But soon Carry's head falls back, her senses ravished, and Miss Paulson can only rain kisses upon Carry's outstretched throat.
"Take my honey, take my honey..." murmurs the delirious girl, guiding Miss Paulson's obedient fingers.
"Love, you are so wet!"
"It is all for you: just thinking about you makes it happen!"
"But why, Carry, why?"
"So beautiful... oh, so beautiful..."
"What, my love? Why do you tremble so? This is hurting you! It must be..."
"Oh miss... oh miss..."
"What is it, Carry? Why, darling, how you convulse! What awful sickness is this?"
Caught up now in her final urgency, Carry has seized her hand with unsuspected strength and is frenziedly teaching it those surprisingly forceful movements which will damp for a time the fire of her passion. Indeed, Miss Paulson fears that some injury may be done, until Carry falls back with a sweet moan, seemingly at peace once more.
"Carry, are you hurt, my beautiful darling? What awful thing just happened?"
Carry is still out of breath, but her flushed features are now radiant with dreamy satiation. "I am well, dear Miss Paulson, I assure you! — Oh! Oh!" – Carry shudders again – "But in that one sweet moment, the sweetest moment, I am freed from the agony of love... Oh!"
"But you were sobbing! Confess it, I have hurt you! O my darling Carry, what have I done to you in that moment of madness?"
"Dear Miss Paulson, do you not see that with your healing fingers you have released me —"
"Released you? Do you mean that that takes away the pain, as we rub a child's knee when she falls over?"
"— Yes, just so! — and then to find you kissing me with your sweet lips..." Her eyes brimming with grateful tears, a tender smile upon her lips, Carry lightly rests her fingers upon Miss Paulson's cheek; slowly, she shakes her head, as if in disbelief. "...Oh, it is not for you to call me beautiful. It is you who are beautiful."
"Carry, Carry, do not look at me like that, or I shall be compelled to kiss you again."
"Kiss me, then, dear Miss Paulson, and rekindle in me that sweet agony..."
"Oh, no!" Miss Paulson draws back. "What has happened to us — to me? I have become mad. O Carry, darling, forgive me!"
The last bell begins to sound, summoning the girls to night assembly. Miss Paulson stands, suddenly mindful of duty.
"We must go!"
"O stay, dearest..."
"Carry! This cannot be! We cannot listen to the voice of passion, of madness! No! You'll tear my blouse! You'll tear it!"
"O stay!"
"There will be scandal! Ah, you know it! We shall be ruined, Carry!"
"I shall go mad without you!"
Miss Paulson begins to be afraid, and an edge of severity enters her voice. "Carry Walmsley, someone will find us! Now let go, let go at once!"
Carry looks down abashed; then, artfully, using her eyelashes to greatest effect:
"Then... will you promise me that we will have our next tutorial at your cottage, dear Miss Paulson? At least, give me hope of that!"
"Very well, just so long as you let go!"
Finally, Miss Paulson is free.
"Good night, then, dear Miss Paulson."
"Good night, Carry! Oh, what have I done?" and Miss Paulson bustles out, overwhelmed and afraid at the forces she has unleashed.
At first, Miss Paulson had been rueful about being accommodated in the crude little gamekeeper's cottage in the school grounds. The floors of rough stone, the cracked walls, the ill-fitting doors and windows make this a spartan abode indeed in foul weather. But for the first time she must count her relative isolation as a blessing, for in her turmoil she must needs pace to and fro, crying out alternately in joy and despair.
And is there not cause enough for joy? Ever since adolescence, Miss Paulson has written herself down for the solitude of a spinster: with her somewhat pinched nose, thick glasses and accursedly freckled complexion, she has convinced herself that no man would look twice at her; and now, the immaculately fair Carry Walmsley has attested to her beauty, not only in words but in the most passionate of deeds. Hotly though she denied those attestations, their memory makes her blush with pleasure.
But is there not cause enough for despair? For surely the eldest daughter of an impecunious duke will be marked down for marriage. Even without that, to imagine a life of harmonious intimacy with her beloved is to fly in the face of every social norm; and to allow such intimacy to repeat itself must be to risk disgrace, dispossession and eviction even from this poor little cottage.
But then, unbidden, comes the recollection of Carry's ruby lips, her breathless endearments, the wonderful warmth of her exquisite body; and once again Miss Paulson winces in forbidden joy. And there it is: that damned throbbing, that insistent ache – what Carry had spoken of as the "agony of love". Sighing, Miss Paulson seeks to distract herself, as she has done a number of times before, by reading from Mr Bentham or Mr Mill; for she knows that without such diversion she will not have even an hour's rest.
But after a quarter of an hour attempting to read Mr Bentham's Principles Adverse to that of Utility, she is forced to acknowledge the truth: her imagination is wholly occupied with the recollection of the delicious Miss Walmsley – her soft, gentle lips, her eager yet tantalizing kiss, that long, smooth thigh, and yes, that beautifully shy and sensitive area where the least touch elicited such sweet sighs, such grateful gasps!
It is a matter for shame that for many years Miss Paulson had assumed that part of the anatomy was but a simple, discreet crease between the limbs; but the examinations after the electrical treatment, and still more of beautiful Carry, have revealed a surprisingly complex arrangement of tissues within – almost like a delicate, pink flower.
For a moment, Miss Paulson anxiously considers whether the electrical treatment may have caused some harm to the girls, and indeed to herself — could it have provoked some kind of hernia, perhaps, or a burst vein? And is that not related to the itchy throbbing she feels so often nowadays? Yet if it were an injury, how could it be so swiftly aroused by the association of ideas – the sound of the little bell in the laboratory, for example – or the merest thought of Carry, and Carry's thought of her?
