Late that evening, there comes a knock at Miss Paulson's door.
"Come in," Miss Paulson moans in despair. Her heart is hammering: the very thought of further intimacy with Carry fills her with a mixture of joy and panic, and it is the panic that is predominant. She knows that once unleashed, she will be unable to control her passion — and to what disgrace or tragedy would that lead?
And that is why, for the past quarter of an hour, she has steeled herself to end this folly: she has recited once again the speech she composed in her mind this afternoon, re-enacted the scene in her mind. She will stand just so, her hands just so, expressive of resolution.
"Miss Walmsley!" she will say in a clear, firm voice.
"Yes, miss..." Carry will be deferential, as always.
"This simply cannot go on. Your parents expect you to marry. I am your teacher, entrusted with your virtue. Your good name as Head Girl, mine as a Senior Mistress, and that of the school cannot be tarnished by scandal. Miss Walmsley, I must ask – no, I must demand – that whatever affection you feel for me you should henceforth channel into pure thoughts, hard work, greater achievement, and the good of your family and your school. And I must require that in future you confine your discourse with me entirely to that which is proper to our standing as teacher and pupil. Is that quite clear?" The clenched fists: they are important. The commanding nod of the head. And Carry will respond,
"Yes, miss..." — sadly, to be sure, but obediently.
And then she will turn, and she will look thus – just a little over Miss Walmsley's head – the stern glare of duty!
But what has happened? She has heard those dainty footfalls, that little hesitation on the step, that musical little gasp of emotion – and now, a sudden, rapid, tremulous knocking; and in her mind's eye she sees, as if upon a mountain-top, outshining all heaven's rays, that vision of beauty now standing upon her doorstep – knows, too, that if once she weakens and turns to confront those clasped hands, that yearning breast, those ruby lips, those pleading, innocent, lapis lazuli eyes, she may as well cast herself upon the ground in worship.
In despair, clenching those fists not in resolution but in desperation, "Come in!" moans Miss Paulson. And there it is, that familiar yet unfamiliar sound: the click of the latch, the light feet upon the flagstone, the closing door. Together, alone.
"Miss Walmsley!" she tries to say; but it is nothing but a sob of breath.
"Miss Paulson, I must apologize for my unseemly behaviour. It is with the sincerest regret that I beg your forgiveness for my..."
Miss Paulson clasps her hands in impulsive gratitude. O wonderful, noble spirit! How wonderfully does this unexpected contrition ease matters!
"...most forward and unladylike behaviour. I assure you that never again will I address you other than in the terms of utmost respect, and never should I wish to bring down dishonour or scandal upon your most respected and admirable person, nor upon the untarnished reputation of our school."
Miss Paulson feels that some suitably magnanimous response should issue from her lips. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing happens.
But if she lacks resolve, Lady Caroline seems to gain in confidence.
"As you recommended in our last lesson, I have now committed to heart the conjugations of all the families of verbs. To assure you of my most assiduous attention, I will now recite the chiefest of these. For brevity, I will confine myself to the first and second persons singular, and the first person plural, from which the other formations follow naturally. Will that be acceptable?"
"Oh, yes, most acceptable," gasps Miss Paulson, hearing Carry's words but scarcely grasping them in her relief.
"Very well. Aimer: j'aime, tu aimes... nous aimons. Tenir: je tiens, tu tiens, nous tenons. Frémir: je frémis, tu frémis, nous frémissons. S'émouvoir: je m'émeus, tu t'émeus, nous nous émouvons. Se dévêtir: je te dévêts, tu me dévêts, nous nous dévêtissons. Voir: je vois, tu vois, nous voyons." Carry's voice becomes lower, more musical; she pauses seductively. "Plaire: je te plais, tu me plais, nous nous plaisons. Lécher: je lèche, tu lèches, nous léchons. Venir: je viens, tu viens, nous venons. Jouir: je jouis, tu jouis, nous jouissons... Have I learned well?"
Miss Paulson's breathing is beyond control. "What are you doing to me?"
Carry seems to ignore her. "But now, if you please, miss, I should be grateful if you would instruct me further: for I find that our textbooks do not teach all the words I need."
