfeit of energy?"

Walmsley looks at Kershaw through narrowed eyes.  "Kershaw, dear, I think
you will find that when carried a little too far, the electrical treatment
becomes... shall we say, profoundly, although temporarily, enervating."

It is swiftly apparent that Walmsley has the better grasp of the situation:
despite her manifest reluctance to be separated from the electrical
apparatus, Shipman is by now incapable of any significant resistance of a
non-electrical kind. By a combination of tugging, threatening and poking,
Walmsley and Kershaw propel Shipman into the study, where she collapses into
the armchair like a marionette.

"Shipman, you idiot!" Walmsley seethes. "We have a match the day after
to-morrow, and just look at you!"

"More..." croaks Shipman with a dreamy smile. "I want mo-ore..."

"Shipman, you're a disgrace! Honestly, Kershaw, what depravity!"

"How are we going to get her into class?"

"Mmmmm..." purrs Shipman, closing her eyes and snuggling her cheek against
the wing of the armchair.

"Look at her!" Walmsley kneels beside the chair. Shipman is absurdly,
infuriatingly pretty, her cheeks ruddy with health, her warm body limp yet
elegant, her smile at once satisfied, mysterious and deeply annoying.

"Shipman darling," croons Walmsley in a musical voice, stroking Shipman's
cheek with one finger, "You've got to get up and go to cla-ass..."

Shipman affects a babyish voice. "Mmmh... Iyum tiyud..."

"Shipman..." Walmsley's voice becomes a little threatening, "If you don't
get up this very moment, dear, and go into class, I'm going to have to make
you..."

"Na-o-wwww," croaks Shipman grumpily.

Walmsley positions her hands at Shipman's rib cage, her fingers like talons.

"Shipman..." she sings; but Shipman is blissfully unaware of her imminent
peril.

Her scream, when she is finally compelled to bound from the chair, might
have reduced a chandelier to dust: seconds later, Walmsley collapses
laughing over the arm of her chair at the clatter of Shipman's precipitate
departure.

Kershaw shakes her head slowly. "That girl is extraordinary... exactly like 
a cat!"

"A cat who has had far, far too much of a good thing."

"Yes..." Kershaw muses. "You'd think she actually enjoyed that extraordinary
electrical feeling."

"Oh I do assure you, Kershaw, Miss Shipman has a most stoical temperament.
There is no inconvenience, no discomfort she would not subject herself to
for the greater good of the school team."

Kershaw shakes her head in feigned disbelief.

"Kershaw, we'll let the other members of the team come up for some
electricity after the evening Assembly. But we will make it a rule: five
minutes each, at a maximum. But for you, Kershaw, perhaps ten. For the good
of your soul, don't you know."

"If you think so, Walmsley."

"I like a girl with true courage, Kershaw. It will improve your game no end,
I know it will."

* * *

After lights-out, Shipman composes herself, forcing her mind to be still.
Unusually, she holds her arms rigidly by her sides. Gradually, she becomes
serene. "This usually works," she thinks to herself, as she raises her head
and bangs it down upon the pillow five times. It always works, though nobody
knows why. Within seconds, she is asleep.

And, as if by magic, she is suddenly awake as the bell high on the roof
chimes its mechanical five. In the dark, Shipman raises herself suddenly.
There is nothing but quiet breathing. Quietly, hastily, she dresses herself,
breathing sharply in the cold morning air. Then, carrying her shoes, she
pads noiselessly to Walmsley's rooms.

* * *

It was so easy! So easy! Time and again, Shipman has had to pause, panting,
at every creak of the floorboards; but nothing stirs.

Walmsley's bedroom is still warm, the coals upon the fire now but a dull
glow.  And what a sight is here! The esteemed Head Girl, all uncovered,
prone now, her night-gown gathered up above her waist. Her hands are upon the
pillow, submerged in a sea of golden tresses. And if reason were sought for
such an abandoned, shameless pose, the battery wires are fallen untidily
upon the floor.

