Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 9 of 14
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Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

Part V


"Monstrous!" Henry Carter tears the letter into four.

"But Henry! That was addressed to Lucy!" Joanna, Lucy's mother, protests
faintly.

"All the same - monstrous impertinence!" Henry is purple with indignation.
"Spectacles, indeed! Have you ever seen a girl of seventeen wearing
spectacles?"

"Ah... No dear, I must confess I have not..."

"Of course not! I've never heard such a thing! She must learn to see
properly with the eyes God gave her! In any event, she is much too old now
for Christmas presents! Seventeen? Ridiculous!"

"But Henry, dear," Joanna protests faintly, unsure of her ground, "I was
only just now re-reading /A Christmas Carol/ by Mr Dickens, and -"

"Ach! These modern novels! Full of bogus morality and popular
sentimentality! All very well for you soft-hearted women, no doubt: but
where are we taught to seek the eternal truth, eh? In this year's great
novel, or that year's great novel? Not a bit of it! But here, here!" And
Henry Carter jabs his finger at the great, heavy Family Bible in its place of
honour, carefully positioned in the very centre of the table between them
like a great black altar. "There is all the truth, unvarying from generation
to generation, the eternal, unchanging will of the Almighty! Where in the
Book do we read of Christmas presents, eh? And what sixpenny novel can
supplant the eternal truth of Holy Writ?" Henry's voice has become a little
harsh with passion, and his complexion acquired an unhealthy tinge.

Joanna is downcast, defeated.  "Of course you're right, dear," she mumbles
in a placating tone.

"Hmph." Henry takes out and consults his fob watch. "And now I must go to
the office."

Joanna rises with him. "Have good day, dear."

"Thanks, m'dear," he says in a softer tone, hastily embracing his wife.

* * *

"Yes, Simpson?" Mrs Carter looks up from her reading. It is a book of
sermons. Although she has heard the doorbell, and knows it must be Lucy, she
feigns ignorance.

"Mistress Lucy, Ma'am," says the maid, curtseying.

"Very well. When she has completed her toilet, I wish to speak with her."

"Very good, Ma'am."

And so, ten minutes later, there is a timid knock at the sitting-room door.

"Good afternoon, mother."

"Ah, Lucy." Mrs Carter looks at her daughter. Yes, it cannot be denied:
Nature has finally transformed her daughter into a young woman - the fuller
figure, the more assured stance, and even a certain lustre to the skin -
alas! Poor Lucy! For though Nature proclaims her ripe, who will pluck so
plain a fruit? If only they had had a son! If only...

"Why, mother, what is the matter? Why do you stare at me so?"

"My dear child, I was just thinking how grown-up you have become. Why, you
are now older than poor Elsie was when..."

"Mother, I beg you..."

"Forgive me. It was thoughtless of me, dear." Mrs Carter is well aware of
the chagrin it causes Lucy when - as so often happens - her parents make
sorrowful comparisons with her oft-lamented sister. "But have you any news,
pray?"

"Well, I do have news."

"Then do sit down, and tell me all."

"Mother: do you recall Mrs Probert's report at the end of last year?"

"Yes, I believe I do recall... Did she not say that you had some ability
at... was it mathematics?"

"Yes, mother. In her report I believe she used the word 'exceptional'."

"Very well. Go on."

"At the beginning of the term I wrote a little paper. It was about..."

"Dear, you know very well that I know nothing of mathematics. I would not
understand it."

"Yes, mother, of course. Well, Mrs Probert found it very good, but a little
beyond her understanding. She sent it to a professor at the university..."

"Goodness!"

"...who was so kind as to say that in his opinion I had as great a
mathematical talent as any in England."

"But Lucy, I... I... I am astonished!"

"And he has offered me a position - unofficial, of course - to work with him
and his colleagues in his department."

"But this is wonderful! Your father will be so delighted! Of course you did
not discuss salary?"

"O but I did, mother."

"You did? Excellent!" Mrs Carter is delighted. "And how much?"

"He was very apologetic. It would not, unfortunately, be possible to find
any salary for me. However, there would be a provision of board and
lodging..."

"Oh." Mrs Carter's face falls. "I see."

"Nevertheless, mother, I am not without hope of finding someone who will
be able to pay me a salary."

"And who, pray?"

"Mother, the foremost universities in England have no especial need of my
skill. As the professor told me, there are men in plenty striving for
positions there. But perhaps in another country..."

"Such as?"

Lucy blushes. "Russia, mother."

Mrs Carter raises her eyebrows. "Well, I suppose it is possible. Perhaps I
should write to your uncle Fyodor."

"I have already done so."

"You?" Mrs Carter looks alarmed. "Oh, no! Then..."

"Mrs Probert wrote it fair for me."

"Ah. Well, that was wise. Did he respond?"

"He has been very encouraging, mother. If I can present a paper on something
entirely new, and if it is as good as my earlier paper, he says he will be
confident of finding me a teaching post."

"And... salaried?"

"We have not spoken of that yet, mother."

"There is not much money in Russia. I should not harbour too much hope."

Lucy looks down in dejection.

"Well... we shall see." Mrs Carter sighs. "And now there is another matter I
wished to discuss with you. One of your teachers, one Miss Paulson, wrote to
you enclosing a note for your father."

Lucy looks up, surprised. "Oh."

"Of course your father was furious."

"Why? What did she write?"

"She made so bold as to state that you had a need - a need, if you please -
for spectacles! And that she had taken the liberty of making an appointment
for you to consult an optician in the City. Liberty indeed!"

"Where is the letter, mother?"

"Your father tore it up. Nevertheless, I have kept it. It is upon the table
by the window."

"Oh!" Lucy hurries to look at it.

Sadly, Mrs Carter watches as Lucy stoops over the table, her lips working as
she reads.

"Oh... Oh! And this is... Oh!" Lucy reads for a long time, carefully holding
the torn edges together.

"I am sorry, Lucy. Your father will not hear of it."

"Oh!" Lucy's hands are fists. She rises and falls on her toes, unable to
find words to voice her frustration. But her mother has noted all this;
noted, too, how Lucy stooped to read the letter.

"I have a little money put by. I think it will be enough. But do not tell
your father."

Lucy's hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes suddenly shine with incredulous joy.
"Oh mother... Mother..."

Mrs Carter does not like emotional displays. "Go now," she says, taking up
her book. "We will say nothing. Send in Simpson."

* * *

"Well, that was a quite excellent dinner! How very kind of you to invite
me! And how lovely to meet the staff!" the Duchess murmurs in her
mellifluous contralto as she sweeps into the Head Mistress's sitting-room.

"It is an honour for us, your grace. And might I offer a little of my own sloe
gin? So very comforting at this time of year."

"Sloe gin? I have heard of it, but I don't believe I have ever had the
pleasure of trying it. Why, how very educational you are, Head Mistress!"

"It is an old country recipe. My mother used to make it."

"How charming! I hope it is not too strong. May I sit here?"

"But of course. No, it is not strong at all. The sloes draw out all the
harshness of the spirit. Miss Hanson! The sloe gin, if you please!"

"Very good, Head Mistress."

The Duchess's eyes follow Miss Hanson as she departs. "Still single?"

"Yes, your grace. But a wonderful secretary. Very discreet. And very faithful."

"Ah, faithful! Yes!" The Duchess half-closes her eyes, a superb smile upon
her lips.

