Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 12 of 14
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Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

Part VIIIa


At the sound of approaching footsteps, Miss Paulson rises from the
table, still absent-mindedly clutching Carter's letter.  Her heart is
already hammering with excitement: she does not need to look out of
the window. The distinctive little scuffle of haste - or is it
headstrong desire? - tells her at once whose footsteps these are. And
then, without knocking, Carry pushes the door open and stands a
moment, golden hair haloed in the outdoor light, a vision of
loveliness that makes Miss Paulson's heart lurch in almost painful
joy.

"Why, Georgie," says Carry in an amused voice, slowly closing the
door, "you have a letter!"

Carry's smile, the way she stands, the slight movement of her eyebrow,
the liveliness and poise of this perfect young woman steals the
breath from Georgie's lungs. Unable to turn away, she pushes the
letter away into the pile of papers on the table behind her. "Carry,
dearest, we must talk."

Carry's splayed fingers press on the door behind her, thrusting her
breast into prominence. She speaks jestingly. "It is from a lover.
One of your Parisian admirers."

"No, no, it is not a letter to me at all."

"Then to whom?"

"Carry, we must talk."

"About what?"

"Dear..." Georgie shakes her head. "The more I see you, the more
difficult this will be."

"What will be?"

"I have to leave Hepplewhite, Carry."

Carry's stares in disbelief. "Leave? But you cannot!"

"I had already resolved to do so, even before Mrs Cunningham sent for
me this morning. O Carry, this has been a day of fateful letters."

"What? She received a letter?"

Georgie nods, and bites her lip. "One of the governors, a very wealthy
man, wrote to say that I have been putting poisonous ideas into his
daughter's head, and that unless I leave at the end of this term, he
will withdraw his financial support. And it appears that without it,
the school would be in a very precarious state. There would be no
more question of science at Hepplewhite."

Carry's eyes are bright with anger. "Who? Who was this?"

"I should not tell you this. But Carry: it was Carter's father."

"Carter?"

Georgie nods dumbly.

Carry is furious. She shakes her fists.  "Then we must get up a
petition! We cannot let this man simply take over the school! We must
fight with every means at our disposal!" There is a delightful flush
now on Carry's cheeks.

But Georgie shakes her head sadly. "No, Carry, we must not. Even
before this, I had made up my mind." She smiles bravely. "There are
many others who would be able to keep the flame alive. Mrs Cunningham
knows of several. She said some very kind things, Carry, but she was
quick to put my mind to rest.  Miss Paulson may go, but the good work
will continue without her."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Carter and I are going to go away together. She has been able to
obtain a very satisfactory teaching position, and I am sure I shall be
able to do the same."

"Where?"

"I... have promised I will not say, Carry - not to anyone, not even
you. She has told me some terrible things about her family, you
know.  At least for the moment, she does not want anyone to know
where we are going, for fear that her father might interfere to
prevent it. From what she has told me, he is capable of anything."

Carry's hands fall to her side. She is pale now. "But Georgie... what
about..." Her lips quiver. She cannot trust her voice, but can only
whisper.  "What about you and me, Georgie?"

Georgie looks aside. She blinks. Her cheeks are glistening. "You know
that it is hopeless, Carry. Your father will insist that you marry.
You yourself will want to have children one day. It cannot last."

Carry is beside herself. "You do not know what you are saying!"

Georgie presses on bravely. "The sooner we part, the less painful it
will be for both of us. Do not fear: you will soon find someone..."

Carry clasps her hands in supplication. "Georgie! Oh no no no! You do
not understand!"

Georgie closes her eyes, swallowing with effort. "Oh yes: I
understand, Carry. Do not think this is any less painful for me than
it is for you, but -"

"Georgie!" Carry sobs, struggling to regain her self-control. 
"Georgie! No more of this despairing talk, I beg you! You make me so
afraid!" Georgie makes to interrupt, but Carry strides forward and
takes Georgie by the shoulders, her eyes suddenly adamant, her breast
heaving. "Do you think my father, or anyone, could compel me to marry
against my will? Why, my mother would not permit it! I would not
permit it! Georgie, I love you." For a moment, Carry holds Georgie in
her defiant gaze. Then, more softly, "...And anyway, my mother
knows." Carry looks into Georgie's shocked eyes. "She understands."

Georgie can only repeat, her voice tremulous with incredulity, "She
knows?"

Carry looks down, momentarily shy. "More or less." Then, looking up
once more:  "And she wants me to be happy. I shall come away with
you, Georgie.  We will go to a far-off place where nobody shall
interfere with our happiness."

And now, laughing and weeping at the same time, Georgie puts her hands
upon Carry's shoulders. "Oh my..." She shakes her head in disbelief.
"You sweet child... you sweet child. - But don't you see - ?"

"Georgie, Georgie..." Carry draws her lover close, so that each can
feel the warm resilience of the other's breast. "I see that we can be
happy, if only we allow ourselves to be. Nobody can stop us, Georgie,
unless we let them..."

Georgie laughs softly as Carry kisses away her tears; then, when
Carry begins kissing her neck, sways and tries to dodge her,
squealing softly as she laughs. But there is no dodging Carry, and
with a little groan, Georgie ceases to resist, turning instead to
return Carry's kiss.