As quietly as she can, Shipman strips for action, ready for Walmsley's least
untoward movement; but the Head Girl is lost in deepest slumber.  Gently,
gently Shipman places one knee upon the bed, then hauls herself up,
straddles Walmsley's waist. Lightly, carefully, Shipman begins to touch. 
After an initial groan, Walmsley parts her legs a little more. Clearly she
is having happy dreams. But all too soon,

"Uh... Georgie?" Walmsley is awake.

Shipman manages to maintain her gentle stimulation despite her gale of quiet
laughter. "I might have guessed! Not tonight, Walmsley!"

"Hey... what?" Carry tries to move, but Shipman has her too well pinned, and
her knowing touches are irresistible. "O Lord...  Shipman...  It has to be
you..."

"Hush, Walmsley. Just relax."

Walmsley groans again. After a couple of ineffectual heaves, Shipman feels
her victim succumb to the delicious movement of her expert fingers. "O my
Lord... Stop it... O God... O stop it, Shipman, ha ha..."

"You awake now, Walmsley?"

"O God... what are you doing to me, Shipman? Aahh..."

"What's the matter? Don't you like spiders?"

"Haha... O God..."

Shipman's movements slow and gradually still. Walmsley's hips begin to buck
in passionate frustration.

"I want to talk to you, Walmsley." Shipman's fingers begin their slow, exotic
dance once more.

"Ooohhh... Ohhh..." Walmsley is incoherent, her intimate tumescence awash
with the slick evidence of her helpless delight. "O Shipman... O Shipman,
that's incredible..."

"The trouble with you aristocrats, Walmsley," says Shipman smoothly, "is
that you have no imagination. In a hundred years' time, you will all be
pushing handcarts. It will be those with intelligence - doctors, lawyers,
scientists - who will have the power... You duchesses and countesses will
all be eating out of our hands... won't you?" Shipman abruptly ceases her
movements, well aware that upon their resumption, Walmsley's pleasure - and
her gratitude - will be more than doubled.

"O Shipman... oh what... O please! Don't stop now!" Walmsley is desperate.

"You like spiders, do you, Walmsley?" Shipman knows very well: Walmsley's
copious leakage speaks for itself.

"O please!"

"Do you? Hm?"

"Yes, Shipman, yes I like spiders... Aaah!"

Shipman gives a musical little laugh as she gently, exquisitely brings
Walmsley to the very brink; then pauses once more.

"Agh Shipman!" quivering, Walmsley pounds her fists into her pillow in an
agony of frustration. "For heaven's sake... Oooohh..."

Shipman resumes with the very slowest, gentlest of touches, so that Walmsley
cannot at first be sure that she feels anything.  "There, Walmsley, just
float, dear... Just relax and float... You're in my web now, aren't you?"

Walmsley gives a self-indulgent sigh. It is a lovely web. Why try to resist?
She drools into her pillow. Shipman is so wonderfully clever.

"I know you wrote that note, Walmsley. The note about Carter."

Walmsley tries to gather enough resolve to counter this statement, but the
delicious agony eats away her strength. "Uhhh..." she gasps in acquiescence.

"You did, didn't you?"

"Ahh... yes, yes..."

"Good." After rewarding her victim with a few more delectable strokes, Shipman
withdraws her hand, allowing Walmsley enough time to register the import of
her confession. When she groans, Shipman continues, "It would not reflect
well on the Walmsley honour were Mrs Cunningham to know who wrote that note
- now would it?"

Walmsley shudders.

Smoothly, Shipman resumes: "I hold all the cards, Walmsley. Don't you think
it would be most sensible if we worked together, hm?"

"Yes, all right Shipman, all right, if only..."

"There, there, Walmsley, I knew you'd be sensible." Shipman gently resumes
her delicious movements. "Here's something lovely you can teach to Georgie,"
she murmurs sweetly to the accompaniment of Walmsley's increasingly
impassioned gasps. "After you've done this to her, she won't be able to
resist you, Walmsley. She will never be able to say 'no' to you again - h'm?
Will she now?"

It is one of the privileges of the Head Girl at Hepplewhite that she sleeps
a little apart from the rest, and is thus able to surrender to the final
onslaught of pleasure without regard to the sensitivities of light sleepers.
In the event, Miss Walmsley signals its arrival with something of a bellow;
and in the tremulous, shuddering aftermath, she is most receptive to
Shipman's patient explanation of what she is to do.