Mrs Cunningham responds with a look of irreproachable innocence.

"And so, dear Head Mistress, we come no doubt to the purpose of this kind
invitation. You are clearly seeking more money. Tell me all."

"Well," Mrs Cunningham looks down, now, with a slight blush, "to tell the
truth, your grace, we were hoping that we might be able to rely upon your
influence at the governors' meeting next week."

The Duchess sighs. "Explain."

Before Mrs Cunningham can begin, Miss Hanson returns with the sloe gin and
three glasses. She sets them down on the table between the two ladies. Mrs
Cunningham pours. The Duchess follows Miss Hanson out with her eyes.

"No doubt you have heard about the remarkable discoveries made by our new
Scientific Society," begins the Head Mistress, pushing a glass toward the
Duchess.

"A little," says the Duchess, bright-eyed. She does not take her glass.
"Carry told me a little, but was rather sparing with the details."

"Yes, your grace." Mrs Cunningham proceeds to explain about the galvanic
experiments, and the equipment that is needed; but then moves on to draw a
lively picture of the remarkably beneficial effect the electrical current
has had upon the battledore team.

The Duchess nods sagely, her glass still untouched. "No doubt this is true,
Head Mistress, but is this not something we may safely leave to the men?
Surely it will be objected that wives and mothers do not need to understand
the intricacies of electrical flows or nervous anatomy - after all, such
things have no place in the nursery."

"But on the other hand, your grace, if we can but enable our girls to do
their part, then we are demonstrating that there is no field of human
endeavour in which women cannot make their distinctive contribution.  Think
of the benefit - not only to science itself, but to our girls and to the
nation as a whole!"

The Duchess frowns and looks doubtful. "That is all very well, but..."

There comes a hesitant knock at the door.

"Come in!" calls Mrs Cunningham, with an inward sigh of relief.  "Ah, Miss
Paulson!"

"Ah, so this is the Miss Paulson of whom my daughter thinks so highly!  Why,
I am sure I noticed you at dinner!" The Duchess's eyes are now all
a-twinkle.

Miss Paulson, who is carrying a deal of electrical machinery, blushes and
curtseys upon the threshold, eyes downcast.

The Duchess laughs kindly. "And what, pray, is that extraordinary
contrivance?"

Miss Paulson lays it upon the low table in the middle of the room. Both the
generator and the oscillator are now neatly contained in baize-lined
mahogany boxes, which Mr Jepson has only just been able to finish in time
for the Duchess's visit.  Miss Paulson opens them, one by one. The Duchess
gasps as if they were jewel-cases, for the glint of freshly-milled brass and
the neatly-wound copper are beautiful against the dark green baize.

"These machines, your grace, were designed by our girls. This, a generator,
produces an electrical flow when the handle is turned. It passes through
these two wires to this device, which is an oscillator. It converts the
electrical flow into a rapid reciprocating motion."

Eyes wide in wonder, the Duchess sips her sloe gin for the first time, and
is momentarily distracted.  "But this is delicious!" she cries. She sips
again. "To think that I have never tasted such a thing before! Mrs
Cunningham, you simply must give me the recipe!"

"I shall have a bottle brought up for you to take tomorrow," replies the
Head Mistress, gratified. "Let me pour a little more."

In truth, it is not very strong - hardly more than forty percent - but it is
Mrs Cunningham's hope that the agreeable warmth it imparts may endear her
plans to the Duchess.

"Now, Miss Paulson. All this is remarkably clever, I don't deny it; but of
what possible benefit could such a device be to mankind?"

"I must admit, your grace, that our first intent had merely been to show
the practicability of such a thing, and only afterwards to look at how we
might make use of it."

"Hmph!" The Duchess takes another sip.

"But our young ladies soon discovered that the oscillator, when applied to
certain muscles, brings about complete relaxation, together with a most
refreshing and invigorating sensation."

"Is that so?" The Duchess is suddenly intent.

"It is well known to science that muscular cramps and tensions render us
women less effective, particularly at certain times of the month..."

The Duchess nods, looking in fascination from one machine to the other.

"...and our early findings give us hope that with the aid of devices like
these we may soon find a means to alleviate these female discomforts. It is
a point of particular significance that when women participate in scientific
endeavour, they are not only quite as capable as men, but are apt to make
discoveries that are of particular benefit to their own sex."

The Duchess sits back, impressed.

"Perhaps, Miss Paulson, a brief demonstration would be in order," suggests
Mrs Cunningham gently.

"Why -" Miss Paulson blushes charmingly - "of course, if your grace would
like to see..."

The Duchess reclines comfortably, not demurring when once again Mrs
Cunningham refills her glass. "This sloe gin is remarkably good, Head
Mistress. Yes, Miss Paulson, please do show us."

Miss Paulson closes the lids of the boxes and takes up the smaller, the one
containing the oscillator.  "Very well. I shall tuck the box between my
legs, like this, and then cross them, thus holding it fast."

Mrs Cunningham leans forward and takes up the generator. "Quite remarkable,
is it not, the courage with which our girls experiment, pushing back the
boundaries of knowledge, utterly regardless of any personal risk they might
encounter?"

"Indeed," replies the Duchess. The excellent sloe gin has already
somewhat softened her haughty countenance, and Miss Paulson feels a
frisson as she suddenly catches a fleeting resemblance to her
daughter. Yes, despite the many superficial differences - the Duchess
is dark-haired and just showing a hint of grey - there are certain
expressions, certain little tricks with the eyes, that recall Carry.
And in that recognition, Miss Paulson feels a little spark of
excitement:  little can the Duchess suspect just how intimately this
woman before her has known her daughter! It is as if thereby she has
somehow gained a secret social advantage over the mother.  And the
recollection of that fervid, rapturous intimacy causes Miss Paulson to
quiver with that hunger, that yearning that seems every day more
voracious, more compelling.

"Very well, Head Mistress. I think... I'm ready..." Miss Paulson
braces herself as Mrs Cunningham begins to turn the handle. "Just a
little faster... Oooh!" And as the oscillator begins to make its
buzzing, rattling sound, Miss Paulson lets out a little cry.

"What an extraordinary noise! Is this wise?" asks the Duchess
anxiously.

Miss Paulson's eyes are closed. She is rocking to and fro, her hands
clenching and unclenching upon the arms of the chair. "No... just..."
she grates out, "Oh... oh..." - and now the mounting pitch and
vehemence of her inarticulate cries suggests that she is becoming
increasingly excited.

"Whatever is happening to her? O this is horrible, Mrs Cunningham! It
is affecting her most strangely!"

"Fear not, your grace. We have rehearsed this several times. No harm
will come. Watch!"

Suddenly Miss Paulson's eyes snap open. She looks imploringly at Mrs
Cunningham, rapidly nodding as if in desperate encouragement.

"But she cannot breathe!" The Duchess is becoming increasingly concerned
herself, as is evidenced by the vehemence with which she downs the remainder
of her sloe gin. "Should we not loosen her dress?"

Indeed, Miss Paulson's bosom is heaving and swelling most noticeably; but
"Mmm... Mmmm..." she moans, as if tasting some particularly delectable
sweetmeat, and "Oh... Ach... Ach..." - and now, to the Duchess's
astonishment, Miss Paulson seems to be in a silent frenzy: her leg kicks
out, her fists drum upon the arms of the chair, her teeth clenched and her
head rapidly shaking from side to side like a dog worrying a tough piece of
meat.