"Oh... Oh..." Carry turns her head and kisses more passionately, now
teasing Georgie's mouth open with her tongue; and once admitted, she
moves it very slowly, deliciously, until Georgie squeals into her
mouth and begins to move her hips insistently against Carry's. At
length, Carry draws back. "You want me, Georgie..."

"Oh Carry..." Georgie returns the kiss, their bodies moulding ever
closer together.

"Why, Georgie," murmurs Carry eventually, "without me, what would you
have done?" Georgie squeezes Carry tighter. "Hmm?"

"Darling... I must confess something..." Georgie draws away. She
cannot meet Carry's eye now. "I do feel... something for Lucy
Carter.  Nothing like my love for you, but..."

Startled by the sudden thought, Carry looks toward the ceiling. "She
is not upstairs, is she?"

"No. She is out walking - with Miller."

"That is just as well." Carry pauses and reflects. "Georgie, I
understand.  There is noble blood in her."

Georgie shakes her head, striving to find expression for the
complexity of her feelings.  "She is very strong, very strong... But
then, just occasionally, she will look at me, and I see such anguish
in her eyes, Carry."

Their eyes meet, full of sympathetic understanding.

"Dear, compassionate Georgie!"

"I think she has been quite starved of love."

"I am sure of it!"

"And that is strange, because from what she tells me, her mother
sounds rather sweet. But the very thought of her drives Lucy into a
fearsome, silent fury.  I think perhaps that she cannot forgive her
for not standing up to her father."

"And so" - Carry makes a little moue - "you thought our love was
doomed, and that you might... care for Lucy instead?"

"Yes; even though, I confess, she sometimes frightens me so. She is so
cold, sometimes, Carry; and at others, so very passionate."

Carry looks a little displeased. "Oh? Passionate? How so?"

Georgie blushes scarlet. "I mean... when she is alone in her room...
the walls are rather thin..."

Carry laughs open-mouthed. Her teeth are perfect. Georgie flies into
her arms once more.

"O Carry... I never meant... I never meant that anyone... As if I
could ever forget..." And then she draws back a little, looking into
Carry's amused eyes. "You're not cross with me?"

"Should I be? After all, I will admit... I can see what others might
see in her." Carry's smile is bewitching.

Georgie answers with a momentary smile of her own, but her eyes are
troubled. "She's nothing like you, Carry, of course she's not, but...
I must confess that sometimes, just when I least expect it... I mean,
Carry, you are just beautiful always, from every angle, while she...
I don't know..."

Carry gives a low chuckle. "What are you trying to tell me, Georgie?"

"Sometimes she just does something to me. Just an expression, or a
little gesture, and I - I am sorry, dear Carry. I should not be
saying this."

Carry laughs good-naturedly. "Dear, wanton Georgie. I see that I shall
have to do something to prevent you straying, shall I not?"

Carry's words are spoken lightly, but something in her tone,
something authoritative, something purposeful, sends a shiver through
Georgie. She cannot help asking, "Oh, what, Carry?" But even as she
says it, she sees the light in Carry's eye, and feels the
unmistakable stirrings of desire. For a moment she recalls the sight
of Carry's sweet mouth, lips slightly parted, approaching her most
sensitive place with such loving tenderness - and the beautiful,
beautiful pangs of pleasure that engulfed her thereafter. Georgie
cannot conceal her longing: her gaze is beseeching, and Carry smiles
in triumph.

"Come, O come upstairs," she whispers. And with a little giggle,
Carry hastens to the haven of delight, determined to inflame
Georgie's passion as never before.

"No!" she cries, when Georgie tries to embrace her. "No!" And then,
coolly, "Don't touch me now; just undress me, without touching. For
now, I am not Carry, but Lady Caroline Artemis Gloriana Walmsley, and
you..." - Carry clears her throat delicately - "you are merely
Georgie, my maidservant."

"Why, what game is this you are playing with me?" Georgie's voice is
tremulous with desire.

"You shall see... but for the present, you shall not touch," Carry
answers lightly. "There... there... slowly..." And for the next
minute, there is no sound but the soft rustle of clothing, the
breathing of two very empassioned women, and Georgie's occasional
moan as more is revealed to her worshipping gaze. "And now, dear
Georgie... tell me... is it Carter you want now? Is it?"

"O Carry, you are perfect... perfect!"

"Do you think I look perhaps a little better from this angle, h'm?"

"Carry, let me touch you! I beg you!"

But Carry only giggles and spins away from Georgie's outstretched
hands.

* * *

"And so I shall have money." Carter says it in a small voice, not
looking at Miller, trying to conceal the joy and pride that leap in
her breast.

"Why, Carter, that's wonderful!" Miller is full of admiration.  But
then her voice is clouded with foreboding. "But of course, when you
marry, all that will go to your husband."

"Miller, I beg you, do not be so ridiculous."

"But it's true, Carter! When you marry -"

"Of course. But what makes you think that I would ever marry? Oh - I
know:  you mean to say that a man might find my money attractive.
Hah!"

For a while, Miller ponders how to respond to Carter's bitter irony.
They walk on through the wood. It is still bare of leaves, but the
weather has become gentle, and in the air there is the promise of
spring.