For a moment Miss Paulson puzzles over this strange circumstance; and then, with a leap of insight, she finds a comparison: the flow of saliva before a meal. Yes, yes, that is it: it is a reaction of some kind, a natural reaction. And perhaps, if the expectation of a meal were associated with the sounding of a bell, the flow of saliva might likewise come to be provoked by the sound merely? It is an interesting theory, and Miss Paulson makes a mental note to observe her own reactions tomorrow when the bell rings for lunch.
And now another thought comes to her. Saliva flows for a purpose: it is to facilitate the swallowing of food. Its appearance betokens need, the satisfaction of hunger. What of the wetness provoked by the electrical current? — And by the pangs of love? For sure, its purpose seems plain: to prepare for penetration by the male member. And for the first time, Miss Paulson grasps the reason why women, even those of the highest birth, permit themselves to be subjected to an act so... nauseating, so disgusting as copulation. It must be so! There is, analogous to the hunger for food, a hunger for penetration – and it is to this that the human race owes its survival.
Yet if it is a woman's lot to feel this hunger, what if no man is available? And does she not feel it, and Carry too, when they are together? But ardently though Carry encouraged her to stroke the outermost parts, she seemed not in the least anxious for penetration.
And now she thinks of it, Miss Paulson clearly recalls the distinctive swelling to which Carry directed her fingers: a small tumescence that seemed to dance delightfully under her finger-tips. Could this perhaps be part of some ingenious mechanism, provided by a beneficent Creator for the comfort of virgins, whereby the hunger for penetration might be assuaged? Could such gentle manipulation truly banish the agonizing pangs of love? Can such a simple remedy exist?
Miss Paulson realizes that it is time to correct her ignorance: fastidiousness can play no part in scientific enquiry.
Rising, she fetches down her heavy book of anatomy and consults it carefully. Sure enough, the cross-sectional diagram shows vulva, urethra, vagina, cervix, uterus, ovaries — but nothing to correspond to the surprisingly definite little swelling she remembers so vividly. Over the page, there is a frontal drawing; and yes, there are the various parts, more or less as she remembers them. Heavens! With what delicate shudders has she turned this page in the past, unwilling to cast her eye immodestly upon such a shameful image! And yet, every detail is carefully indicated with a number and a line, and in the legend she sees the Latin description: Labia Majora, Labia Minora, Vulva, Vagina, Mons Veneris... And what is this? A little protrusion, just where she had felt Carry's swelling, at the upper junction of those tender petals: number eighteen. She looks down to the legend; and to her frustration, it contains only seventeen entries. She scans the text to see if the omission is explained; but to her annoyance there is nothing, nor even any mention of the swollen, moist state induced by the electricity. What, then, is the mysterious eighteenth part? Why is its name omitted? And why is there no explanation of its function?
Stung into curiosity, Miss Paulson retires into her bedroom with the textbook, there to make careful comparison between the diagram and her own anatomy. She draws a low table up to her bedroom chair and there positions two lighted candles, close enough to illuminate their subject; and then, scientific curiosity overruling modesty, she disrobes and sits naked, her mirror in her left hand, the book in the right. Sure enough, her own Queensland is no barren ravine, but copiously flourishing indeed: below, two distinct inner lips, a deep, lush pink, moist and heavy with the fragrance of some exotic jungle flower; and there, at their apex, they merge into a little swollen ridge, quite similar to Carry's, and somewhat more prominent than that depicted in the textbook. Yet it has none of the angry, inflamed appearance of a hernia or other injurious swelling.
She puts down the book and, with the lightest and most tentative touches, she parts the tangle of red hair, the better to see this unknown territory which has awaited exploration these twenty-five years. Even this light touch is beguiling, and gently, anxious not to emulate Carry's intemperate avidity, Miss Paulson places one finger on the little swollen ridge, and with the most delicate motion explores the contours of the hidden tumescence beneath.
At once she experiences an amazing onrush of sensation which seems to temper and soothe the quite savage, almost burning irritation she has suffered so long. Suddenly limp, she puts the mirror down, allowing it to tumble noisily from her fingers in fascinated negligence. Yes, indeed it is here, this long-neglected spot, this nameless Number Eighteen, that has tormented and so implacably disturbed her concentration these last few weeks! Her eyes fall closed, her spine moulds itself to the chair, her body falls into delicious relaxation as her finger seeks and finds the precise spot where the very gentlest of movements bring the most exquisite, almost agonizing relief.
And then, sensing that even the effort of remaining upright in a chair may soon become too great, she rises from the chair, reluctant to part her finger from its precious discovery. She tears the covers from her bed and, heedless of night-dress, wriggles between the sheets, unconsciously gasping as her nipples drag deliciously against the harsh, cool linen.
Soon she finds a comfortable rocking motion which massages Number Eighteen to perfection; it is as if her limbs are weightless, her body floating, her head spinning in sheer blessed relief. It is as if she has been suffering an agony all her life, and only now has it lifted. With her free hand, she gently touches her right breast. The nipple is unusually prominent and sensitive: the gentlest touches seem to intensify her weightless bliss. And then, suddenly, her finger makes a little motion which sends a little dart, a little thrill, deep into her. Too astonished by its novelty to recognize that she has discovered the last of Mr Bentham's simple pleasures, Miss Paulson only tries to adapt the motion of her finger to recreate the unique sensation; and after a few moments, she finds that a slightly greater pressure brings another little dart, and then another. Her breath catches, her legs jerk and she whimpers with the force of each one.