"It is a seizure! A seizure!" cries the Duchess; but with a long, melodious
sigh of gratification, Miss Paulson suddenly falls back as if exhausted.

Mrs Cunningham's hand stills. All is silent: only the tick of the tall
clock can be heard, unnaturally loud.

The Duchess is pensive. She rocks her empty glass to and fro.  "Do you know,
Head Mistress, I believe I am suddenly reminded of something..."

Momentarily, they are distracted by Miss Paulson's sudden jerk and loud
intake of breath.

"Goodness!" cries the Duchess, turning to Mrs Cunningham who, however, seems
quite unconcerned. "Will she be all right?"

"She will compose herself in a minute or two, you will see," comes the
smooth reply. "A little more sloe gin, your grace?"

"Why, thank you." And then, in an undertone, as if to herself, "I cannot
help being reminded... Dear me! - But that is not possible, surely..." She
turns to Mrs Cunningham once more. "May I have another look at that
remarkable little machine?"

Miss Paulson rises now and hands the little mahogany box to the Duchess. Her
movements have a strange, floating quality.  As she returns once more to her
chair, it is difficult to overlook the peaceful radiance of her expression.

"Might I... just try for a brief moment?" asks the Duchess hesitantly.

"Why of course."

"I put it... here?"

"A little higher."

"Here?"

"Yes. It will help if you cross your legs. Just so."

The Duchess is plainly nervous. "I see what you mean about courage," she
says faintly. "I am terrified to think what it will do."

"Would you like to turn the handle yourself, your grace?"

"Perhaps that would be best... dear me, what a strange thing this is,"
murmurs the Duchess as she takes the generator box, arranging the wires
neatly. "So now I just... turn..."

"A little faster."

"Ah..." She turns the handle faster, the buzzing sound is heard from deep in
the Duchess's lap, and at once she stops and lets out a squeal. "Oh! forgive
me. Let me just try that again... Oh, haha, haha, that is most
extraordinary... most..." she begins to laugh excitedly. She stops turning
the handle, laughs, rearranges herself, turns the handle once more, and
laughs again. "Why, that is just... extraordinary!"

"A little strange at first, is it not?" ventures Miss Paulson.

"Yes, haha... a little!" titters the Duchess, bemused. She closes her eyes
tight and turns the handle once again. "I... I..." she stops and looks up,
her eyes gleaming. "This is something quite, quite new," she says with a
beatific smile. And then, as if recollecting herself, she removes the
oscillator and places it, together with the generator, upon the table. "So
this is... an oscillator," she says wonderingly.

"An oscillator, yes," replies Miss Paulson, as if encouraging a pupil.

"It simply... oscillates. Haha!" The Duchess lets out a delighted laugh. She
takes her glass. "And you believe, Miss Paulson, that such a device may...
benefit women's health?"

"There are promising indications, certainly."

"Well!" The Duchess takes up the oscillator again, and turns it over in her
hands. "Of course I know the wives of some of the governors..."

Mrs Cunningham flashes a significant glance at Miss Paulson, and passes her
a glass of the sloe gin.  "Your grace, we should be so grateful if there is
any influence you may be able to bring to bear..."

"Of course, people do need to be able to see the benefits of something like
this for themselves, do they not? Until I had seen Miss Paulson's... most
interesting demonstration, I must confess I could not see why the governors
should need to find such a great deal of money. But if I were able to take
this device and use it to demonstrate..."

Mrs Cunningham quells with a gesture Miss Paulson's movement of protest.

"Of course, your grace. You are absolutely right. I am sure Miss Paulson
would have no objection - would you, Miss Paulson?"

"Oh, er... Oh no." the young teacher agrees hastily.

"I wouldn't be... interrupting your work, in any way, if I were to take
this?" The Duchess smiles amusedly, her eyes half closed.

"No, no... I have various other projects." Miss Paulson assures her.

"I am sure you do," says the Duchess, her mouth twitching. "Hmmm... Perhaps
we should invite you to Clathmorgan.  I am sure that our Mrs Crichton would
take to you greatly."

* * *

"There! That will put some colour into those love-lorn cheeks!" Annie is
with Jemmy, the new girl, in the dining-room, through whose tall and stately
windows they have just observed Lady Caroline departing on horseback with
the two young Lords. They stare for some moments at the bobbing backs of the
three riders, the swishing tails of the horses and the puffs of breath
wisping in the crisp December air.  But Annie recalls them to their duty:
"Come! This will not get the silver done!"

Still, Jemmy dwells for a moment by the window, sighing. "She is so lovely.
Why do you think she is so sad? Liza said that she took to her bed for much
of yesterday. And yet I do not think she can be ill."

"'Tis a sickness of sorts," murmurs Annie, puffing on her spoon and briskly
polishing with her rag. She pauses for a moment and fixes young Jemmy with
her most authoritative eye. "There are some, young Jemmy, who'd as soon
choose the quiet life as marry. And there are some who marry for love -
though not in their class, I'll reckon." Here she jerks her thumb in the
direction of the party on horseback, just now disappearing round a curve in
the sweeping drive. "But there's some as needs a man, because they can't
live without one. 'Tis like a sickness of the body. And that's what's
afflictin' my young Lady Caroline, from what I hear whispered."

Jemmy looks puzzled, and Annie notes it. "Ay," she says, "There's those that
will take a spinster's pleasure, and be comforted by it - and mind you,
young Jemmy, there's many a wife will do the same, or so they do say - but
not that Lady Caroline. No, try as she might, that one is yearning for a
certain young gentleman, that's what they're saying, and 'tis only his hose
will put out those flames. Why, even 'er grace is fair worried about it.
Liza heard 'er only yesterday, goin' on - 'How can this have happened, Mrs
Crichton? She will tell me nothing.' They say she won't tell a soul who he
is."

"But what... what is a spinster's pleasure, Annie?"

Annie looks at Jemmy for a moment. Jemmy is only sixteen, a pretty waif
whose seamstress mother, fallen upon hard times, is now a dependent of the
Duke's charitable foundation at Askerley: and it was the Duke himself who
brought the girl to work at Clathmorgan. Small, spindly and pale, the young
maid yet has a lively aptitude for work, and a sweetly trusting nature. Her
eyes are all innocence, her coarse, straight black hair emerging in a tight
plait from beneath her white lace cap. Annie smiles impishly. To tease the
young ones is, for her, one of life's innocent little pleasures.  "Why, you
do not know that? Fie, where were you brought up? But now, when Lady
Caroline returns, you must attend her at her bath, and must ask her to
explain it to you, for it is said that there is none more practised nor more
diligent in the virgin arts than she!"

"Diligent? Virgin arts? I do not understand."

"Then you must ask her young Ladyship. An' you you must be sure to ask how
it is done genteel and lady-like.  And do not neglect to tell me how she
answers!  Here, that fork is perfectly well done. Take another!"

For a while, they are intent upon their work. And then, hesitantly, Jemmy
asks shyly,

"And do you think that perhaps I shall one day marry?"

"Lor, young Miss Jemmy, why do you ask me that?" Annie looks at her kindly.
"You might, if you wanted to. You're pretty enough." She puts down her spoon
and picks up another, puffing upon it. "There's not so many that do, in
service."