At length, Miller dares a reply, blushing even as she says the words: 
"A man might find other things attractive about you, Carter."

Carter feels a sudden tightness in her breast. She came out without a
coat, and hopes that Miller will not notice the tell-tale signs. And
despite herself, "What things?" she mutters in a low voice, her
entire body tingling with a strange excitement.

"Why..." Miller casts a sidelong glance at her companion's two silent,
but eloquent, witnesses - a glance which Carter does not miss. "You
have a very pretty shape, Carter. Everyone says so."

"Everyone?" Carter is scarlet, and somewhat breathless.

"Yes." Miller stares straight ahead, pretending not to notice
Carter's confusion. "Of course, everyone says how pretty Shipman is;
but I've heard several people say that in many ways you have the
nicer shape."

"Oh? Who?"

"Oh..." Miller waves a hand vaguely. "Just... people."

Carter stumbles. Her internal muscles are beginning to misbehave.

Miller notices Carter's unease, her high complexion.  "Are you tired?
Do you wish to sit down? There's a bench over there."

"Thank you... yes..."

"Perhaps you are not quite recovered from your... indisposition."

"Oh I am quite recovered, thank you. Why, that was days ago!"

"Just so, just so..." Miller sits slightly apart, studiously looking
into the distance. "Of course... it does help, when one knows how
to...  relieve the feelings. Do you not think it is a great kindness,
when one is taught such an important thing?"

"Perhaps so." Carter finds that her mouth has become dry.

"I really did wonder at you, when you said what you did about
Shipman." Miller's voice betrays an edge of disapproval, despite her
sympathetic tone.  "And really, it is so beautiful to be touched by
another... Honestly, Carter, do you not secretly crave another's
touch?  Do you not dream of feeling a man's hands, worshipping your
body?  Does it not set your heart aflame?"

Slowly, Carter shakes her head. She sees her father's hands, and they
are bloody. "No, Miller, in all honesty I do not. A man would be
interested only in getting me with child, and cheerfully disregard
the fact that I would risk death in bearing it. No, the thought of a
man's hands just now makes my blood run cold." She shudders. "Come,
let us walk on."

Together, they rise and rejoin the path, their long blue frocks
swishing quietly as they go.

But then, after a while, Miller resumes, quietly beguiling.  "But you
know, Carter, the touch of another is so much more... oh, wonderful."

"What do you mean?"

"To touch one's self is lovely... but the touch of another is... Oh!
It is beyond words!" Miller's face is radiant.

Carter feels the need to quash this line of thinking.  "I am quite
sure that you are wrong. Why, we know for ourselves just how we wish
to be touched.  Who is to say better than ourselves?  Think, Miller:
the world is for ever telling us how we need a man to help us with
this, and to protect us from that. It is just a way of keeping us in
servitude to men! You are quite wrong! We need nothing beyond
ourselves!"

"Oh Carter... That is admirable, truly it is;" - Impulsively, Miller
takes Carter's hand and squeezes it - "but you do not know... you
cannot know..."

Carter remembers Walmsley's hand upon her breast, Miller's hand upon
her back, and of course Shipman... Blushing again, she is silent for
a time. But then, determined to give no quarter to this heresy: 
"Miller, what you say does not stand to reason. How can another know
as well as we ourselves do, what touch will please us most? And is it
not most true, that if we are to escape the bonds of enslavement to
men - our masters - we must all discover this truth for ourselves:
that we, ourselves, can please ourselves the most?"

"But Carter -"

"No, Miller, hear me out, I beg you. You may be right, that there is
a certain..." - Carter stumbles again - "intensity of feeling when
one is touched by another. But speaking for myself, I see no
particular virtue in mere intensity of sensation. With what I have, I
am more than content.  Moreover, I can enjoy the emotional pleasure
of knowing that I am indebted to no one, that I am complete in
myself. After centuries of being taught that we are incomplete, and
must depend upon men, and of being forced to render a show of
gratitude for that protection which they themselves make necessary,
do you not think that we should demonstrate to ourselves and to the
world that we are not beholden to men for our completion, that we are
strong - yes, strong, and in no way weak or defective?"

Miller hangs her head, searching within herself to counter this line
of reasoning. "Perhaps..." she murmurs uncertainly. "But do you not
think that Donne was right, when he said 'No man is an island'?"

"Ha!" Carter tosses her head. "Donne was quite right. 'Tis they who
need us, for without us to wait upon them they would have to become
complaisant, and cooperative, and as willing to serve others as to be
served - and indeed to acquire all manner of so-called feminine
virtues."

"Well, there may be something in that; but I do not think Donne was
speaking only of men, you know. Have you not heard it said that a
sorrow shared is a sorrow divided, or that a pleasure shared is a
pleasure multiplied?"

Carter nods. "I suppose so."

"And is it not also true that we are spared much needless pain, and
led more quickly to the ideal, when we are able to learn from the
experience of others?"

"Yes, Miller, I cannot deny it."

"And you are to be a teacher."

"Yes, in a far-off land."

"O will you not tell me where?"

"No, Miller, I must keep it secret. I so fear that what befell my
sister may befall me if I do not seem quite to vanish from the face
of the earth."