There is the rustle of clothing. "Carry! What are you doing?"
"I do not know the words I should say... Perhaps they are not ladylike. But in French, they would not be improper, surely?"
"No, no, Carry, words cannot be improper, unless they are used to slander or to contemn... But child, what are you doing with your dress?"
"There... it is off... all quite... off. Now miss, I pray, what is the name in French for this?"
"I cannot see what it is you are talking about."
"I do not wish to use an unladylike word. I find that I must... point my... finger."
Orpheus cannot have looked upon Eurydice with greater dread; for it is to incur her own undoing that Miss Paulson turns. Lady Caroline Artemis Gloriana Walmsley is stretched decorously in her armchair, quite naked, her lovely limbs thrown out with artless grace, her golden tresses flowing over her breast, her slim white finger negligently designating the navel deep welled within her flawless belly. It is a vortex to Miss Paulson's gaze.
"This is le ventre, I know," Carry murmurs, drawing her finger lazily across her skin, "but what, pray, is this in French?"
"Oh, Carry!"
Idly, Carry dips her finger in and out, takes a deep breath. Miss Paulson cannot remove her eyes from that slender finger, gently probing in and out, caressing that velvet softness.
"It's rather deep, is it not, miss? My governess says that's pretty. I like to feel how deep it is. What is it in French, please miss? I need to know. I need..."
"Le nombril."
"Ah," she gasps, "le nombril..." Slowly, sensuously, she draws the finger up, up the valley in the firm muscle, up between the rib-bones, and then, her hands moving with graceful deliberation, she cups her breasts. "And these?"
"Le sein." Miss Paulson's voice is but a tremulous whisper.
"Ha! Le sein, le sein..." Her eyes almost closed, Carry smiles, quietly amused. "I can't say it right. Le sein, le sein..." The more she tries to avoid lisping, the more delightfully her jaw moves. "But why not les seins, if there are two of them?"
"The word means just... the whole area of the breast. One does not speak of them in the plural."
Gracefully, Carry releases her right breast and places the flat of her right hand softly upon her left. "Le sein, le sein..." she laughs a soft, dreamy laugh, but then sits upright, her gaze more serious and intent. "But I need to know what to call just this one: this one, that I'm touching. Is there a word for this, miss? I need, I need to know."
"Le téton."
"Le téton?"
"Le téton."
"They're just a little larger than most people's, don't you think? I'm glad my hair is long, long... I like to feel my hair, just gliding, gliding over the skin... I like the feeling. Do you ever let your hair down, miss, over your breasts, and feel it touch, just lightly?"
"Oh, Carry..." Miss Paulson clenches her fists in exasperation.
"I'm just making a little parting. There... do you see?" Carry's areolæ are large and pale. "I'm just drawing a little circle round it. I know what this is called in English. But it's not a polite word, is it, miss?"
"No, Carry."
"What is it in French?" Carry's voice is soft but insistent. "I need to know!"
"L'aréole." Miss Paulson's whisper is hoarse.
"L'aréole!" Carry sinks back with a little giggle and flicks her finger lightly over the tip of the nipple. "Oh... L'aréolaréolaréole... L'aréole. Is that good? Am I saying it right?"
"Yes, Carry, you're saying it beautifully." Miss Paulson clenches and unclenches her hands.
"A... ré... ole... it's a nice word. Do you think mine are too big? They're much bigger than most people's, aren't they? Do you think they're ugly?"
"No, Carry, they are..."
"But oh, they're funny, miss. I like to take my hair like this..." she takes a bunch of her hair, forms it into a little soft brush and circles it round and round the nipple. "And then it makes them shrink a little, and they get all crinkly. Haha! I like to do it to each of them! And then I wait, and watch them go all flat again. I like to do that again and again. Do you ever do that, miss?"
"No, Carry, no." Miss Paulson's chest is heaving.
"You should. Haha!" Carry gives a soft little giggle. "It's nice. How would you say it in French? Je chatouille... mon aréole? Oh no! I remember! It must be like washing your hands! J'aime... me chatouiller les aréoles; c'est... — how do you say 'It's nice?'"
"C'est agréable."
"Agréable... ah, oui, c'est très agréable... me chatouiller les aréoles... celà me fait fondre... do they say that?"