"And why is that? Did you... did you never want to?"

Annie laughs, embarrassed. She is about to chide Jemmy for her forwardness,
but again she looks at her, with her sweet turned-up nose, and the little
rash of dark brown freckles across her cheeks. Really, the child is an
innocent. "Why, Miss Jemmy, I might have done, I s'pose, if I'd wanted
to..." Her voice trails off, and she pretends to concentrate upon her spoon.
"- But then, I've good friends here, and all found, and I'm perfectly happy.
Me an' Liza, we been here p'raps twenty years now. We're used to one
another."

"Are you really twins? You don't look like one another."

"Oh, there's twins that are alike as two peas, and there's twins so
different you'd not know them as related at all," Annie observes wisely,
cocking her head and removing one final spot from her piece of silverware.
"But no, dear, we're not twins. They just call us that, we've been together
that long. I don't 'spect we'd marry now. Anyhow, if what Mrs Crichton says
is true, marrying could be the death of you. What with all these damn doctors
taking things over and interfering, blast 'em!"

"Why, what do the doctors do?"

"Well..." Here Annie narrows her eyes and takes up a knife, sweeping her rag
with relish, "Mrs Crichton do say that of ten women in childbirth, the
doctors now do kill four of 'em. Safer to give birth out in the fields, she
reckons. An' that's why she'd not have children herself, you see. 'Safer to
adopt, and there's plenty up for adoption,' she says, an' that seems right
to me."

Jemmy screws up her face in an expression of distaste. "I could never do
that! Never!"

"Never what, child?"

"Why, have a man's thing in my mouth like that!"

Annie howls with laughter. "Why, who's been tellin' you such things? You've
been had on a piece of string, my dear!"

"Why, then, is it not true? Aggie May told me she'd seen - Oh!" Jemmy claps
her hand to her mouth - "I wasn't to tell!"

"No, child, it's not like that you get yourself a babby." Annie is still
shaking with laughter. "'Tis how you get with pin-money, more like."

"Pin-money?"

"Ay, pin-money." Annie stoops, her voice now confidential. "That's how a
wife keeps herself safe, and her husband happy, you know. We don't speak
about it, but when a husband needs his pleasure, and a wife wants no babby,
then that is how 'tis done. An' if he's grateful, then maybe he gives her a
present of pin-money. For her little things."

"Oh." Jemmy is round-eyed. And then there appears on her brow a little frown
of determination. "I expect I'm not going to be marrying, then. 'Tis all too
dangerous, and... and..."

"You never know, child. Mebbe some handsome young man will come along an'
sweep you off your feet..."

Jemmy blushes and picks up another fork. Annie notices the blush.

"Oh, an p'raps you've just met a young man already?"

Jemmy's blush deepens. "Well no. Well yes. An' I don't like the way they
touch a girl."

"Why, who was this? What's he done?"

"No-one." Jemmy purses her lips tight. She is scarlet. And in a reflex
movement that tells Annie everything, Jemmy crosses her arms over her chest.

"Was it Robbie in the stables? Ha ha! I see it was. 'Twas easy to guess.
He's a fine one, that lad.  He's touched you?" Annie laughs disparagingly.
"An' made no very good impression, seemingly."

"Why do we let them hurt us so?"

"Why, dear, he is but an ignorant stupid boy! But now - one who knows -
well, that's quite another thing." Annie adopts a lofty, somewhat pious
tone.  "A lady wants touching gently - a lady knows."

"Then what of that curious machine the ladies had at the card party last
night?"

"Ah, yes. That was interesting, was it not? The ladies seemed mighty
pleased."

"One of them was leaping up and down and squealing like a pig!" Jemmy
laughs at the recollection.

"But she wanted to try it again and again, did she not?"

"Yes, I remember that she did."

"Mrs Crichton told me that it just shivers gently, for all that it buzzes
like a swarm of wasps."

"I wonder if her grace would let me try it, just once..." Jemmy sounds a
little wistful.

"Now don't you go gettin' ideas, young Jemmy. Such things are for ladies,
not for the likes of us."

Jemmy sighs, her polishing-rag moving slowly and mechanically. She is
looking out of the window, when something catches her attention. "Why... Is
that not Lady Caroline? Lor! How she flies!"

Annie follows the direction of Jemmy's stare. Sure enough, unmistakable now,
Lady Caroline is bent low, her steed at a precipitate gallop, snorting
plumes of breath as he charges toward the main entrance.

"Why, yes! Quick! Quick! Run to the back kitchen and have them take up her
bath!"

Suddenly, the house is a flurry of action. It is fortunate that the staff
are well prepared, for scarcely have four stout lads, and as many maids,
staggered up the main stair with their pans of hot water, drawn from the
mighty copper in the back kitchen, than Lady Caroline prances up the front
steps, her cheeks flaming.

"Ha! Some people have no spirit, no spirit at all!" she cries, flicking her
gloves at Annie, who catches them awkwardly. "Have them prepare a bath for
me."

"They are just carrying the water up now, m'lady," says Annie deferentially.

Carry pauses, frozen, and makes a pleased, inward smile. "Hmmm," she says
warmly. "That is well."

Annie chuckles. She knows how to please the young mistress. "I am sending
Jemmy up to attend to you."

Carry's smile disappears, and a haughty expression takes its place. "The new
girl?"

"Yes, m'lady. She is new, but keen, and anxious to learn."

"H'm." Carry tosses her head. "Very well." She strides energetically across
the Hall and mounts the Great Stair, almost bounding with energy.

Annie shakes her head. "The young..." she murmurs. "One minute they're
dying; the next, leaping over walls..."

The staff scamper out just as her young ladyship enters her chamber. She
affects not to notice them - the maids' curtseys, the boys' tugs at their
forelocks - but closes the door forcefully, almost slams it. She sees Jemmy,
alone now, standing by the steaming bath. She is pale, a little overawed.

"I will take my bath at once, while it is still hot," says Carry with a
little toss of her head. "Undress me."

She closes her eyes and extends her wrists with aristocratic grace. It
pleases her to make a fine show of elegance. She imagines that it is
Georgie's trembling fingers that fumble at her cuffs, then pick cautiously
at the row of tiny, intricate buttons down her spine. She gulps, feeling an
uncomfortable hollowness in her stomach. Rather that these nervous fingers
were Georgie's, quivering in the sweet anxiety of lust, than those of an
awkward serving-girl! O that these harsh, shallow breaths were not the
nervousness of an inexperienced maid, but the panting of Georgie's desire!

Suddenly annoyed, for she had promised herself that she would not spend
another day pining after Georgie, Carry thinks now of her ride, and of
Neville, her splendid black stallion. Yes, Mother had been quite right:
exercise does raise the spirits. She had received Neville for her fifteenth
birthday, and is quite sure that he is the finest mount in all the
Clathmorgan stables. She thinks now that she should have called him Sir
Perceval, for he is a noble, knightly horse; but at fifteen she had chosen
"Neville", and now it is too late to change. Shouldering off her dress,
Carry laughs to herself to recall her brothers' astonishment as she spanked
him into a gallop, their admonitory cries as they leaped the hedge into the
meadow. She smiles as she steps from her skirts one by one, feeling the
sweep of the satin against her thigh, imagining how Georgie would have
adored to see her gallop past, her long golden tresses flying in the breeze.