"Well... I understand... But you will not deny, that it is a pleasure
to teach and inform the ignorant."

"Of course not. It is a wonderful thing to see understanding dawn in
the mind of another, and know that one has led another soul into
greater knowledge."

"Exactly! And the more useful the knowledge, and the greater the
pleasure of learning, the greater is the pleasure of the teacher."

"Miller - what are you saying?"

"Only that it is not so very wrong, if someone such as Shipman should
help her friends..."

"Oh, that old argument!" Carter's mouth compresses into a thin, tight
line.

"Why yes. I was mindful of what you had said the other day. It seemed
so unjust. Surely you cannot deny that when someone has the very
great kindness to impart such very useful and delightful knowledge,
that one cannot reasonably be anything but grateful. Are you not
grateful to Miss Paulson for what she told you?"

Carter blushes and nods. "Yes."

"I was thinking about your sister Elsie. I was really sad to hear that
about her, Carter. But don't you think - had she lived, and if she
had loved you, she would have - you know - told you?"

"What? - About... blissing?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. Perhaps. You're not still arguing about Shipman, are
you?"

"Well... only partly..."

"I assure you, you have made your point, Miller, quite sufficiently, I
thank you." Carter does not sound grateful.

"There is more to it, Carter. You see - when I am at home, I sleep
with my little sister."

Carter looks at Miller. Miller looks a little flushed and anxious. 
Carter is still feeling an irrational annoyance; but it is clear that
Miller is about to confess something. Carter tries to sound
sympathetic, but all she can say is, "Well?" It sounds most
ungracious, and Carter clears her throat.  "What is her name?"

Miller gulps. "Polly." Her voice is a little harsh. She stares
straight ahead. Her expression betrays nothing.

"That's a nice name." Carter does her best to be placatory. "Do you
love her?"

"Of course I do." Miller's voice is stronger now. "She's a little
dear."

"You're lucky. It's lonely, not having a sister."

"It must be."

The woodland floor is carpeted with leaves. Miller kicks them
aimlessly as they walk.

"Carter: it was my time just before Christmas."

Carter makes a sympathetic grunt.

"She hasn't begun yet."

"How old is she?"

"Twelve."

"No, of course she wouldn't."

"But I don't think it will be very long now."

"Twelve is quite young."

"She's quite... grown-up for her age, you know, Carter."

"Everybody is different, I suppose." Carter does not wish to say too
much, now, because she senses what Miller is trying to say.

"Yes. I... I showed her what was happening. I told her about it."

"I think that's good. At least she won't be so frightened when her
time comes."

"Yes." Miller kicks another flurry of leaves. "She touched me. I told
you that, did I not?"

"Like you touched me? Yes."

"Not only like that, Carter. I showed her another way."

"Oh." Carter tries to keep the emotion out of her voice.

They walk on, with just the sound of their feet upon the dry leaves,
and the swish of their heavy skirts.

"On Friday, I am to show Matron how to use your oscillator machine.
Little Parkinson will be there."

"I see." Carter does not know what to say.

Miller glances at her companion. "Carter, can you imagine what it is
like, to give someone that feeling for the first time?"

They both come to a halt, panting slightly.

"What is it like?"

"It is so beautiful, Carter. I was able to show her everything. She
liked it so much!"

"But... only twelve!"

"Do you think... Do you think I did wrong, Carter? I only wanted her
to know. But after that..."

Carter gulps. "She... You..."

"She begged me, Carter."

"I see."

"Was that... very wrong, do you think? I mean... I only wanted to help
her."

Carter looks up into the sky. "No," she breathes. "No, I don't think
that was wrong."

Miller lets out her breath in a harsh sigh. "Would you like to come
with me, on Friday?"

"Would it... would it help if I did?"

"Yes." Miller gives Carter a sidelong glance.

"I... Very well." Carter can scarcely breathe. "What time?"

"In the afternoon recreation."

"I'll meet you?"

"In the study-room at two o'clock?"

"Very well. Miller, I... I simply must be getting back to the cottage.
I have some prep to finish."

"Yes." That strange glance again.

"I'll be going, then."

"Yes." Miller turns to watch as Carter hurries off.

* * *

The lovers freeze, their idyll interrupted by the sound of Carter's
hurried entrance. Hearing Carter mount the stairs and come almost to
the door, Georgie thinks to hide; but Carry's gaze holds her
immobile: those blue, blue eyes, looking out from that perfect naked
body, so beautifully and comfortably displayed to her adoring gaze,
pierce her with their fearless dignity.

Both of them listen, quieting their breath. And in the silence, they
hear Carter open and close her bedroom door. Soon they hear little
impatient grunts of effort.  It is clear that Carter is a young woman
in a hurry:  hardly is she inside than there is a violent flurry of
rustling clothes, and then a heavy thud as she casts herself upon her
bed.

Carry's eye is clear and untroubled. "She cannot suspect we are
here."

Carter's groaning puts it beyond all doubt.

"Indeed she cannot. I wonder what must have befallen her. I know that
she is a passionate creature, but this..."

"Georgie, I..."

"Are you passionate too, my love?"

Carry's eyes plead. Silently, she nods.