"Why, no... that means to melt... oh!"
Carry raises her leg, crosses her ankle over her knee and takes her foot. "And now... le pied, I know, and these, les doigts du pied... And this?" She strokes her fingers lightly over her sole.
"La plante du pied."
"La plante... that's easy. L'aréole, le téton, le nombril, la plante... And this part?"
"La jambe."
"But doesn't that go all the way up..." again, she draws her finger slowly up the smooth, pale skin, "...to here? Is this not la jambe?"
"Yes..."
"But what is this part of my leg, that I'm touching?" Carry strokes her calf up and down.
"Le mollet."
"Le mollet... le genou... And this?"
"La cuisse."
"La cuisse... That's difficult for me. La cuisse... but I like to do this..." she draws her finger slowly along the inside of her thigh. "I do it again and again... What's the French for 'smooth'?"
"Lisse."
"La cuisse... lisse... I must practise... La cuisse lisse... J'aime..." Carry seems to be breathing faster now. Her eyes are glassy, for she sees how affected Miss Paulson is.
"Carry..."
"...glisser les doigts sur la peau lisse de ma cuisse... Is that right, miss?"
Miss Paulson staggers: again those agonizingly sweet motions of the jaw! "Carry..."
Eyeing Miss Paulson's ill-suppressed agitation with a calculated air of innocence, Carry raises her leg and rests her ankle upon the arm of the chair, pointing her foot gracefully.
"And this is la fesse, isn't that right, miss? So could I say 'J'aime glisser les doigts du genou jusqu'à la fesse'? — Oh, look what's happened!"
"Carry, Carry, my God!"
"It's tingling so much. I have to! I have to! And does yours, too? Oh!"
Miss Paulson's self-control has finally snapped. The teacher falls to her knees, showering the breast of her beautiful pupil with ardent kisses. How sweet the smile of her lovely pupil — how sweet, and wickedly confident!
"Aaah... let me... undo... this beautiful red hair... Oh Miss Paulson, Miss Paulson..."
"Carry... Oh Carry: don't call me 'Miss Paulson'. Call me Georgie."
As they kiss, Carry buries her fingers in Miss Paulson's hair, brushes it out into a dense copper-gold curtain.
"Beautiful, beautiful Georgie... I'm getting cold," Carry moans softly, and then whispers into her lover's ear, "Georgie... darling... take me to bed."
Her mind in turmoil, her heart hammering, Carter creeps away from the window. Of course, there had been whispers. She ought not to be surprised. Everyone knew about Walmsley. But Miss Paulson — well! Shipman's little diversions rather pale into insignificance, do they not, in the light of this revelation?
Carter turns off the path to the main building, directing her steps towards the rose-garden. Soon it will be dusk, and the bell will call her to night assembly. But now she needs time to think.
How strangely her fortunes seem to have been reversed! Yesterday, she was friendless, universally derided. Today, she has a mystery lover, Penrose offering her championship and at least the semblance of a romance, Walmsley showing interest in her parentage – and since that extraordinary electrical experience, really everyone has been most conciliatory! Even French went out of her way to be pleasant at supper.
But more than that: now Carter has knowledge, knowledge about the Head Girl and one of the most highly-respected teachers in the school.
Knowledge is power, power which must be used wisely.
"Oh Carry! What did we just do?"
"Didn't you like it?"
"It was just... I am overwhelmed. I thought I was going to die."
Carry lets out a musical little giggle, which Georgie instantly punishes with a passionate kiss:
"I suppose this is pillow-talk, isn't it?"
Carry smiles. "Yes."
"It is so delicious, just to be in bed with you, to touch you, to feel you..."
"Mmmm..."
"But tell me... how did you find out?"
Carry giggles. "What do you mean?"
"About... I don't even know what it's called... your..."
Carry strokes lightly with her finger-tip. "This?"
"Oh Carry! My Lord! Yes! Oh Carry, what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing! Georgie, darling, you're lovely!"