And so Carry turns and steps and shrugs, until she is quite naked, and
feels upon her bare skin the heat of the roaring fire and the moisture of
the bath beside her. And then, hearing Jemmy's harsh breathing, she snaps
her eyes open, her fantasy suddenly evaporated.

"Why, what are you staring at?"

Jemmy looks down, abashed. Her blush tells her mistress all.

Carry says nothing, but dips her toe into the water. "Ohh," she gasps
luxuriously, as she puts one foot slowly into the warm water, and then the
other. She looks again at Jemmy. Jemmy's eyes are lowered, but she cannot
turn away; and Carry feels a sudden excitement. It does not matter that it
is not Georgie, but a lowly serving maid: Carry feels admiring glances as if
they were sensuous caresses. They intoxicate her, and she can no more reject
them than she can change the colour of her eyes.

In a soft, melodious undertone, her voice suddenly gentle, "Do you like to
look upon me?"

Jemmy nods, then looks up into Carry's eyes. Carry feels the tightness at
her breast, the little shiver, the sensation of dampness. She wants... she
wants...

"Bring the tall looking-glass," she commands, her voice suddenly loud again.
"I wish to see what it is you are looking at."

Obediently, Jemmy turns in the direction of Carry's gaze. And there, against
the wall, the tall glass before which Carry has spent many an hour in
secret, contemplating her own charms with silent approval. Carefully, for it
is heavy, Jemmy trundles the oaken stand forward on its eight brass castors,
until it is right before the young Venus in her bath. Carry turns gently
from side to side, gathering up her hair as she does so.

"Take the sponge, and wash me."

* * *

"I wonder when Alfred will return."

"His grace said he would be in time for dinner, did he not?"

"It's monstrous." The Duchess sniffs. "A father should be at home on
Christmas Eve - not cavorting with fallen women. Nevertheless...  I confess I
find myself enjoying his little absences more and more." Lady Aurelia
Walmsley, Duchess of Grantshire, stretches herself luxuriously. "Oh, what a
lovely evening we had of it last night! That Mrs Fearnley - how she enjoyed
the little machine, did she not?"

"Indeed, I do believe she came a half a dozen times!"

"Poor things. I feel sorry for them. I suspect it was her very first
time, you know."

"And you think they will be able to win their husbands' co-operation?"

"I am sure of it. Lady Cleckheaton is very persuasive. They all are. And
Fearnley is a most ambitious man - a very clever lawyer, don't you know.
Yes, I can see a little syndicate forming in the not too distant future. The
wives shall work on the husbands, and then we shall get the gentlemen
together.  Alfred will be so pleased. We shall have to make it seem as if it
was his idea, you know, and not ours. But since it is he who spends all the
money, it seems only right that he should gain it for a change, don't you
think?"

"Assuredly. Manufacturing is the answer, I am sure."

"So it is."

The two ladies reflect for a while on the subject of money, and its general
desirability. It is only their combined sagacity that has prevented the
Duke's schemes from ruining the family fortunes entirely; but the
opportunity presented by the oscillating machine holds a quite new potential
for making money, as opposed to merely conserving it.

The Duchess looks fondly upon her dear friend. Mrs Clarice Crichton, once the
governess and now her intimate companion, seems lost in thought. But then
she turns to her mistress, who returns her enquiring glance with a smile.

"Aury?"

"Mm?"

"Do you really think it was Mrs Fearnley's first time? And she a mother of
five children?"

"We are not all as fortunate as you, dear Clarice. Your Martin must have been
an exceptional man."

"Oh, he was."

"But you will admit that you have been an unusually merry widow."

"Yes, and I'm sure I have him to thank for that, at least in part.  There
are not very many who have discovered... what we have discovered."

"Not yet, Clarice dear. But when every reputable lady has a Walmsley
Comforter beside the bed - Why, what a clatter!" Hearing a storm of
approaching hooves, the Duchess sits up a little. "Clarice, dearest, go to
the window and see who it is!"

Clarice is shocked. "What - like this?"

"Of course. Nobody will see."

"Except you."

"Except I."

With a little giggle, Mrs Crichton rises and tiptoes to the window. "Why, it's
Lady Caroline. Alone!"

"Come back. You'll get cold." The Duchess extends her arm.

"Ohhh! You're right."

When Mrs Crichton is settled again, their conversation resumes.

"Ah, Carry... Carry," murmurs the Duchess.  "There's a young lady who knows
a few secrets...  And I do believe I know who taught her one or two, hmm?
Did not her dear governess's roving hands map out some secret territory,
hmm?  Around this area, perhaps?"

Clarice writhes and giggles. "O Aury! Aury! Not there! Please!"

The Duchess chuckles lazily. Her hand continues to move. "Well, it doesn't
seem to have done her any harm..."

Clarice turns, suddenly serious. "Why should it do her any harm?"

"I don't know." The Duchess is smiling, but pensive. "It's strange, is it
not? We are always taught that what we enjoy is bad for us, and what hurts
us is good for us. Yet nature seems to say exactly the opposite. And in
going against nature, do we not create boundless misery? Does the human race
not have a genius for creating needless suffering?"

"I think you are right. But speaking of suffering..."

"Oh - Carry. I know. She isn't herself at all. Did you see her yesterday at
luncheon? Eyes all red from weeping, and scarcely a glance at that pretty
new girl Alfred found us. When Carry ignores a fair maid, I think we must
know what is responsible."

"She's in love?"

"Of course she's in love - the silly girl."

"She seems to wander about like a ghost - that is, when she finally deigns
to leave her room."

"Where, I suspect, she is dissipating just a little too much energy at
present."

"But who can it be? She cannot come across very many young men at Hepplewhite."

"Oh, no. Not a young man, I think." The Duchess's tone is dismissive.

"You mean... one of the girls?"

The Duchess chuckles. "O Clarice, Clarice, were you never at school? Did you
never come across some wonderful young teacher, someone who inspired you,
someone who lit a fire in your young breast?"

"A teacher? One of the teachers?"

"Of course. And I think I know which one."

"I wonder if the teacher is aware of it."

"I cannot tell.  Needless to say, Carry will admit nothing."

"Poor lamb! And I suppose she knows nothing of his grace's intentions for
her."

"Clarice, that man cares about only one thing - I mean of course his
precious seamstresses. But his daughter's heart - pah! He will marry her to
money, if I do not prevent it."

"But will she not be broken-hearted?"

"Well, that depends, you know. If he's rich enough - and Alfred means him to
be, of course - why, then he will do exactly what all the men do: get her
pregnant and find himself a mistress. And then there will be nothing to
prevent her finding herself a confidential friend..."

"O Aury! Aury! Don't!" Clarice titters as the Duchess begins to tickle her.

"I know what you would like... Hark! Hark now!"

The ladies are still again, and listen to the heavy footfalls of the
servants in the passage.

"They are bringing up the water for Lady Caroline's bath," observes Clarice.

"Yes, and I repeat that I know what you would like, to revive your wanton
heart."

"What, pray?" Clarice is stiff with anticipation.

"You would like to gaze upon beautiful Venus, rising from the waves.
She will be fresh-cheeked and invigorated from her ride, and I think we
should distract her before she dissipates all her energies for yet another
solitary afternoon, don't you think?"

"Then we shall have to get dressed."

"Yes, dear Clarice, I am afraid we shall."