"Oh... My beautiful one..."  Georgie clambers on to the bed and
gently kisses her way along Carry's satiny, sweetly parted thighs
until she encounters a moist and tumultuous welcome. And if Carter
hears the passionate cries from next door, she gives no sign of it.

* * *

"Ah, Miller..." Shipman greets her in the study-room. "When is it that
you are to show Matron the oscillator?"

"This very afternoon. We are to use it on Parkinson." Miller's eyes
glow with quiet enthusiasm.

Shipman is solemn. "I am concerned about what might happen. We must
ensure that we win the sympathy of Matron - and the doctor.  It is
very important to get these things right, don't you know."

"Of course."

"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me to come with you?"

Miller blushes with the realization that she has strayed into a region
of particular delicacy. Shipman's recent mournfulness has been the
subject of whispered comment for several days now, and its cause
widely understood, if rarely stated outright.  "Well... it might have
been... but I'm afraid I...  You see, I have already asked Carter to
come."

"Carter - oh, yes." Shipman closes her eyes a moment in silent
anguish.

"I... I only thought that should the machine need to be adjusted,
Carter would be the best person..."

"Yes, yes, quite true," says Shipman heavily. "If Carter will be there
I shall not be welcome."

"She seems angry with you for some reason, Ship."

Shipman seems surprised. "Angry, you say?"

"Yes." Miller is thoughtful. "At any rate, she is not by any means
indifferent to you."

"You think not?" Shipman clutches at the ray of hope with an eagerness
that is painful to behold.

Miller adopts an encouraging tone. "Certainly. Perhaps, in time..."

Shipman grins shyly, biting her lip. "I will speak with you of her
again, Miller. But just now, my concern is pressing. You see, it may
be that Doctor Straker will interest himself. And truly, it would be
surprising were he not to."

It is Miller's turn to be ruffled. "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's very important that you speak privately with Parkinson before
you start."

"Privately? But how am I to do that?"

"Oh, it should not be too difficult. Explain simply that the patient
needs to be set at her ease, and Matron will understand. And what are
you going to tell Parkinson before you begin?"

"Well, I shall tell her what to expect, of course."

"Yes, certainly. But what else, Miller?"

"I don't know. Tell me, Ship."

Shipman makes a hissing sound. "Really, Miller, you must anticipate.
It is most important that we proceed with the greatest
circumspection. What do you think Doctor Straker would say if he were
to realize that the treatment was intensely enjoyable?"

"Oh..." Miller looks aghast. "I see what you mean."

Shipman nods emphatically. "If a medical treatment is not at least
mildly unpleasant, it will not be taken seriously. You must explain
to Parkinson that whatever she happens to feel, she must give the
correct impression."

"Yes, of course..." Miller's eyebrows arch picturesquely.

"And what if Doctor Straker should ask about the principles of the
treatment?  What will you say to him?"

"Well, I should say that a number of us have found by experiment that
it relieves those unpleasant feelings..."

Shipman closes her eyes and holds up her hand. "Enough!  Do not act
the simpleton, I beg you.  Consider for a moment: whom are you
addressing?"

"Why, Doctor Straker, of course."

"Yes, dear. And he is a doctor, is he not? He has treated patients for
- what? - fifteen, twenty years? Do you seriously believe that he
will be amenable to that sort of argument? Come, let me make you
understand. What do doctors call the knee-cap?"

"I... I don't know. The knee-cap?"

Shipman shakes her head contemptuously.

"Er... knee-bone?"

"Miller, I can tell you know nothing of doctors. Have you never been
ill?"

"Well... not very..."

"They call the knee-cap the patella."

"Oh, Latin."

"Yes, Miller, Latin. Try another one, now. What do they call the
shoulder, do you think?"

"The... er... scapula?"

"Good! And the throat?"

Miller shakes her head. She does not know the Latin word.

"Larynx. Greek. Now do you see the principle of their discourse?"

"Why... it seems to be to make everything as obscure as possible."

"Exactly! That is why it would be such a disastrous mistake to speak
in plain language, or ever to appeal to common sense. Why, our whole
enterprise might be undone!"

"O Shipman, I am so glad you warned me!"

"Yes, Miller. So am I. Fortunately, I thought to do a little research.
Now let me instruct you, dear..."

* * *

"O Shipman! Thank goodness!" Carter has been rushing down the corridor
to the study-room - skirts gathered about her knees, quite contrary
to the school rules - and now finds herself sliding on the smooth,
polished floor. Shipman grabs her by the shoulders to steady her.

"You were looking for me, Lucy?" There is something in her intonation,
but Carter is in too much of a hurry.

"Yes! We have only five minutes before we have to be at the infirmary!
And Miller has forgotten that blessed word! What was it again?"

Shipman looks at Carter. She is pretty when she is out of breath. The
little gold chain of her pince-nez is graceful about her slender
neck.

"Why did Miller not come, then?" Shipman's voice is low.

"She said she was tired." Carter's blush betrays the lie. In fact,
Miller had said, "If I ask her, she won't come, because whatever I
say, she will think you don't want her."

Shipman turns away, bemused. "Tired, you say?"

"Well?" Carter is desperate. "It was Anna something, she said."