It is not long before her fingers have discovered an irregular circular motion which brings the little darts more and more often, until they seem to merge and gather force within her. And then, all of a sudden, it is as if the balance of forces is reversed: for at first the sensations were the cool, refreshing wine of relief, then they sparkled with the champagne bubbles of intensifying pleasure; and now they have distilled into a fierce, choking brandy. "No! No! Too much!" thinks Miss Paulson; but her fingers seem to know better, and nothing now can upset the rhythm of their dance. Unaware that she is pinching her nipple almost painfully hard, unaware of her bucking hips, deaf to her own little cries, Miss Paulson's consciousness is snatched away by a tide of sensation that sweeps all before it, tosses it high and holds it, holds it, rigidly awash in torturous ecstasy, before hurling it down, down – not upon jagged rocks, but into the warm, soft nest that is her own bed; and gradually the familiar contents of the room – sheets, blankets, pillow, candles, furniture – steal back into her universe, gently welcoming her home.
And now, turning over on to her side, it is no longer in the agony of desire, but only a flood of warm content that Miss Paulson recalls the sweet, innocent face of her beloved Carry – not the fierce, energetic Carry of the battledore tournament, but the soft, gentle Carry of the classroom, of the French lessons. How can such a tender creature possibly endure such a fierce onslaught of sensation, except to bask like this afterward in blissful release? And with such thoughts, Miss Paulson falls into profound and dreamless slumber.
The next morning, Miss Paulson's lateness at the staff breakfast table is excused with friendly smiles by her colleagues.
"Did you sleep well?" asks Mrs Bateson, the Head of English, as Miss Paulson takes her seat beside her.
"Never better, I thank you; and I hope the same for you?"
Mrs Bateson notices the flush on Miss Paulson's cheek.
"My, you do look well this morning, dear!"
"You are very kind, I am sure," murmurs Miss Paulson, her shoulders twitching with a little involuntary shiver; and it is true, she has never felt better, nor more comfortably relaxed.
"Won't you have some porridge, dear?"
"Oh no, I don't think I could eat anything, thank you — just some tea, don't you know..."
Mrs Bateson chuckles as she passes the pot. "Why, my dear Miss Paulson, I do believe you are picking up naughty modern habits from some of the girls!"
Miss Paulson blushes scarlet: how could Mrs Bateson possibly know?
Mrs Bateson laughs again to see the young woman's confusion. "Ha! Ha! Terribly contagious, ain't it? I say, everyone, even Miss Paulson's started to say 'Don't you know'!"
That afternoon, Penrose and Carter meet as appointed, and depart along the path toward the battledore ground.
"I wanted to thank you, Carter, for your great kindness to me," murmurs Penrose after a while.
"Why, what kindness have I done?"
"You know, telling me about that trick of crossing your legs. I know it sounds stupid, but I suppose we were always taught not to sit that way, and I'd never discovered it before."
"Oh, that..." Lucy looks away, somewhat puzzled. "Well, it helps if you want to go during classes..."
"I know! I've never heard it called that before, but... well, just between us, I've been 'going' in all the most boring classes. It's such fun, Carter. Nobody has the least idea what you're doing, do they?" Penrose turns a starry smile to her benefactress, who however seems utterly confused.
Carter's expression is one of startled horror. "What, you wet yourself in class? Ugh! I can't believe that's what you mean!"
"No, silly! Of course not! — Oh, I see what you meant now. No, I do it when I want to come off. That's what you're supposed to call it, don't you know." Carter still appears utterly confused. "Oh you know, the climax! When one goes all a-shiver!"
"You sound as if you think I should know what you're talking about, Penrose. I'm afraid I don't."
"You mean you've never... you've never come?"
Carter weathers Penrose's look of incredulity with honest bafflement. "Come?"
"Never...?"
Carter shakes her head in sad incomprehension.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed..." Penrose turns away, suddenly blushing.
Carter burns to ask her new friend to elaborate, but senses Penrose's embarrassment. They walk on in an awkward silence.
Soon, they are overtaken by Miss Paulson, who has picked up her dress a little and is running, actually running down to her little cottage, an ebony ruler in her hand. They curtsey as is customary, but Miss Paulson scarcely acknowledges them:
"Good afternoon, ladies!" — and she is gone in a swishing of silks.
"What a hurry she is in!" remarks Penrose.
"I expect she's busy now she's doing all this extra science."
There is another pensive silence, eventually broken by Penrose.
"Do you think she's pretty, Carter?"
"Honestly, Penrose, I try not to think about it." Carter's eyes are downcast as they walk.
"Why, what do you mean?"
Carter sighs. "I mean that for one such as I, thoughts of physical beauty are apt to be rather depressing."
Too late, Penrose claps her hand to her mouth: she should have guessed that Carter might find this a painful subject.
"It is not as if I am not reminded almost daily," Carter continues in a wry monotone, "that with a surfeit of women to choose from, no man will take for a wife someone with a wayward eye and crooked cursed teeth." The corner of her mouth momentarily descends into a little grimace which is oddly fascinating.
"Oh but Carter, not all men go by physical appearances," Penrose rushes to reassure her; but then, doubting the wisdom of this approach, she adds rather lamely, "— don't you know."
"Ah, yes, there will be the philosophical type of man," Carter waves her hand in airy irony, "for whom appearance is nothing. He will seek a warm and cheerful heart, the inability to spell, and excellence in mathematics. And how charming that will be – a life spent earnestly discussing calculus and the volumes of spheres! And then one day he will see a pretty creature like Walmsley or Shipman or you, Penrose..."
"Oh..."