* * *

Obediently, Jemmy takes the huge sponge, dips it in the water and, after a
moment's hesitation, dabs it into the hollow of her mistress's armpit.
Noisily the water cascades down the glistening, perfect body.

"Ahhh!" Carry breathes rapturously, closing her eyes, tilting her head back.
"Make me wet! Wet me all over! Quickly, now!" She cannot help giggling at
the hidden sense of her words. She twitches in delight at the caress of the
sponge, the trickling of the water, the boiling wantonness coursing
deliciously through her veins. She opens her eyes for a moment and sees
herself in the glass, beautiful, twisting to and fro in quiet frenzy. "Now
the soap! Rub it on my skin! I want it all over!" Carry moans and giggles:
she cannot conceal her pleasure at Jemmy's soapy caresses. "Oh, I think you
are good at this," Carry encourages her, "you are doing it exactly right.
Now my legs... higher up! Yes, higher! Make me completely clean!"

And then, suddenly, Carry senses that she is going to come, that she is
going to come most deliciously at the hands of this innocent maid. She will
try to disguise it, but she knows it cannot be far off. "Now the other leg.
Use more soap! Work it in! Harder! Oh! Oh!" She wiggles her toes in her
excitement.

And then, abruptly, the door flies open, and Jemmy drops her sponge in
dismay.

Carry struggles to conceal her rage of disappointment.  "Good
afternoon, mother," she says lugubriously.

"Why Carry, my dear, how charmingly healthy you look! - Come, Clarice, take
a seat. - We have come to cheer you up!" The Duchess laughs silently at
Carry's inner struggles. "Oh, you have the new little maid! Has she been
washing you nicely? What is her name?"

Carry looks down at Jemmy, still kneeling before her. "What is your name?"

"Jemmy, m'lady."

"She says her name is Jemmy, mother."

"Jemmy, continue to wash Lady Caroline. - Yes, Carry, we have come to cheer
you up. You know, of course, that your father intends to marry you off to
someone rich? And that in our present circumstances this might have to be
rather sooner than later?" The Duchess pauses to observe the look of anguish
that has fallen over her daughter's countenance. "Come, don't fret, child. I
think I may have found a way to rescue you."

In Carry's eyes, the look of sullen despair transforms into a gleam of hope.
"O mother - you cannot mean it! Truly?"

"But I shall require your co-operation, my dear."

"Why, what must I do?"

"In the first place, if your father should mention the subject of marriage,
kindly do not make a commotion at him. It will do no good at all.  You
should feign meek acceptance. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mother."

"In the second, Clarice and I have thought of a way to make money - enough
to make the question of your marriage quite irrelevant. We are proposing to
send your father into manufacturing."

"Manufacturing?"

"Manufacturing. It makes a very great deal of money these days, as I'm sure
you know. We intend that this manufacturing will benefit not only us, but
your school as well. However, we will need you to use all of your persuasive
powers to ensure that we receive all necessary support."

"Very well. Of course I will help."

"You are a good girl. One particular target I have in mind is one of your
teachers. We shall need you to win her over.  Now what is her name? Paulson,
I think. Do you know a Miss Paulson?"

"Oh mother! Mother!" Carry's eyes are ablaze.

"Hmmm... I see you do. Stop doing that, Carry. You are splashing the girl."

* * *

It is gloomy in the Carter dining-room: there are but two candles at the
table, and little enough light from the forbidding winter sky outside.
The only quite cheerful thing in the room is the glowing fire, striking
ruddy glints in the brass candlesticks.

Lucy glances at her father. Solemn as ever, she feels him as a brooding,
oppressive presence. At least today her mother is making some attempt at
gaiety, and for this Lucy is grateful. Their secret outing to the optician
the day before yesterday has given them a fresh bond, a memory they revive
together in quiet little smiles when Father is not looking.  Indeed, that
day was one of the happiest, for in the carriage on the way into town Mother
had spoken at length of her childhood memories, and Lucy had listened and
questioned with lively interest. And when she goes back to school, in just a
week's time, a lovely new pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez will be waiting for
her in a velvet-lined box. For a moment Lucy sits back in contentment: she
has eaten heartily, and even had two glasses of wine; and although her dress
now feels rather tight about the waist, she feels most wonderfully
comfortable.

Again she glances at her parents, now also both staring into the fire.

"Shall I have another log put on?" asks Joanna.

"Hmph. Perhaps, since it's Christmas," murmurs Henry.

Lucy returns to her recollections of her day out with Mother. What of that
absurd piratical eye-patch, that she must wear over her good eye? One hour
each day, he had said, to strengthen her bad eye - and a strange and giddy
thing it is to walk about with. How Mother had laughed!

But then that extraordinary ride home. What of that, indeed?  It had been
just as they were getting into the carriage, and she had gone to thank her
mother with a kiss:  that involuntary flinch, that little recoil, that
grimace of regret - soon suppressed, but not soon enough. And after that,
Mother had been silent, morose, looking out of the window as if somehow the
whole mood of the day had been spoiled. And on the road, blazing with anger,
Lucy had clenched her thighs tighter than ever, squeezing and squeezing in
her rage.  And whether it was the heat of her indignation, or the rocking of
the carriage, she does not know: but it had come, that sudden inside-out
feeling, several times, until she had had a fit of coughing, and Mother had
asked her if she was perhaps not feeling well. Such an extraordinary
feeling! And afterwards, she had felt as light as thistledown, as if she
might have just blown away in the wind! A curious discovery, and rather a
strain for her poor leg-muscles - yet it had certainly whiled away a dull
journey.

Henry Carter drains his glass. It is time to say grace. And not only that:
for, despite an hour at Matins and a two-hour Christmas Service, he decides
that there must be a thanksgiving psalm as well. And of course a prayer for
dear, departed Elsie, and a tear from Mother.

"And now a reading, I think. Yes, Lucy, you shall read to us."

"But Henry, you know how..." Joanna attempts to intercede.

"The girl must practise. It is sheer laziness! Now let me see..." Henry
Carter opens the huge family bible and turns the pages carefully,
reverently.  "Although it is Christmas, and we have celebrated the dawn of
our redemption, we should always keep the Law of the Lord upon our lips and
in our hearts. Yes...  Here." He holds the book out to his daughter,
indicating the passage with his finger.

Taking the heavy book, Lucy begins to read, haltingly, in a quavering voice.
Her father's stern solemnity quite discountenances her.

"And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Speak unto the children of Israel,
saying, If a soul shall sin through ignorance against any of the
commandments of the Lord concerning things which ought not to be done, and
shall do against any of them..." she breaks off.

"Well?" growls her father. By now it is darker still, and his face is in
shadow.

"But father: how can anyone sin through ignorance?"

"Why, you question Holy Scripture? That is insolence!" He pounds his fist
upon the table. "But of course ignorance of the Divine Law is sin! Why do you
think that I strive and strive to imprint the Law upon your insubordinate
heart?"

"Henry, dear..." Joanna leans forward beseechingly. She is mindful that they
have had wine, and Henry has had perhaps a little too much of it. And, being
now seventeen, Lucy has had a little, too, and drunk it perhaps a little
too quickly.

"But father, surely, if a person doesn't know that a thing is wrong, then it
is no sin. Miss Paulson says..."