Slowly, Shipman drops her hands to her sides. "Anatriptic. Tell Miller
to write it down."

Carter does not move. "Ah... Ship?"

"Yes?"

"Miller has gone completely to pieces. She can't remember anything of
what you told her. I... I think it would be best if you came, too."

"You want me to come?"

"If you don't mind."

Shipman looks at Carter for a moment, as if considering. And then,
suddenly urgent, "Come then: there's not a moment to lose!"

And seconds later, two young ladies make their very precipitate and
unladylike dash through the school to the infirmary.

At the door, they meet Miller, who is wringing her hands and almost
jumping in excitement. "O thank goodness! Thank goodness!" she
exclaims. "Now who will knock?"

Shipman, not at all out of breath, puts her back to the wall beside
the infirmary door. "Lucy, you will knock. You're the respectable
one. Miller is a poet and I'm... well... I'm..." she glances down
with a sly smile.

Recovering her breath, Carter knocks. The door opens almost
immediately.

"Why, three of you!" Matron is amused. "I was expecting only Miller."

"Well, I..." Miller seems tongue-tied.

"She brought Carter in case the machine needed adjusting, and me to
explain how it works," says Shipman matter-of-factly. "How many
machines have you?"

"Two."

"And there is a patient?"

"Yes: Parkinson." Matron makes a grimace.

"Should I go in and see her?" asks Miller.

"She is in room three. I told her to expect you," Matron answers with
a nod.

Carter sees the oscillators upon the side-counter. "Which one shall
we take?" She tries each one. They rattle noisily on the counter as
she does so, making Matron jump in alarm.  "This is the slower, I
think."

"Come, then, Carter."

When they have departed, Shipman takes up the other oscillator.  "Have
you observed these machines, matron?"

Matron has indeed been staring at them from time to time, not daring
to touch them. She nods.

"Perhaps it would be useful if I were to explain the principles of
its application to you while the others assist Parkinson?"

"Thank you."

"Just hold it in your hand while I operate the generator. You will
find that it quivers."

"It won't hurt me, will it?"

"Not in the least. It will help if you sit down, Matron, and hold it
in your lap. Just so..."

After squealing and nervously dropping it a few times, Matron
gradually gathers enough confidence to hold the strangely trembling
little box. "It's alive! It's like a little fish!" she cries
excitedly.

And Matron, somewhat awed now, soon finds herself receiving an
enthusiastic lecture from Shipman on the principles of "anatriptic
relaxation", "paradoxical contraction" and "therapeutic paroxysm".

* * *

Miller and Carter are walking down the path to Miss Paulson's
cottage.  Miller is laughing, and even Carter is chuckling.

"Oh that was so funny! The look on Matron's face when Ship was talking
to the doctor - I shall never forget it." Miller wrinkles her nose as
she laughs.

"I'm sure that Shipman was talking complete nonsense."

"But the doctor seemed to be taking her entirely seriously. Ship
always sounds so confident, so very definite!"

"Oh, that's Shipman."

"And when Ship was talking about how relaxing it was, and the release
- what did she call it?"

"Parox -"

"Yes, paroxysmal release, the doctor seemed completely mystified."
Miller puts her hand up to stifle a rather naughty giggle. "Do you
suppose men can have them too, Carter?"

"Ah..." Carter's expression takes on a far-away look. "I rather
think, Miller, that men prefer not to believe that ladies can have
them."

"Oh." Miller is thoughtful for a moment. "But that's because..." her
voice trails away; and after a few moments, she speaks as if changing
the subject.  "Carter, have you ever put anything inside yourself?
You know... where the man is supposed to put his... thing?"

"No, of course not!" Carter says it crossly, with a hot little flush
to her cheeks.

"What? Not even a finger? Not even a little way?" Miller giggles
incredulously.

"Well..." Carter takes a deep breath. "Maybe just a very little way."

"Carter... I tried it with a candle."

"A candle?"

"I was ever so wet. It went in - well - fairly easily."

"You didn't!"

"I wanted to know what it would feel like."

"And... what was it like?" Until now, they have been staring straight
ahead, not daring to look at one another. But now, in her curiosity,
Carter turns a shy glance of enquiry toward her companion.

"It felt nice, Carter. I just moved it around a little, and it was...
nice. It made me want to..."

"Yes?" Carter is becoming somewhat breathless.

"You know," murmurs Miller, after a strained pause. "Paroxysmal
release." She waggles her fingers in a suggestive little circle,
one which Elsie recognizes immediately.

"Yes, of course."

"But I didn't do it."

"What? You didn't?"

"No. I thought, 'Perhaps the man's thing is supposed to do it.' So I
just kept moving it around. It felt really nice, and I kept wanting
to...  finish it. I did it for ages and ages, and at last..."

At length, Carter's curiosity leads her to prompt her companion.
"Well? What happened?"

"I began to get tired of it."

"Oh."

"So in the end, I... you know..." Miller moves her fingers again.

Carter turns away, her nose in the air. "I don't think I shall trouble
with a candle. I can manage perfectly without."

"It was nice, though, Carter."

Carter's expression betrays a mixture of curiosity, longing and
tight-lipped disapproval. "It's always nice."