"Yes, or you, indeed, and he will hate and despise me for being an ugly obstacle to his happiness, and will ill-treat me and berate me for the rest of my life. No, Penrose, I have humiliations enough without aspiring to marriage." She narrows her eyes once or twice in a twitch of displeasure.
"But... but you have a very pretty smile," protests Penrose, "really you do, Carter."
Carter blushes at this, the first compliment she has ever received, but nevertheless turns upon her companion a grimace of a smile which is deliberately and comically hideous.
Again, Penrose's hand flies to her mouth, she hunches her shoulders and squeals with laughter. Her eyes are bright. Penrose's mirth is contagious: Carter relaxes and laughs too, but at once Penrose is serious.
"You know, it's true, Carter. You are pretty when you laugh. Your teeth don't look so bad really."
"Even a dragon looks pretty when she laughs. Have you ever seen a dragon laugh?"
"No, Carter, I'm not just saying it."
Carter is silent, still pink-cheeked. Penrose presses her point.
"Besides... there are those men who... I'm told... judge us girls on other things, don't you know."
"Other things?" Carter's voice is low.
"Yes. Such as... our ankles... our legs... or..." Penrose bites her lip. "...Or our chest, don't you know."
"Huh! A very low, common sort of man that would be," Carter asserts with a dismissive toss of her head.
They walk on a while in silence.
"Why do you say that, Carter? About that sort of thing being low and common?"
"Why... you speak of a woman's body... unclothed. That kind of attraction is base, animal. That is how savages are. Gentlemen, on the other hand, go by one's face alone. Nanny always said to distrust a man who looked upon your... chest. It is a sign of vulgarity, of coarseness. It is indecent to look upon a lady so. What sort of man would judge a woman on the shape of her body?"
"But surely that is nonsense, Carter. Why think you that dukes and earls furnish their gardens with marble statues of fair naked maidens?"
"I do not deny that even those in high position may have a savage and ignoble temperament," Carter replies with crisp aloofness, "but you must remember the words of our blessed Saviour, who said that he who looks lustfully upon a woman has already committed adultery with her in his heart." And she gives a delicate little shudder.
Again, Penrose falls silent for a while. When she turns aside on to the path that leads to the rose garden, Carter follows her lead.
"D'you find it agreeable in the rose garden?"
"It is tranquil there."
"Yes."
The roses are past their best now, but there are benches where one may sit, surrounded by hedges. It is a pretty spot, no doubt set up by the people at the Great House long before it became a school. And there, sure enough, is a charming statue upon a pedestal, making a centre-piece. It is Diana, fitting an arrow to her bow. She is not naked, but her perfunctory drapes leave little to the imagination.
"There!" cries Penrose, indicating the statue.
Carter looks toward it briefly, then turns back to her companion. "Well? What of it?"
"Is it not beautiful? Can one not appreciate its beauty without lustful thoughts? Why, I am a lady, and even I can appreciate its beauty. Where is the lust? Can one commit adultery with a little statue? Come, let us examine it closer."
Reluctantly, and with blushing countenance, Carter lifts her skirts a little as she steps on to the raised lawn, her other hand grasped firmly by the resolute Penrose.
"Look at her from this angle, Carter. Even as a mathematician, your eye must see and admire the curve of her back, the shape of that arm. Confess it, now, the human body is a marvel of beauty, which this artist has displayed to perfection. Why should it be dark sin to admire the handiwork of the Lord God?"
Carter is speechless, and seems to be breathing heavily, apparently wrestling with her reluctance to admire the statue.
"Do you feel nothing? Does it not affect you, to see this beauty?"
"She is... she is..."
"...Beautiful, yes. Of course, she doesn't have your lovely figure, Carter, but then again she isn't tight-laced into a corset either."
"But I wear no corset!"
Penrose wheels round, round-eyed with derision. "O Carter! You of all people! What nonsense!"
"No, I have never worn a corset. My mother would not permit it. Such things are precisely designed to attract the baser type of man. She would never have it. No, she wrote to the Head, and I was excused."
"But everybody says you —"
"Oh, everybody says, everybody says... It is quite clear that I know only the tiniest fraction of the lies and gossip which circulate about me."
"So it really isn't true? I can scarcely believe it."
"What? That I am really thin at the waist? Why should that be so hard to believe? Some are thick: I am thin. That is all."
"And they say you lace yourself so tight to make up for your... oh dear..."
"...for my ugly face, is that it? Well you can tell them that for once they're wrong!" Carter's good eye – it is surprising how quickly one learns to ignore the other one – is blazing with anger now.
"O Carter, I'm sorry. Why are we so horrible to one another?"
They stand for a while, looking at the graceful Diana. Carter puts up her hand, feels the smooth marble of the huntress's leg. As she calms, her caress becomes slightly more sensuous. From behind her, Penrose's voice is deeper and a little tremulous.
"When I was at Elementary, my freckles were worse than they are now. And do you know what they used to call me?"
Carter looks at the statue, runs a finger over the ridge of a tendon, not knowing how to reply.
"They called me spotty, and laughed at me when I cried. I hated it when they did that to me; so then, why do I... O my God, Carter, I'm so sorry..."
It is simply the done thing, one does it without a thought: when a young woman bursts into tears, another will take her into her arms to comfort her. It is only natural.
"O Penrose, Penrose, I forgive you... You weren't the only one..."
Penrose shakes her head a little and looks at Carter imploringly through her tears. Carter's mouth has lost its ironic tightness now. Her lips, though thin, are warm and soft, concerned, caring; and so close, really so close to Penrose's, a little open in supplication.