"Miss Paulson? Miss Paulson? Who is Miss Paulson?" Henry stabs his finger
towards the enormous, black-bound bible.  "These are the words of Almighty
God!" His voice rises dangerously high. "Do you think that the almighty
Creator of all in the heavens and all upon the earth is going to sit like a
schoolgirl, listening to what Miss Paulson says?"

"O but father! That was not what I meant!"

"Insolence! Intolerable! Get to your room!"

"Henry, dear..." pleads Joanna, but to no avail.

"To your room, I say!"

"Very well!" And, head held high, Lucy knocks over her chair and sweeps
angrily out of the room.

"Come back here and pick up that chair!" yells her outraged father.

"There, there, Henry dear..." murmurs Joanna, picking the chair up and
setting it in its place once more. "She is only young."

"Ungrateful wretch! Daring to preach to her father like that! Insolence!"

Joanna attempts to soothe him. "But she is very good, you know, very good in
a mathematical way. Look how hard she has been working away at it, up in
her room..."

"Mathematics be damned!"

"O not on Christmas Day, Henry, please!"

"Oh..." Henry looks, and notices Joanna's imploring countenance. "Oh, very
well. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my dear. Let us have some port. You too. It is
Christmas, after all."

"Oh, Henry..." Joanna smiles fondly upon her husband. Like the Almighty, she
thinks, he is quick to anger, but always merciful - eventually.

"Joanna..." Henry reaches across and pats his wife's hand. "Let us say a
silent prayer for her."

In her room, Lucy paces up and down in a fury. "I hate this house," she
exclaims to herself. "I hate it!" She takes up her treatise on the
properties of springs. Yes, she has made a presentable conclusion: she has
found a particularly pleasing expression for omega-null. She re-reads her
last, triumphant steps and feels her strength return.

Fortunately, Simpson has been meticulous in keeping the fires well-banked,
and the room is at least warm, if a little stuffy. Breathless in her
tight-fitting dress, Lucy struggles out of it and places it over her chair.
Then, to keep warm, she lies down on the thick rug before the hearth.

Lucy is still angry, but a little frightened to think that she has quarrelled
with her father - and on Christmas Day, too. This has never happened before.
If only she had someone to take her part! Miss Paulson would - wouldn't she?

But there is nobody, and so Lucy goes over the argument in her head, seeking
to reassure herself. Could one sin through ignorance? Surely, if you are
ignorant, then you don't even know that it is wrong. How could that be a
sin?

But eventually, Lucy's confidence evaporates. She decides that it would be
best to go and apologize, even though she knows her father was unduly harsh.
Timidly, she makes her way downstairs; but when she returns to the dining
room, she finds it empty.

"Simpson... Simpson... Where are Mother and Father?"

"They have gone out to Evensong, miss."

Determined to do the right thing, Lucy retreats to her room and writes a
note. She struggles to make it neat, and re-reads it several times to ensure
that she has spelled every word correctly. Then she hurries down, and leaves
the note for her father upon the hall-stand, where he will see it upon his
return. That done, she scurries back to her room, closes the door and lies
once more upon the rug.

She is not sure that her father will forgive her, but at least she can now
be at peace with herself.  She does not care about the stupid argument
anyway. She shivers, not because she is cold, but because she wants a
friend, a sympathetic soul.  She remembers walking into Miss Paulson's
cottage, and being greeted by a smile. Here, whenever she enters a room,
there is always that look of fleeting disappointment: not as good as Elsie,
not as pretty as Elsie, poor dead Elsie. Damned Elsie, spoiling everything
from the grave!

Elsie did not know about springs. Elsie was not very good at mathematics,
even if her handwriting was so very neat. And, Lucy suddenly thinks, Elsie
did not know about the inside-out feeling - that extraordinary thing that
happened when Shipman touched her so very gently, and again in the carriage,
when she squeezed.  And what was it Miss Paulson said? "When we feel a
hunger inside..." Yes, Lucy feels a hunger: just thinking of that inside-out
feeling reawakens it.  "Something wonderful..." It is strange certainly, and
powerful; and afterwards, that wonderful lightness, that floating...  "Just
touching gently, with one finger..."

Yes, thinks Lucy, yes I will.  She draws up her petticoats. She feels the
heat of the fire upon her thighs. Carefully, she reaches down and explores.
It is all very sensitive. She brushes the fluffy hairs with the tips of her
fingers. It tickles slightly, and is very soothing. After a few minutes, she
wants more.  Where was it? Near the top? Oh yes. This is like the feeling
she has when she squeezes, but stronger, and far less tiring. "I like this,"
she whispers to herself. "I like it." She does not hear the scuffling of her
feet upon the rug, as she fidgets her legs into the most comfortable
position. She does not hear her noisy breathing, echoing from the plain
walls of her little, high-ceilinged room. She feels rays of pleasure flowing
through her, swimming like eels throughout her body. Her hair is prickling.
Her lips are dry.

For a moment, she stops. "Shall I do it some more? Or shall I stop now?"
Curious, she jerks her petticoats up further, so that she can see where she
has been touching. Yes, there is the little place. It has always been there,
waiting for her to play with it, asking to be touched. Why then has she
never found it before? Because she was told that it was ugly, so ugly that
she was afraid to look. Watching her finger, she touches it. Immediately the
sweetness floods into her again, stronger and stronger now. Again, she
forces herself to stop, just gently playing with the hairs around it. She
thinks of Walmsley. Her parents are rich, rich beyond telling. Assuredly
Walmsley will have received many Christmas presents today. Combs and
jewellery and dresses... "Why can we not have Christmas presents, too?
Everyone else does," she thinks, "everyone! Well, all I have is this." She
touches it again. "It's for me. It's mine!" She begins to touch a little
harder. She moans out loud: she needs to press more firmly. "I like it! Ugh!
Yes, yes!" She is turning inside-out now, she can feel it, and yes, she
wants it, her body wants it, and "Oh!" it hits her, it makes her crazy, and
she drums her heels on the floor. And then it lets her go, and she can feel
the squeezing, again, again, again.

She feels dizzy. She has been holding her breath, and now she lets it out
with a little cough. Lovely little eddies and wisps of feeling, shivering in
odd corners of her body. And then sweet calm. So this is what Shipman does,
and Walmsley does, and Miss Paulson does. No wonder! "And I can do it
whenever I like," she thinks to herself. "Even if nobody else cares, I can
give myself this lovely feeling. They can take away my home, my food, even
my clothes, but I shall always have this." She wriggles a little. She is
supremely comfortable. She stretches her limbs. It feels good. And then she
feels it again: where she touched, that little place, tingling and tickling.
She touches it, and the tingling stops. She gives it a little rub - and
laughs in delight. "Again! I'm going to do it again!" She thinks of her
grave, mournful father and his stupid temper. She thinks of her mother,
cowed and melancholy. What do they matter? "I don't need Father," she
grunts, "I don't need Mother... uh... don't need Shipman...  I don't need
anybody!" And then she is inside-out again, and it is even stronger than
before, oh madness, madness, lovely madness, so much so that she is laughing
and laughing with the sheer release of it even as the contractions squeeze
and squeeze and sweetly squeeze her.

"I'm wet!" She feels her wetness. Her fingers make a squelchy sound, but the
smooth slipperiness is delicious. She strokes again and again. "I'm getting
all messy. But I don't care!"