Miss Paulson grips the naughty hand – somewhat ineffectually. "But Carry: I had no idea. Nobody told me. I looked in my textbook last night, and there was nothing. This bit and that bit and the other bit, all with little arrows and numbers, and by the numbers, their names." She opens her eyes wide, staring into Carry's delighted gaze. "But that bit... the bit you touched... there was no name. It was just number eighteen. So I don't even know what it's called."
Carry giggles again. She begins counting, with a kiss after each number. Beneath the bedclothes, her finger moves slowly in time with her counting.
"Oh Carry, I don't want it to stop, but..." She grips Carry's wrist, as if to draw it away – but finds herself holding it firmly in position.
"But what?"
"I don't think I'm strong enough. I don't know how you stand it!"
Carry lets out a beautifully soft, bubbling laugh. Her finger begins to move again. "Georgie... beautiful Georgie... I want to watch you... seventeen... eighteen..."
Georgie's voice is suddenly urgent: "Carry... Carry... Oh my God!"
Carry laughs delightedly as Georgie is overwhelmed once more. "It gets easier and easier, and nicer and nicer!" And as Georgie begins to sob in a mixture of release and gratitude, she gently kisses away the tears.
"It's so beautiful..."
"You're beautiful."
"For so long... I never knew..."
"Well, darling Georgie, you know now."
"When did you find out?"
Carry gives a little laugh. "I was twelve."
"Twelve? As young as that?"
"Yes. It was my governess. Mrs Crichton. Dear Mrs Crichton."
"She... she told you?"
"She didn't tell me... But... if I was good at my lessons, she used to sit me on her knee and cuddle me, and then she used to stroke my knee..."
"Like this?"
"Yes, and then higher... and higher..."
"Mmmm. I can see why. Oh Carry I so love you..."
"And then when it began to tingle, she'd just set me down, slap my bottom lightly and tell me to run away and play."
"And... did you?"
"After about the third or fourth time, yes. I felt for it and... and I found it."
"And do you know what it is called?"
"No. But I have a name for it, one I made up." Carry gives a little giggle. "It's silly..." Her eyes are beautifully wide: they shine like a new doll's. "Promise not to laugh?"
"No!" Miss Paulson laughs delightedly. "Tell me!"
"My feelie. Because I like to feel it."
"That is silly!" Their giggles subside into a wonderfully long kiss. When they separate, they lie quietly regarding one another for a long time, each intoxicated by the other's beauty, until eventually Georgie is driven to confess: "I can feel it again."
"Does it tickle?"
"Well, it..." she purses her lips. "Yes."
Carry begins to touch, very gently and soothingly. Her smile is bewitching.
But Georgie's eyes are wide in seriousness. "But what is it for, Carry? It must have some purpose."
Carry giggles. "Oh Georgie, Georgie darling... You are so wonderfully scientific! So earnest! I adore you!"
"Yes my sweet, but what?"
"Don't you know? I think it's for this..."
Carry begins to move her finger more, and it is clear that her prediction was correct: right from the first, the pleasure is searingly intense.
"Oh no, Carry, not again. Honestly, dear, I really am not strong enough... O my God... Carry... Oh Carry..."
Close as she is to exhaustion, Georgie has no reserves with which to resist the ferocious onslaught of the climax: she can only submit to its devastating, terrifying sweetness.
The spectacle of Georgie's helpless abandon makes Carry squeal with delight. "I want to do this to you all night, all day for a week!"
"No, no..." – Miss Paulson is still quaking – "Just hold me, hold me tight... Oh Carry darling..."
They embrace in warm silence.
"Oh, it keeps happening!" Miss Paulson gasps.
Carry kisses her beautiful companion in loving reassurance after every violent after-shock, until finally she is still. "Mmmm... That was a big one."
"Darling Carry... I cannot even think. — But you... Darling Carry..." Georgie seems quite exhausted.
"You're so lovely... Next time. I'd better go back now."
Carry straightens the bedclothes and pads to the door, smiling at the disarray of hastily discarded clothes. She turns to blow her lover one last kiss. Georgie is already asleep, but she blows it anyway.
"Psst, Clark!"
Clark is instantly awake. "Wha... what?" She raises herself, but sees no one.
"Are you awake?" The voice is so quiet that Clark can scarcely hear it.