"No, I mean - nicer than usual. When I eventually did it, you know.
It's like when someone else does it. It's sort of... stronger,
somehow. I think I made rather a noise." Miller giggles behind
her hand.

Carter blushes. "I can't help making a noise. Nor can... Oh!" And now
it is Carter whose hand flies to her mouth. "I've just thought of
something."

They have stopped walking, now, and have turned to face one another.

"What?"

But now it is Carter who is giggling, and Miller who is mystified.

"Miller... I don't know whether I ought to tell you this, but..."

"What? Tell me!"

"No, no, I must not!"

"If you tell me, I'll tell you a secret that you'll want to know."

"No, it would be wrong."

"You'll always be glad I told you, Carter."

"What is it about, then?"

"Ha-ha..." Miller laughs mysteriously.

"Oh very well... But you must promise not to tell a soul."

"Of course I won't."

Carter crosses her hands over her breast. "God's honour?"

Miller copies the gesture. "God's honour."

"Well..." Carter clears her throat and licks her lips.  "When Miss
Paulson was away, I went into her room. I... I don't know why, but I
looked under her pillow."

"You did?"  Miller's eyes gleam.

"You'll never guess what I found there."

"I don't know. A... a candle?"

"A ruler."

"A round one?"

"Of course."

"A ruler! Hee hee!" 

For a moment, they stand giggling.

"At the time, I had no idea..."

"But... Oh, Carter, that is wonderful! Do you think she does it...
often?"

"Oh, I expect so," Carter says airily, "I wouldn't really know. And
what of your secret?" She turns, and they resume their walk.

"Ah. Well..." Miller halts again. Carter is close beside her. They
both look straight ahead. "Have you ever used spit?"

Carter shakes her head. "Spit? Ugh! What would you use that for?"

"It works even when you're dry. It's nice and slippery. It feels
lovely, Carter." After a pause, Miller looks shyly at her companion.

Carter is blushing bright red. She exhales noisily, crossing her arms
over her breasts. She begins to walk on, and Miller does likewise.

From Carter's rapid breathing and constant blushing, Miller can sense
the direction of Carter's thoughts.  "Mind you, the oscillator is
very nice too - not better, of course, but just different. And - oh!
So quick!  Have you ever given it - you know, a proper trial?"

"No," says Carter wistfully. "I have not had the opportunity."

"That's not fair! As soon as you invent something, the prefects and
the battledore team take charge, and before you know it, they are
having all the fun, while people like us..."

Carter gives a mirthless laugh of agreement.

"Of course, Parkinson is in a very fortunate situation... very
fortunate."

"Not that I should wish to suffer from her complaint."

"Certainly not. But - Oh!" Miller's voice becomes dreamy. "She is to
have a treatment twice a day from now on. Twice, Carter!"

"That is what Shipman suggested, yes."

"And how her eyes sparkled at the very thought of it!"

"Whose? Shipman's?"

"Well, I dare say... But it was Parkinson I meant."

"Huh! She revised her opinion, then."

Miller laughs. "Such a fuss she made at first! What was it she said?"

"O Miller, Miller! Just thinking about it makes me..." Carter is
gasping.

"I had to put my hand over her mouth, did I not, when she squealed?"

"Miller, please!"

Recalling Parkinson's excitement is enough to bring a delicious
tingling warmth to Miller's most sensitive parts. But to see Carter
so hopelessly excited makes Miller suddenly wet, and she becomes a
little forward.  Laughing throatily, she goads Carter further.
"Something like, 'It's tickling my whatsit!' - Do you remember?"

"Stop it, Miller, stop it!"

"And then, when she came for the first time," Miller laughs again, "I
believe she said something like 'Woo-ooo-ah!'"

"Ah... ah..." Carter halts in her stride, apparently in the grip of
some very powerful emotion.

"Did I make all that fuss when you and Shipman tried it on me?"

Carter manages to regain control of herself. She turns her eye on
Miller.  Her stare is piercing. "You made at least as much fuss,
Miller."

Miller blushes slightly and, after a moment, laughs.  "Wouldn't it be
lovely to have one of one's very own, Carter? If I had one, I know
what I would want to do. This very moment."

"Yes." Carter almost gasps her reply. She is rocking her hips,
clenching and unclenching her fingers. She is quite artless, quite
incapable of concealing her arousal.

Miller fancies she can almost smell it.  "Carter... I think I need
to... I feel what I think you feel."

"What are you saying?" Carter is jigging uncomfortably on her toes.
Her ankles are perfect.

"O Carter, Carter... I begin to see why she wants you so much."

Carter pales now. "What do you mean?"

Emboldened by her arousal, Miller speaks as plain as she knows how. 
"Not 'what', Carter, but 'who'. And I think you know perfectly well."

They stare at one another, each wondering what the other is thinking.
They stand thus for a long moment, until they are distracted by the
sound of laughter, and approaching voices.

"Speaking of whom," murmurs Miller; and yes, appearing round a bend in
the path, as it skirts a clump of rhododendron bushes, Clark, Penrose
and Shipman come into view.

"Ah, Miller!" cries Clark.

Carter makes to turn away, but Miller takes her hand. "Come," she
says.  "They will wish to talk with us."