And for Carter, it is only natural to seal the forgiveness with a kiss; only natural that her hands should forsake the horrid, leathery hardness of Penrose's corset – one up to a snuggling shoulder, the other down to the warm, voluptuous curves beneath; natural, too, to respond to the gentle, affectionate pressure of those sweet young hips, those charmingly pointy little breasts whose delightful soft friction against one's own, even through two sets of clothes, inspires the tenderest affection, the sweetest of kisses.
"Dear Penrose!" breathes Carter, overcome with emotion.
"You must call me Vicky — that is, if you'd like."
"And we shall be friends?"
"Yes, we shall."
"Then you must call me by my first name, also. I'm Lucy."
Penrose jumps back, apparently shocked. "Your name is Lucy?"
"Yes. Lucy. Why?"
"Of course! Of course! It all fits together!"
"What do you mean?"
"O bother! — I and my stupid wagging tongue... I wasn't to say anything! Now look what I've done..." Penrose lectures herself in an angry undertone; then frowns and bites her knuckle as if in thought. "Mind, I'm beginning to see why..."
"Why what, Vicky? Why are you being so mysterious all of a sudden?"
Penrose looks at Lucy Carter with a kind of awe: "I... I promised not to tell... But yes, I believe you should know some of it... Come, let's sit over there on the bench. I need to think a minute."
"Why are you looking at me like that, Vicky? You make me feel like the Loch Ness Monster." Again, that fascinating little ironic twitch at the corner of the mouth.
"I do believe I am beginning to understand it myself, now," Penrose says, gazing wistfully at her friend.
"I don't know what you mean. I do wish you would stop speaking in riddles, Vicky."
"Let me explain. Of course people... we... have been rather ill-treating you recently. It's so stupid."
"Recently? People have always been unpleasant to me. Teachers, the other girls, everyone. Perhaps I'm just used to it by now."
"Well, one person... I mustn't tell you who... One person has been particularly catty about you recently — just in the last few days. But the fact is..." Vicky lowers her voice almost to a whisper, her eyes suddenly alight with mischievous relish — "...she has the most terrible crush on you! Now what do you think of that?"
"Crush? What's that? Oh, you don't mean..."
"I mean she's in love with you, Lucy. She loves you madly, and she's afraid to let anyone know! She was so nasty about you behind your back! — And everybody else just joined in. And now I see why she did it! It was so that nobody would suspect!"
Lucy stares unseeing into the distance, carefully assuming a vague expression. Inwardly, she seethes with emotion: a mix of almost vertiginous elation and boiling anger. She wants to cry "The bitch!", as she once heard one of her least favourite Nannies described by her father in a moment of rare passion after she had received a particularly savage beating. All she does say is:
"I think she should be taught a lesson... whoever she is."
Vaguely sensing Lucy's elation and anger, Vicky remains silent.
"And whatever it is she feels for me, it cannot be love. You say she is in love with me. But if that were true, would she not tell me so? And how could she speak ill of me to others? How could she? No, that is not love, Vicky. Whatever it is, it is not love: it is something base. No wonder she is ashamed. I think you love me more truly than she does."
There is another thoughtful pause; and then, "Lucy, I think I may have lit upon a good way to teach... her that lesson. For you are right, you know. She cannot truly love you."
"And so what do you propose, pray?"
"We let it be known that there is someone else who loves you truly, and not in any base sense; and that you truly love her too."
"But how would that teach this person a lesson? I do not see it."
"It would make her jealous! If her love for you is of an ignoble sort, then she is sure to be afflicted with jealousy!"
"I suppose you are right... But nobody would believe such a thing!"
"But if someone were to see you, Lucy, arm-in-arm with your friend, and maybe even chastely kissing in purest friendship, would not people then have to believe?"
"But who would be seen kissing the changeling girl?" Lucy looks into Vicky's eyes, puzzled at first, and then, with the dawning of her realization, she sees once more those supplicant lips: and what more fitting way to acknowledge such nobility of spirit than to kiss them in most tender gratitude? But what a strange burning there is now in her chest! What strange flutterings in her belly!
"O Vicky! How very noble you are! But... I am not sure..."
"Not sure, Lucy?" Vicky looks deep into Lucy's eye, and moves to return the kiss.
But Lucy puts her hand to Vicky's cheek – a gesture of the most tender restraint.
"Vicky, you are most wonderfully kind — and courageous... Only I am afraid..."
"Afraid? But why?" Vicky's gaze seems to search for an answer.
"I do not know... Only, let me ponder it for a little while, dear Vicky, I beg you. I am so confused!" Lucy turns away, overwhelmed by her thoughts.
Sensing her friend's distraction, Vicky takes Lucy's hand in her own, and kisses it softly.
"Dear Lucy... of course you shall think, my dear. And now I shall leave you to do so."
"Vicky, dear..."
But Vicky has already sprung up, light as air, as if freed from the guilt of her misdeeds, and is skipping away down the path. At the gate, she turns for a moment to smile and wave, but Carter is already distracted in thought once more.
Her mind racing, Lucy gives her thighs a squeeze. Could it be Shipman? With a shudder, she remembers their confrontation in the library: Shipman had not attempted to deny it; but what if Shipman were circulating a similar rumour about her, as a kind of revenge? No, surely not. Besides, if Shipman cares for anyone, it is Clark. She squeezes her thighs again in annoyed contempt. And what of Denning? Yes, why not Denning, indeed? She had been particularly unpleasant recently, had she not? What if it were Denning that felt some base, unnatural attraction — Lucy gives an excited little shudder: how sweet it is to have such power over another, for once! Another little squeeze, and a thrill of power!