"Who is it?" Clark half-knows, but her mind is still extricating itself from complicated, enjoyable dreams. She grips the side-rail of her bed and looks down. Beneath her, a pair of dark eyes, a blur of pale face and a smudge of long, black hair attest to the fact that Shipman is presently lying underneath her dormitory bed. "Uh... what do you want?"
"Everyone's asleep. Can I come in?"
The last word brings Clark immediately back to the present. "All right." She pulls back the blankets. "Take it off," she breathes.
"And you."
Clark's night-gown is already up around her waist; she tugs it off, shoves it under her pillow and wriggles sideways to make room.
"You won't tickle?"
"No!"
Shipman leaps noiselessly to her feet, pulls her night-gown off over her head, and with a little hiss of breath, slips into the bed alongside Clark. "Give me your hands!"
"Why?"
"So you won't tickle."
"You cold?"
"Yeah."
Shipman holds Clark's hands now, and after a few moments, she slowly brings them to her breast. Sarah Clark knows exactly what to do, and soon Shipman's breathing is slow and deep.
"Warming up?"
"Yeah. Ohhh... That's so nice..."
After a little while, Clark feels Shipman's hand brush her pubic hair. She jerks away.
"Mhh... No... Had enough."
Shipman retracts her hand with a quiet giggle.
"Couldn't wait?"
"No... That nice?"
"Yeah." Shipman sucks her breath through her teeth appreciatively.
Clark's teasing becomes more gentle now: she has interesting news to impart.
"Want to hear about Vicky Penrose?"
"What?"
"Went out with Carter today."
"Ohh... How did she do?"
"Quite well. Carter said she'd think about it. I reckon she'll say yes."
"Really? Good for Vicky."
"Yeah, she did really well. Carter kissed her twice."
"What?" Shipman slaps Clark's hands away.
"It's true!"
With a moan, Shipman rolls on to her front and crushes her face into the pillow. After a moment, she turns to Clark, parts her legs and whispers "Do me! Please!"
Clark licks her fingers and reaches down. But Shipman is already wet enough.
"Ohhh..."
"Hush! For heaven's sake be quiet, you idiot!"
"Oh Clark, that's so-o lovely!"
Clark gives a tiny giggle. She is really rather good at this, and it is so nice to be appreciated.
Lucy Carter cannot sleep. It is common enough to find that someone has poured water into her bed – she is ever the butt of practical jokes – but tonight it is far worse than usual. At around two in the morning, she very quietly dresses and goes out into the grounds to take some air, to calm her whirling, angry thoughts.
It is not the identity of the practical joker, however, that consumes her interest. There is perhaps not one girl in the dormitory who has not at some time done something mischievous to make her companions laugh.
No: it is the much more novel and thrilling question of who might be her mystery lover. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord" – but nonetheless, this person must be taught the error of her ways.
Could she be trapped into betraying her feelings? Carter has considered various tactics: walking to the wash-rooms with her chemise unbuttoned, as some of the girls do, and looking for untoward stares; taking more care over her hair; standing more upright; affecting a more pretty stance — but despite the strange, and rather pleasant, physical restlessness she feels when she considers these ploys, she fears that they will involve her in a quite unladylike wantonness. Besides, what if the mystery lover – whoever she might be – is nonetheless able to conceal her unnatural, base affections? This thought, while undeniable, incites in Carter an inexplicable melancholy.
And then, as she wanders in the grounds, an idea occurs to her, one so cogent that she gives a little leap of exhilaration. Of course! She must use the knowledge that has been given to her! It is simply a matter of identifying the rumour-monger. And yes, there is a way... If only Walmsley could be persuaded to co-operate...
And what sort of a person is Walmsley, really? Carter shudders at the recall of what she saw through the window; but now that she has seen into the pit of damnation, she is no longer sure that such wickedness is quite so wicked as people would have one believe.
Down the path she walks, toward the silent rose garden. It is pitch dark: there is scarcely any moon, and that just now hid behind a vaguely luminous cloud. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts: such beauty... such depravity... such passion... Can that be love?
And then her reverie is broken by the sight of movement: a shadowy figure approaching stealthily beside the path that leads from Miss Paulson's cottage. She retreats into the shadows and waits until the figure is close enough to be recognizable. When it is, Carter feels the surge of power that comes from superior knowledge.