"How is Parkinson?" cries Shipman, when they are closer. "Did you
manage to overcome her fears?"

Miller giggles. "Yes, I think so."

Clark and Penrose chuckle in delight.

"Did she..." Shipman is about to ask "Did she come?" but she flashes
a glance at Carter, who is avoiding her eye, and becomes embarrassed.
"Did she appear to benefit from the treatment?"

"Oh yes!" Miller nods emphatically.

"Twice, even?"

Miller giggles and holds up four fingers.

"Four!" cries Penrose in triumph. "Almost as keen as you, Miller!"

Miller giggles and all, save Carter, laugh in good-natured ribaldry.

"But you must hear what Ship said to Matron," cries Clark gleefully.
"Tell her, Ship!"

"Well..." Shipman seems suddenly modest. She glances anxiously at
Carter, who seems to be ignoring everyone.

"No, tell her," Clark insists. "It's perfectly brilliant, Miller."

"Well..." Shipman repeats, seeming to gather courage. "I told her that
she should be sure to test the oscillator each time before giving
Parkinson the treatment, in case it had gone out of adjustment."

"Did Matron try it?" asks Miller intently.

"Of course."

"And... she liked it?"

"She seemed to," admits Shipman with a smile so villainous that even
Carter's lips twitch. "I am sure she will be most punctilious."

"But that is not the best part, Miller. Truly, Ship was brilliant,
absolutely brilliant."

Carter looks from Clark to Penrose. Both have their eyes fixed
adoringly on Shipman, as if she is about to perform some miracle
before their eyes.  She glances sideways at Miller, who - to her
chagrin - seems much the same.  "They're like sheep," Carter thinks
crossly. "They will applaud whatever she says. They will do whatever
she tells them."

Shipman speaks. "It will be tea-time soon. Don't you think we should
turn and make our way back now?"

"Yes," agrees Clark at once.

"Good idea," adds Penrose.

Carter purses her lips.

"If you..." Shipman looks at Carter, suddenly hesitant. "If you'd like
to come?"

"Oh do come!" pleads Miller, tugging at her sleeve. "Come with us!"

Carter gives a little nod, and so the group follows Shipman's
suggestion.  Shipman leads, with Miller beside her and Carter close
behind. Penrose and Clark take up the rear. They hold hands.

"Yes, I have thought of a way of disseminating the benefits of the
oscillator more widely," says Shipman, raising her hand in an
expansive gesture. "You see, I explained to Matron that the
oscillators would need adjustment from time to time, and that
therefore we would arrange to bring her a new pair every now and
then, and take the old pair away for adjustment."

"Is that true, Carter?" Miller asks. "Would they need adjustment from
time to time?"

"Oh - probably," comes the murmured reply.

"Of course," resumes Shipman, "while the oscillators are being
adjusted, they are in fact available for others to discover their
benefits."

"What - you mean that we take them and... But where would we keep
them?"

"Oh, I know of one or two quite good hiding-places."

"But that would be marvellous! We could have a sort of secret society,
and meet during recreation, and..."

"Yes," Shipman cuts Miller short. "Something of the sort had occurred
to me."

"Perhaps we could keep one in Carter's room," suggests Miller.

"That would certainly be prudent," nods Shipman. "After all, she's
the principal inventor."

"Oh? I thought that was you, Ship," protests Penrose.

"I helped, certainly," concedes Shipman, "but the real brains behind
the oscillator are Lu - are Carter's."

"Oh," says Penrose, her tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.

Miller takes Carter's hand and squeezes it. Carter feels a strange
warmth, almost an elation, as she realizes that part of the flow of
adulation has just been diverted from Shipman's channel to hers.

"Our next step," proclaims Shipman, "will be to convince Miss Paulson
that more equipment will be needed in order to make up for those
generators and oscillators that wear out."

Carter turns her head in surprise. "Wear out?"

"Of course," says Shipman, her eyes staring straight ahead, "they
won't really have worn out - yet. Although I expect they shall."

Clark laughs in conspiratorial glee. "'Tis we who shall wear them out
- is that not so, Ship?"

"Precisely. Or maybe vice versa. And of course, it would only be right
for Carter to have one of her own to keep."

Miller cannot contain her delight.  "Oh, Carter, wasn't that just what
we were saying? How lovely!"

Carter, flushed scarlet, finds it necessary to resist a transitory
impulse to force her handkerchief into Miller's mouth.

Shipman, amused at Carter's embarrassment, stifles a laugh.  But
then, seeing how pretty she is when she blushes, she turns away and
grits her teeth in silent pain.

* * *

"Hello, Ship," Clark greets her friend in the study-room a few days
later.  "You look worried. What's the matter?"

Shipman looks up from her desk, where she has been sitting, staring
moodily into space, her chin in her hands. "I have just done
something rash, I'm sorry to say."

"Something rash? That's not like you, Ship. What have you done?"

"I sent her a note."

"What - her?" Clark's tone makes it clear that she has at once
inferred who the recipient must be.

Shipman nods gloomily.

"Well - that's good! That's what I've been telling you to do for weeks
and weeks."

Shipman shakes her head. "I'm afraid she will think even worse of me
now."

* * *

(Part VIIIb to follow)