* * *

Now that the festive meal is quite cleared away, Felicity's mother goes to
visit the children in the nursery. George and Frederick are playing with
bricks. Felicity is bent over the table, her mouth full of pins. The room is
warm and cheerful.

"Why, Felicity! What a busy little needlewoman you are! And I didn't think
you liked sewing. And on Christmas Day, too!"

"It is fun, mama! I did not realize! I think I shall be finished tomorrow!"

"But what is it you are making?"

"She's making a pair of trousers, mama."

"Be quiet, Frederick!" Felicity scowls at her impudent brother.

"A pair of trousers, Felicity? Why, that's a strange thing."

"It's... It's for the school play, mama. Look, they're velvet! Feel them!"

"Lovely, dear!"

"They will be beautifully warm."

"So they will, dear. How very nice!"

* * *

Henry and Joanna return from Evensong. Simpson hangs up their coats.

"Miss Lucy left a note for you, sir," she says, indicating the paper on the
hall-stand. And there, in a careful, childish hand, Lucy's peace-offering:
"I am sorry. I was wrong. Lucy XX"

"Bah! Stupid girl!" cries Henry, dashing the note down again. He stalks into
his study, shaking his head.

"Oh, poor dear!" cries Joanna. "I will go up and see her. She is a good girl
really."

Neither Lucy nor her mother will ever forget that moment, when Mrs Carter
walks in without knocking, and finds Lucy toppling once more into a helpless
rush of ecstasy. It is fortunate that Mrs Carter does not scream, but with
commendable presence of mind slams the door closed behind her.

"O Lucy, Lucy, no, no, no! Dirty girl! Dirty, dirty!" She falls on her knees
beside her daughter and grasps her wrist, tugging the petticoats down to
cover her daughter's shame. "Never do this! Never again! Oh I cannot believe
it! You too! What is to become of us?"

"Hush, mother! Why all this fuss?"

"Lucy, Lucy, never again, please! Promise me, now! Oh, to lose one is bad
enough!"

"Mother! Whatever do you mean?"

"Never again! It's a wicked, wicked habit! Oh, I don't want to lose you as
well!"

"What are you saying, mother?"

"Don't let your father know. I'm not going to tell him. I can't bear it. I
don't know what he'd do."

"Are you speaking of Elsie, mother?"

Mrs Carter is suddenly silent. She lets go of Lucy's wrist, and draws back
with a sigh. After a moment, she nods.

"Did she do... did she do this?"

"Yes." Mrs Carter is solemn. "Yes, she did. And by the time we found out,
she could not stop it. We threatened to send her away. And she just said
'good!' Can you believe it? She turned against us, Lucy. She was
disobedient. She even told your father she hated him."

Lucy turns away from her mother with a snort. "Perhaps Elsie was not all
bad," she thinks.

"We had to send her to the doctor."

"The doctor?" Lucy turns back sharply. "Why the doctor? She was not ill."

"Oh, but she was. It was a sickness of the soul. She was so full of fury."

"But mother! Perhaps she needed to do this. That is what my body tells me,
mother: I need it! It is like hunger, or thirst. I thought I could ignore
it, but I find that I cannot."

"Oh nonsense, Lucy! Your body needs no such thing!"

"But how do you know? How do you know what my body needs? Why should you
believe some doctor? And what of men? Do they not talk continually of their
needs? Why should women not have needs, too?"

"But Lucy - men like to believe that we are perfect. We are not supposed to
feel such things."

"But that is ridiculous! Elsie was perfectly normal."

"She was unhappy, Lucy. She was miserable. The doctor said that it would ruin
her health.  He said he could cure her."

"This is all nonsense. She was not sick." Lucy shakes her head in disbelief.
"What sort of doctor was this?"

"Oh, he is a distinguished surgeon - most distinguished - Mr Isaac Baker
Brown. He is very famous, and it was a very expensive operation. But we so
wanted to cure our poor Elsie! It was the only way."

"Mother, what are you telling me? What did this Doctor Brown do to poor
Elsie?"

"He cut the parts away."

Lucy squeals in rage and horror. "What?" she cries.

"Yes, dear. He told us that in obstinate cases, it is the only cure. So you
see, we had to agree."

"He cut her?"

"Yes, dear. With little sharp scissors. He said it would not be unduly
painful."

"So that was why she was in hospital! And I thought she was really ill!"

"She was ill, Lucy. She had to be cured. It is the law of God."

"Where in God's law does it speak of what she did? Where? And where in God's
law does it say that a man may cut off a woman's parts? Mother, she died,
didn't she?"

"Yes, Lucy, she did. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't drink, she wouldn't
talk, and she wouldn't stop bleeding. In the end she died."

"You make it sound as if it were her fault, mother. Why should she not die
after such a barbaric operation?"

"Barbaric? What on earth do you mean? Mr Baker Brown is a highly reputable
surgeon!"

"Why did he not rather cut off her hands?"

"That would indeed be barbaric! There was nothing wrong with her hands!  We
do not do that kind of thing in civilized England!"

"But mother - what is the difference? I do not understand you, really I do
not!"

"Neither do I understand you, Lucy."

"And how long did she live in agony after that barbaric operation?"

"Six days."

Lucy is silent for a while. Then, her voice choked with passion: "Murderer!"

"What?" There is fear in Joanna's voice.

"That Doctor Brown is a murderer. And so are you, and Father!" Lucy's voice
rises in her outrage. "You murdered my sister, and then you lied and told me
that she was ill. Murderer! Liar!"

Lucy begins to beat at her mother with her fists, but Joanna, pale with
terror, restrains her. Something in her eyes quells Lucy, even in her fury.
"Hush! Don't let your father hear! O Lucy, do you not think I have been in
torment myself these eight long years?"

"Good!" Lucy breathes venomously. "You utterly disgust me. You go on and on
and on about the law of God, you force me to read about wives being subject
to their husbands and women being stoned for adultery and women belonging to
men like beasts, and yet secretly you lie and murder, and say that it is the
law of God!" Lucy shakes her head. "That is not my God, mother."

"What is your God?" asks Joanna, desolate.

"Mother: do you remember?" Lucy's eyes begin to fill with tears. "Do you
remember the statue by Elsie's grave? The one of the angel weeping?"

Joanna sobs. "Yes, I remember."

"My God is not the angry, jealous Bonaparte in the sky you and Father like
so much to worship. No: my God weeps for Elsie like that angel by her
grave."

"Lucy, Lucy, do not do this to me!" Joanna is weeping too, now.

"Tomorrow I will go. You will find my fare, and I will leave this accursed
house."

"But where will you go?"

"I will go back to school. I cannot stay here."

"But what can I tell your father?"

"Tell him... oh, tell him that I am ill, if you must."

* * *

Late that night, Henry turns over in his bed. "Joanna: are you awake?"

"Yes, Henry."

"Can you hear a sound? Is that weeping?"

"Yes, Henry. It is Lucy."

"Well, I am glad that she is sorry. Outrageous conduct today." Henry grunts.
"Something must be the matter with her."

"Indeed I think she is run down. She says she wishes to return to school, to
work on her mathematics."

"Can she do that?"

"She says she can."

"Good. I shall be glad to be rid of her. She is a perfect fountain of
misery."

"I will see what can be done."

"Thank you, Joanna."

Within a few minutes, Henry is snoring.

* * *

End of Part V.

(Part VI follows.)