"Good morning, Walmsley." Her voice is cool and neutral as she steps out from the shadows.
"Jesus Lord!" Walmsley spits in terror, wheeling round, fingers grasping air.
"It's all right, it's only the changeling girl." Carter's voice is light, mellifluous with confidence.
"What? Carter? Bloody hell!" Walmsley is shuddering still.
"Yes. I couldn't sleep. And since you're here, I thought you might like to discuss my ancestry."
"Hell! Hell! Carter! Huh!" Walmsley struggles to control herself. "Sorry, Carter. You gave me the fright of my life. What are you doing out here, anyway?"
Carter waits until Walmsley has recovered from her surprise before responding. "I've had a rather shocking day, actually, Walmsley. I couldn't sleep."
For a moment, Walmsley wonders why; then, "You mean, after the electricity?"
"Well, partly."
"Mmmm. It does rather wake one up, doesn't it? Er... Was that your first?"
"Obviously."
"No, I mean the first time you've come?"
"Come?"
"You know – that amazing feeling at the end..."
"Oh, that..." Carter is beginning to understand now. "I think so... but I'm so confused... I believe I've learned more in one day than I've learned in the whole of the rest of my life. May I talk to you?"
"Ah..." Carter has no business being out in the grounds at this hour; but Walmsley realizes that she is in no position to throw the school rules in Carter's face. Perhaps complaisance is the better course. "Very well, then."
"I feel as if I've gone from being a little child to being an adult, all in one short day."
Carter's serious tone makes Walmsley thoughtful. "'When I was a child, I
thought as a child...'
That sort of thing?"
"Yes. And I think I ought to make a confession, too. You see, I have had another rather shocking experience."
"Oh? What, pray?"
"Well... I went down to Miss Paulson's cottage after dinner, to ask for her advice about making an electrical switch."
"Yes?"
"Actually, it was quite late. And she wasn't alone."
"What?" Walmsley tries to conceal the thrill of terror.
"As I came to the door, I could hear voices. There was someone with her. Miss Paulson sounded upset. I thought perhaps I'd better not interrupt. But I looked in at the window. I suppose I shouldn't have."
"Oh my God."
They stop walking. They stand, both looking from afar upon the school buildings, gloomy black against the dark velvet of the night sky. To Walmsley, the high roofs, the pinnacles, the weather-vane are suddenly hostile, signs of stark condemnation.
"I saw our very beautiful Head Girl..."
"Oh Jesus Lord..."
"I don't need to say any more, do I?"
"Thou shalt not be happy. That's the rule isn't it? Dare to be happy, and suffer everlasting torment?" Walmsley's voice is already rich with tears.
"Look, Walmsley... Don't be upset. I know, we're supposed to think all that sort of thing is incredibly wicked and you're damned to hell for eternity..."
"Look, Carter, what is it you want? Eh?"
"Walmsley..."
Carry stoops, holds out her hands in supplication. "Tell me! I'll do it! I'll find money if that's what you want. I'll resign, I'll go away, I'll even kill myself if I have to. Only, don't hurt her! Do you understand? She's the best teacher this school will ever have. If one word, one word of this ever gets out..."
"Walmsley!"
Carry pauses. There is something in Carter's voice.
"Well?"
"You love her, don't you? I mean to say, you really, really love her?"
There is a pause.
"Yes." Carry's response is heavy with despair.
"And she really loves you. I think I saw that." Carter begins to murmur, as if afraid to voice her thoughts too loudly. "I felt terrible to have spied on you. I don't know whether it's right or wrong, what you were doing. I used to think I did." She turns to Walmsley. "But I promise you this: I will never, never tell another soul."
Carry collapses to her knees.
"Walmsley. Don't cry. Don't cry." Carter kneels facing her. "Get up, Walmsley. Do you really think I would?"
With Carter's gentle reassurance, Carry begins to rise. She tries to smile bravely, but then her face crumples once more. "Oh God! Oh God! I'm so afraid!"
Despite her shock at the ferocity of Walmsley's emotion, Carter embraces her, holds her tight.