Yes, if an attraction is not true love, then it must needs be something base and physical. What was it Vicky said? Ankles, or legs, or... breasts? Her own are tingling still from that delicious contact with Vicky, and as she squeezes her legs again she feels deep in her stomach a kind of excitement. How exciting, to think that a woman's breast might actually be found beautiful – even the subject of adoration! She looks at the statue of Diana. Yes, true, a naked breast is a comely thing; and true, her own are larger than most girls', almost as prominent as Walmsley's — and does Walmsley not receive almost universal, uncritical adulation?
As is her habit, she has been sitting with her arms across her chest, her fingers lightly tapping on her shoulders as she thinks; it is a defensive, comforting position; but now, curious, she lowers her hands, looks down at herself, raises her breasts a little. "Is it you? And you?" She gives them a little squeeze: they tingle still, and the nipples are firm and tender. Another little gentle squeeze — really very comforting. Just to think: some wretched girl – yes, perhaps Denning – doing what? Dreaming of her? Wanting to hold her, kiss her, fall at her feet? A jealous, possessive passion, perhaps? She must stand more upright, Lucy thinks: shoulders back, make the most of her charms — and be watchful: surely, if she is watchful, she will see some sign – a stare, perhaps, or a longing glance – and then she will know that she has power, power that she must use wisely, the power to raise up or to cast down.
Once more she squeezes her legs and aching nipples – it is a sweet ache – and once more comes that strange thrill of elation: deep inside at first, it seems to surge within her. She can visualize her mystery lover now, at her feet, imploring. But whose face does she have? Shipman's? Denning's? Again she flexes her thighs, and again, and an emotional tide seems to rise up and propel her into a state of the most extraordinary elation, followed by an equally extraordinary mental calm. "The good Lord has shown me the way," she thinks as her mind clears, "and if He in His wisdom has granted me some small degree of power, then I must use it wisely and mercifully."
Rising unsteadily, and just a little breathless, she makes her slow and thoughtful way back to the school buildings.
"Please miss?" It is the seventh meeting of the Scientific Society, and Shipman has a special request. "May I do some work with coils, please?"
"Yes, of course, Shipman. I am sure that Carter will be able to explain things to you — why, Carter, what's the matter? There's no need to look so embarrassed. Remember the old saying: to teach something is to understand it for the first time. I am sure I can rely on you."
"Very well, miss," murmurs Carter sombrely.
It is odd: normally Carter is so keen, but now she seems to be making a show of reluctance.
Miss Paulson watches the awkward pair until she can be sure that Carter has begun a methodical explanation of the work so far. The girl has a good understanding, and soon her awkwardness seems to be forgotten. Good: Miss Paulson turns to the others.
"Very well: who will be brave enough to volunteer today?"
Inconveniently, all but Prudence Miller seem anxious to demonstrate their courage. Eventually, Kershaw is chosen.
While Miss Paulson's attention is distracted, Shipman tugs at Carter's sleeve, interrupting her discourse on the properties of coils.
"Yes, yes, I know. But Lucy, Lucy, why are you being so horrible to me?"
"I'm not being horrible, Shipman. You are. I'm trying to explain this to you and I don't think you're listening."
"I am!"
"Then kindly don't interrupt. As I was saying, the movement of a magnet through the coil produces an electrical current..."
Shipman is trying to listen, but there is something so wonderful, so admirable about Lucy's clear, competent enthusiasm: it is as if she were a born teacher.
"...but the interesting thing is, that if a current is passed through the coil..."
"Lucy!"
"Shipman, please!" Lucy's whispered exasperation strikes Shipman like a whiplash.
Shipman looks down in shame, her eyes glittering with repressed tears; then looks at Lucy in soft-eyed penitence, determined to listen.
Appeased, Lucy continues her monologue as placidly as she can. "As I was saying, if a current is passed through the coil, it becomes magnetic, and an iron rod in the centre, which we call a core, will be attracted magnetically. I am now interested to see whether, by interrupting the electrical flow, some inconstant, oscillating motion might be induced into the core." For the first time, Carter turns to Shipman and looks into her eyes.
"Oscillating?"
"Yes. A reciprocating to-and-fro motion could then be used to propel a rotary engine, as with steam." Lucy Carter's good eye has the glint, and her voice the quiet tremor, of enthusiasm. It is infectious.
"You mean... the electrical current could be used to replace steam?"
"Perhaps... in places where steam might be inconvenient, you know... such as underground, or..." Carter stares into the distance, her eyes unfocused, contemplating the infinite possibilities.
"...And actually move things!" Shipman's imagination is suddenly caught.
"Yes!" Carter turns back to Shipman, and sees in her face the birth of the same enthusiasm. "But how do we introduce the reciprocating motion?"
"Think of a steam engine, Lucy! How do they cause the piston to reverse direction?"
"Why, with valves, of course."
"And with electricity, what is it that works like a valve?"
"Why, a switch!"
"Exactly! Then, Lucy, can we not connect a switch to the moving core, just as in a steam engine a valve is connected to the reciprocating piston?"
"Ah!" Lucy rocks back in her chair, her eyes unfocused and widely divergent. "Felicity, that is wonderful! I think I see it! Wait! Yes! Some paper, and a pencil!"
Miss Paulson turns momentarily aside from her observation of Kershaw's mounting excitement, diverting though it is, to look at Carter and Shipman. Carter has evidently been sketching a diagram; and whatever it is, Shipman is standing, bent over it, pointing and talking excitedly. "Dear me," she thinks, for the graceful sideways curve of Shipman's lower back, and the fall of her skirts, are wonderfully fetching.
"Please, miss, it's now a hundred and twenty-eight!" remarks Walmsley sententiously, recalling Miss Paulson from her reverie.