"...So you see, Walmsley," Shipman concludes, "I could threaten you with
exposure, but I don't need to, do I? You see that I have the right of it.
And when all is said and done, it is much more sensible to work with me than
against, now isn't it? I've been a good friend, haven't I? I brought you the
battery. And I have a wonderful plan for the away match, Walmsley. Yes, my
dear, you shall see: we shall be invincible.  Just think what we can
accomplish together, working as friends?  Hmm?"

Walmsley nods. "Very well, Shipman. I'm sure you're right."

Shipman snuggles closer. "Say, Walmsley... do you think you could manage
another, hmm?"

"O Shipman, I don't think I could... Oh... perhaps I could... O Shipman!"

"Hush, Walmsley! Hush, dear... Just think what this will do to Georgie...
Remember now... just float..."

"Ohh..."

"That's it... just float..."

It is a tribute to Miss Shipman's skill that Walmsley is as unaware of her
departure, some fifty minutes before the waking bell, as she was of her
silent arrival.

* * *

The matron is surprised to see Miss Shipman in the infirmary: everyone has
been remarking on how she has blossomed into the picture of health this
term.

"What is the trouble, Miss Shipman?" she asks sympathetically.

"Miss Gurney sent me to ask if we might have two rolls of bandage - for the
away match tomorrow, don't you know. In case of any sprains. Of course we'll
return them immediately after."

"Well, that is an unusual request... But really, I don't see why not. Let me
see..." Matron pulls open a drawer. "Yes, here we are. We have plenty. Take
three: better to be safe than sorry!"

"You are so very kind, I'm sure, Matron," murmurs Shipman, gratefully
fluttering her eyelashes.

"Aah... such beautiful manners," muses Matron, staring after Shipman as she
skips away in glee. "- And such a lovely, graceful curtsey."

* * *

"Of course I can drive!" It is with some hauteur that Miss Paulson declines
the ostler's repeated offer to take the reins. "I have driven in Paris, you
know!"

Unsure what sort of a qualification this might be, the ostler merely tugs
his forelock and wishes the ladies a good afternoon.

Miss Paulson looks splendid in one of her finest frocks, grey with dazzling,
effervescent white lace. It is perhaps fortunate that the impressionable
Carry is not here to see her: instead, Shipman and Carter in their plain but
elegant dark blue dresses, trimmed with red.

Miss Paulson eyes the duo with quiet amusement: they seem to be acting so
unnaturally.

Carter is particularly awkward in Shipman's presence - constantly blushing,
turning away, twitching her shoulders, one minute aloof, the next sneaking
glances at her companion. As for Shipman - she seems relatively at ease; but
there is something almost coquettish in her manner. If one did not know that
such things were quite impossible, one would imagine that she might be
making eyes at her companion; but at other times her manner could not be
more aloof. Friends sometimes have their little disagreements; and Miss
Paulson guesses this may be at the root of this pair's odd behaviour.
Tactfully, she says nothing, but assists the young ladies into the trap.

At opposite ends of the bench, pressed into the corners, Shipman and Carter
affect to admire the view. After a little while, Carter adjusts her skirts
with a cross little motion. She senses Shipman's gaze. After a moment, she
half-turns. Did Shipman suddenly turn her head? She thinks so. She crosses
her legs; then uncrosses them once more and turns away irritably.  She
readjusts her skirts; and, for good measure, straightens her back, thrusting
out her breast to its best advantage.

After a while, Shipman slowly turns to look at Carter, whose attention is
resolutely fixed on the glories of the countryside. But her light brown hair
is tied back so neatly, so strictly, and oh! - Shipman's hands tighten in her
lap.  When at length Carter straightens in her seat, Shipman avoids her eye,
trying to breathe normally. Over and over in her mind, she rehearses the
words she needs to say. But she cannot both look, and say them. She closes
her eyes and tries to summon her strength.