"Very good, Walmsley." Miss Paulson congratulates herself on the calm, level tone of her reply; it seems that every time Walmsley speaks or moves she now feels a thrill in her heart, an extraordinary excitement deep in her belly. She is like Saint Sebastian, a martyr to love's exquisitely painful darts.
"Shall I take them off, miss?" asks Clark.
Miss Paulson forces her mind to address the question. Kershaw seems wildly excited: it is as if the pangs of the electrical force have the same character and effects as those of love. The bell is ringing constantly.
"No... No, keep them there!" pants Kershaw.
"Kershaw seems extraordinarily anxious to continue, does she not, Clark?" asks Miss Paulson coolly. "Your stoicism does you credit, Kershaw. Perhaps we should wait a little while, and observe."
"Oh yes, oh yes..." Kershaw begins tugging violently with arms and legs, causing her holders to brace themselves; her face is frowning as if in intense concentration. Then, suddenly, her eyes snap open. Her breath comes fast and shallow: "Ah! Ah!"
"Is it becoming too much for you, Kershaw?" asks Miss Paulson anxiously – for is this surfeit of agitation not strangely familiar?
Clark bends forward, using all her weight to maintain the contacts in position. "Benson! French! Hold her knees! Hold her knees!"
All the girls seem to be breathing heavily; eyes are gleaming, lips are parted, bosoms heaving. Penrose seems a little unsteady on her feet. Miller looks from one to another, observing, scribbling furiously in her exercise-book.
Staring, Kershaw takes an immense lungful of air, as if to cry out. But instead, her entire body becomes tense, her eyes fall closed once more and her mouth forms an agonized grimace. Surely this nervous excitation is becoming excessive, thinks the anxious teacher:
"Oh! Kershaw! What's wrong?"
But the girls seem unconcerned, even a little determined that Kershaw shall not escape their grip; still rigid, she exhales noisily through her clenched teeth once, twice, three times, in deep, vehement gasps like stifled coughs. So rigid is she that only the trilling of the bell, and the quivering of her stomach, betray her inner turmoil. And then she exhales a long, sweet sigh, and falls back as if exhausted.
Instinctively, the girls holding her limbs relax. whatever it was, the crisis seems to be over. Clark removes the contacts with a satisfied air.
Overcome, Penrose totters in a swoon, and is caught by French. "Unlace her, please, French," says Miss Paulson calmly, and under her breath, "silly girl," before turning back to the dazed Kershaw. "Is she recovering?"
"I think she's very well, miss," murmurs Clark, "— aren't you, Kershaw?"
But a dreamy sigh is the only response of which Kershaw is capable.
Miss Paulson turns to Carry Walmsley. She too is panting a little, an attractive flush upon her cheeks, eyes glittering. It seems unusually warm: there is a curious fragrance in the air. Miss Paulson has noticed it before.
"Please miss, what... what happened?" asks Denning; but Clark elbows her and whispers something in her ear.
Miss Paulson appears preoccupied for a moment; but then gathers her wits. "Ah, Miller?"
"Yes, miss?" Miller has been scribbling her notes assiduously.
"Be quick with your notes; and then perform the usual tests."
"Very good, miss."
"And Miller?"
"Miss?"
"Don't forget to test Shipman and Carter."
"Yes, miss. No, miss."
Hearing her name, Carter is distracted. "Did she say we should be tested? What does she mean?"
"You'll see," responds Shipman, "I'll get her to do me first. Now look, Lucy, I've had an idea. Give me your pencil..." And she begins to sketch another diagram. When finally Miller approaches with her notebook, Shipman raises herself a little way off her chair, and lifts her skirts at the rear.
"What on earth are you doing?" asks Carter, aghast.
"She's just feeling my underneath," says Shipman with a little grunt, "to see if I'm wet."
"Ugh!"
"It's all in the cause of science," says Miller piously, inscribing "Damp" against Shipman's name.
Reluctantly, Carter likewise raises herself and lifts her skirts. "Be quick! We're busy! Ooh! My God!"
"Oh, language, Carter!" grins Shipman.
"What's she doing?" gasps Carter.
"I'm just testing," says Miller in a small voice; and after a moment she withdraws her hand. Against Carter's name she writes "Nothing!"
Carter pulls her skirts down and sits heavily, her eyes staring. "Well!" she exclaims, breathless with indignation: it is most surprising to be handled so brusquely in such a sensitive place. But then, in the absence of any reaction from Shipman, she leans forward to examine the new diagram. "Oh yes... I see... that should work. Perhaps we should arrange to see Mr Jepson, to see how such a thing can be made. But this drawing is too imprecise. Give me the pencil. I think I can see how it should be done..."
"Ah, Carter?"
This time, it is Miss Paulson who interrupts. Carter quells her impatience and assumes a meek expression.
"Yes, miss?"
"I think you're the only one here who hasn't had the treatment. Would you be willing to undergo it? It would very much help our experiment."
Carter pales and bites her lip, then reluctantly rises from her chair. "Very well, miss."
"Don't worry, Carter," says Walmsley reassuringly, "it's not that bad."
Carter flashes her a look of gratitude, then hops up on to the table. Benson slips off her shoes. The next moment, Carter lets out a piercing squeal, causing everyone to jump back in shock. "I'm sorry, it's just that she touched my toes and... I'm terribly ticklish. Might I do it myself, please?"
"Yes of course she can, Benson," says Miss Paulson soothingly, while Carter ties the bell to her toe. "Clark, you had better be particularly careful. I will hold her skirts for you."
Clark is as careful as she can, but the trailing wires are her undoing.