"Carter... I'm truly sorry about the rumours... the bullying... I beg your
pardon for my part in it. I am so very ashamed..." She extends her hand a
little towards Carter, then rests it upon the seat between them. "I hope you
can find it in your heart to forgive us... to forgive me."

Carter has not moved. She is still looking away; but perhaps she is breathing
a little faster than before.

Shipman looks down at the floor of the trap. She blinks her tears away. But
then her heart leaps; for though Carter has not turned, she has rested her
own small hand upon Shipman's, lightly, reassuringly. Shipman blinks away
more tears; she interlaces her fingers with Carter's and gives a little
squeeze of gratitude. She thinks, she thinks there is an answering pressure;
and then, with a little sigh, Carter withdraws her hand.

After a while, Carter senses Shipman's gaze: she can feel it.  She thrusts
her shoulders back. She turns very slightly and a quick glance confirms it:
mystery lover or not, Shipman is most certainly looking at her. She bites her
lip. She crosses her legs: she has to. To be admired is very charming, after
all, even by someone as unprincipled as Shipman.

* * *

It is not long before they arrive at the clockmaker's. Mr Jepson greets them
respectfully and leads them into the large workshop at the back.

"Here is the mechanism you asked for, ladies," he says, taking them to the
end of a long oaken work-bench. There, amid a profusion of tools and tiny
components, is the mechanism, carefully made to Shipman's and Carter's design.

"Oh, is that not rather heavy?" asks Carter.

"I can machine away a little more of the brass if you wish," he replies.

"I think if you were to take some away from here... and here..." Carter
points.

"Very good, miss."

"Oh! May I see how it is done?" cries Shipman.

"Very well... I'll just bring it over here..."

Shipman and Miss Paulson follow Mr Jepson to watch the milling, which is
done on a machine at the far rear of the workshop. Carter remains, suddenly
interested in a coil spring which had lain unnoticed upon the bench.

"Mmmm," she murmurs to herself, "this is just the kind of thing, just
exactly..." Supporting herself on her elbows, she stoops and takes it, and
turns it to and fro in her fingers.

Immersed in her thoughts, she does not notice when Master Philip Jepson
enters the workshop behind her, having just descended from the store-rooms
with a parcel of lead.

"Oh!" he says, startled, for the very last thing he expected to encounter in
the workshop was the elegant posterior of a smart young gentlewoman
decorously leaning over the work-bench. How prettily, too, her light brown
hair is put up into a neat bun!  He is a fine, fresh-faced, upstanding lad
of fifteen years, already becoming quite expert in his father's trade.
Wistfully, he realizes that young ladies of this quality are far beyond his
social aspirations; but it will surely do no harm to summon all his charm.
He affects a smile which he hopes will be both polite and ingratiating.
"Ahem! Excuse me, miss."

The exquisite creature turns; and at once his smile turns to a look of
dismay: for this young woman is astonishingly plain, and wall-eyed to boot!

Seeing his face fall, Carter completes his discomfiture by pulling a
deliberately hideous grimace. Then she turns back, as if to contemplate her
spring.  "What do I care?" she thinks angrily to herself. "What should I
care what a tradesman's son thinks of me?" But the memory of that vanishing
smile will return to mortify her many times over the next few weeks.

But then Master Philip catches sight of a truly heavenly vision: Felicity
Shipman, who, with the others, is making her way back to her friend's side,
clutching a small piece of brass in both hands. To his eye, her sinuous
motion is the epitome of grace; her little smile sets his heart racing.

"Is that not more faithful to our design?" she asks of Carter; but a
glance at the young man prompts her to thrust out her hip provocatively.

Carter takes the object and probes it carefully. "Yes, I think this will
answer. But Sir, I wonder if you have a short length of spring steel -
perhaps of five gauge?"

"I believe I have some somewhere, miss. I pray you, just one moment..."
Mr Jepson turns to his son. "Well, stow that with the others, and then, on with
thy work: don't stand there gawping!"

With a rosy-cheeked smile, Philip puts down his burden and retreats upstairs
to the store-room. Shipman's answering smile fades into a blush as she turns
back to find that Carter has been eyeing her balefully.