"No no no no no!" squeals Carter. Again, everyone jumps back, ears ringing. The room seems still to reverberate with Carter's high-pitched squeal. "I'm very sorry..." mumbles Carter abjectly. "I... I could do it myself, if you showed me where to put them."
"Hmmm. Very well. But we will need to monitor your heart-rate somehow. And... I am afraid that we will have to raise your skirts... rather far."
"Oh, that's all the same to me," says Carter airily. "It's all for the good of science."
"Exactly, Carter. Very well: give her the gloves, then, Clark."
"Please, miss, how are we to monitor her heart if she is holding the contacts?" objects Walmsley.
"Miss Carter, would you have any objection to opening your blouse a little so that Walmsley can feel your heart?"
"Very well, miss. Would you do it please, Walmsley? I can't with these gloves."
Walmsley unbuttons Carter's blouse.
Carter whimpers and kicks her legs as Walmsley slides her hand into position: "Please don't move your hand, Walmsley. I'm so very sensitive there."
Walmsley's eyes sparkle as she takes up the watch. "Ninety-eight," she pronounces after a few seconds.
"Very well. Now I shall raise your skirts, Carter," says Miss Paulson in her most soothing tone of voice. "Ready?"
Carter nods, biting her lip, and Miss Paulson smoothly gathers the layers of fabric up to Carter's waist. There is a universal gasp of approval at what is revealed, and one or two envious glances.
"Just guide her hands, Clark."
"One hundred and eight."
"You're very nervous, Carter."
"I'm well, I think, miss."
"Whenever you're ready, then, Carter."
There is a long pause, and then, with an effort of will, Carter puts the contacts firmly in position. Her eyes go wide, and then she begins to moan as if in considerable discomfort. The bell jingles constantly.
"All right, Carter?"
"Mmmm.. I think so... Oooh..." she gasps.
"Try it up just a little," suggests Clark, closing one eye and narrowing the other as if gauging the best position.
"Up? Like... Aaah..." For a moment Carter is silent, seemingly a little shocked, and then her face breaks into a lazy smile. She begins to laugh, and then to giggle: "Ha ha ha oh my, oh my..."
Miss Paulson raises an eyebrow at Miller, who is faithfully noting this over-sensitive subject's extraordinary reaction.
"One hundred and twelve."
"Oh ha ha ha... may I just have a little rest?"
"Yes, Carter, of course."
Carter takes a few deep breaths, then carefully reapplies the contacts, adjusting their position until she lapses once again into quiet laughter, almost noiseless this time.
"She's very tense, miss," observes Benson, panting. She lets go of Carter's ankles, and at once Carter draws up her knees, spreading her thighs more comfortably.
"Did Kershaw lick her lips constantly like that, Miller? I know one or two of the others did."
"Walmsley certainly did, miss," Miller responds while leafing through her exercise-book, "and Shipman... Yes, Kershaw too."
"It's a curious phenomenon, Miller. We must keep an eye out for it. It may be significant."
"Yes, miss."
"One hundred and twelve."
Carter's quiet laughter has subsided by now, to be replaced by noisy and erratic breathing, and the occasional whimper. Suddenly her legs kick out straight, causing the bell to jingle all the merrier.
"She's gone stiff... frowning... Just like Kershaw... Oh my goodness!" Miss Paulson is not the only one to spot what has happened. "Don't touch her, Clark."
Clark draws back her hand and brings it to her mouth in anxiety: for Carter has pressed one of the contact wires clear through her skin and drawn a tiny bright bead of blood.
Carter's mouth is wide open, her lips quivering as if she is trying to stretch them to their widest possible extent. Her heels drum upon the table: in such a state of over-excitation the little bell seems a ridiculous superfluity. And then, after two gusty exhalations which seem to shake her entire body, she flings the wires away, clutches both hands to the affected area, clamps both legs together and rolls on to her side.
"Carter, Carter, are you all right?"
"Ohh... Ohhh..." she moans.
Miss Paulson looks at the bystanders. Clark, Walmsley, Kershaw and Penrose are beaming, eyes twinkling, apparently not in the least concerned by these dramatic symptoms. Even Miller does not seem particularly distressed. But Shipman, who has been panting rather more than most, totters dangerously, her eyes rolling. "Kershaw, Walmsley! It's Shipman – catch her, quick!" It is an annoyance, thinks Miss Paulson: girls are continually fainting. It is only to be expected if they must vie with one another in over-tightening their corsets.
Meanwhile, Carter is laughing again, weakly, helplessly.
"Carter, are you all right, my dear?"
"Oh, yes, yes, thank you, miss." Gradually recovering, she raises herself upon one elbow.
"I think you've hurt yourself: look." Miss Paulson points.
"Oh, that's just a little prick. It's nothing," shrugs Carter, untying the bell with something akin to nonchalance. "That was so strange!"
"Well I think she was very brave, don't you, ladies?"
There is a universal hum of admiration.
"You were wonderful, Carter," murmurs Walmsley appreciatively. "I'd like to talk to you some time about your family."
"Are you feeling better?" Miss Paulson asks, still a little anxious.
"Just a little weak... But quite well, I think." Carter looks about her, vaguely.
"It's always a little strange — the first time," Walmsley reassures her with a smile.
Carter returns the smile. Everybody seems to be smiling quietly at her – even Shipman, who seems already quite recovered. Carter blushes.
"Come on, then," calls Shipman, pointing to Carter's incomplete drawing. "I want to see what you had in mind."
She returns to her desk, watched in awe by all the bemused members of the Scientific Society. She picks up her pencil, and begins to hum a little tune quietly to herself.
Miss Paulson shrugs, amazed at the resilience of youth.