In a moment, Mr Jepson is back, two short lengths of spring steel in his hand.

"I have this in five, miss, or this longer piece in six."

Carter looks a moment, then says, "The five is quite long enough. Now would
it be possible to affix just twenty-five sixteenths to this spring, here,
across-wise, with no more than five grains of lead? For I have something
particular in mind..."

Mr Jepson looks for an instant to Miss Paulson.  At her nod, he takes the
spring carefully from Carter. "Just where, miss?"

"I have marked it here, do you see?"

"Very good, miss."

Mr Jepson carries the spring to a spirit-lamp. Leaning on his elbows, he
carefully affixes the prescribed length of steel to the coil spring,
across-wise as instructed. The three women watch him at his work.

"There, now, miss," he says, standing back and removing his eye-glass, "I
think that may hold."

"It seems well done," says Carter, carefully taking the spring from his huge
but nimble fingers. "And now I pray, could you bite seventeen grains' weight
of shot upon the end, just here?"

Again Mr Jepson looks for confirmation to Miss Paulson, who raises an
eyebrow and inclines her head in assent.

Mr Jepson weighs some shot, bends to his lamp again, and melts the little
leaden ball on to the steel so that it is neat and round.

"There... with the resin, that should hold, I think," he says, blowing upon
it to cool it before handing it back to Carter. "But may I enquire, miss,
why you desire so strange a contrivance?"

"I am thinking," Carter responds softly, "about the properties of springs
and their motion."

"Miss Carter is a mathematician," explains Miss Paulson.

Mr Jepson's expression stiffens into one of respect.

Shipman disguises her puzzlement with an archly raised eyebrow and a
bewitching little smile. She is about to make a slightly derisive comment,
but checks herself: Miss Paulson's countenance makes it plain that she takes
Carter's strange preoccupation very seriously.

For once, Carter is not blushing, but is regarding the spring with intent,
childlike fascination.  Cautiously, she extends a finger and flicks the end
of the spring. She watches its vibration, and appears satisfied. "Lovely,"
she murmurs, "just lovely." Her mouth sets in a tiny smile.

Now Shipman is entranced. "How very pretty her mouth is - when she has it
closed," she thinks. And when, their business done, they make their way out
through the shop, she does not notice Master Jepson at the foot of the
stairs, worshipping her with his eyes.

In the trap once more, Carter holds the spring up in her left hand and
touches it exploringly with her right index finger, sometimes flexing it one
way, sometimes another.

"What are you going to do with it, Carter?" Shipman is gazing intently at her
now.

"I'm going to think about it. Just feel how it moves... and think about it,"
says Carter mysteriously.

Shipman finds the motion of Carter's finger oddly hypnotic.

* * *

Miss Paulson looks up from her marking. It is nearly nine o'clock, and the
candle is getting low. Lucy Carter is seated in the armchair by the fire. In
her hands, she holds her spring, which she occasionally stretches and
flexes, absorbed in thought. Miss Paulson smiles. It is pleasant to have
company in the little cottage, and Lucy is an agreeable, tranquil soul.

Aware of Miss Paulson's gaze, Lucy looks up and returns the smile. Neither of
them speaks.

For Miss Paulson, Lucy's presence has an additional advantage: there is now
no question of Carry repeating the rash behaviour of that unforgettable
night. At the thought of Carry, a mix of sorrow and yearning floods her
heart: but to hope is madness, this she knows. With a sigh and a little
shake of her head, she returns to her marking.

Later, curled in her comfortable bed, Lucy marvels at Miss Paulson's
extraordinary self-discipline. What finer, more inspiring example could a
young woman aspire to emulate? She listens to the rhythmic sounds, clearly
audible through the thin wall.  Whatever Miss Paulson is doing, it seems an
astonishingly strenuous form of exercise for so late an hour; but no doubt
it promotes deep and restorative slumber.  Half asleep, Lucy hears a sudden,
grating moan.

"Goodness," she thinks, "I hope she hasn't strained herself too badly."

But then there is a happy sigh, and within moments the two occupants of the
little gamekeeper's cottage are cosily asleep.

* * *

(Continued in part IVb)