Eventually, Walmsley's sobs subside, and with a final gasp she returns Carter's embrace shyly, gratefully. But then she cannot suppress a little chuckle.
"Carter, you're so thin! And you're cold!"
"I'm positively freezing. But I have to talk. I need to talk to someone."
"You want to talk to me?"
"You're tired... I'm tired. But yes, if you'll listen."
"Come inside. Come to my rooms."
"So: what is it you wished to talk about? About me?" Walmsley's lip quivers. She still cannot quite meet Carter's eye.
"No. About me and... someone else. I don't know who. I found out something yesterday. You know of course that people are always remarking upon my spelling, or joking about how stupid I am."
"Well..."
"You must have heard such things."
"Well, yes."
"Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know how to explain it, but..."
"I look strange."
"Yes."
"People seem to think it is funny or clever to be rude to an ugly person." Carter brushes aside Walmsley's protest. "I've had to put up with a great deal, Walmsley. From time to time, when nobody is looking, someone will be friendly – but not in front of her other friends. They think it's funny to pour a cup of water into my bed. They make unkind remarks, and people laugh. This term it has been worse than usual – so much so, that I have begun to avoid people. I try to go where it's quiet. But yesterday... Well, someone was friendly to me. We had a talk. She told me something which explained why things have been getting worse. I was very surprised; but after thinking about it I believe it to be the best explanation."
"And what was that?"
"You will be surprised. For she told me that someone, I don't know who, has got a... crush – on me. Me!"
"Well, why not? I was thinking only today —"
"But this person is dying of shame. People laugh at you if you have a crush, don't they? People always think it clever to laugh at love. But a crush on the changeling girl? She would be laughed to scorn. Don't you see?"
"Yes, I think so."
"How does she conceal her feelings? Why, she joins with all the others, encouraging them to be nasty to me, making rude jokes about me, so nobody will suspect her."
"Perhaps she's trying to hide her feelings from herself."
"Ah. Yes, I hadn't thought of that."
"You've suffered, haven't you?"
Carter nods. "For a long time. The teachers are no better. They love to make the class laugh at my expense. A clever joke wins them popularity; and I get the ridicule, as usual."
"My God..."
"I'm so tired of it, Walmsley. I want to try and stand up in the world. I think I can do Maths quite well. Mrs Probert says so, and in fact I've started on a new paper, which I shall send to a friend of my uncle in Russia. I want a new life. I know I'm only seventeen, but I have suffered for enough of those seventeen years."
"I understand."
"I do not want revenge. But I don't see why people should get away with treating others as I have been treated. I wish to find out who this person is, and make her reconsider her ways."
"She should be punished!"
"I do not think that would help."
"Well, she should be taught a lesson."
"Yes. But to do that, I need your help."
"What should I do?"
"Well, I have thought of something. If we could communicate some scandal about me – something we can easily explain later – but communicate it only to one of the suspects, then we could wait to see if the rumour spread or not. If it did, that would prove that it had to come from that one person. Does that seem logical?"
"Yes. Whom do you suspect?"
"One: Emma Denning. Two: Felicity Shipman."
"Denning! Shipman! Well... It could be..."
"I want you to write an anonymous letter, and slip it into her pigeon-hole. I can't spell, I know that, so they'd know it was from me. Disguise your writing."
"But won't she suspect something?"
"Address it to 'C' and sign it 'A'. That way, she'll think it was put in her pigeon-hole by mistake."
"Very well, I'll try it. It sounds quite exciting. But what do I write?"
"You write that I was seen creeping out of your rooms before the waking bell."
"But won't people think that we slept together?"
"Exactly. If you will let me."
"What do you mean?"
"Somebody poured water into my bed last night."
"Oh no!"
"Not for the first time."
"But doesn't the prefect..?" Carry is horrified.
"You know as well as I how sneaks are treated." Carter hangs her head in despair.
"Well, you can't sleep in a wet bed!"
"So I've found." Carter's wry grimace reveals a dogged inner strength.
"Of course I'd let you share. But Carter – suppose someone did find out that it was true? We'd both be in terrible trouble, you know that."
"But don't you see? If our rumour is true, but the explanation an innocent one, then when the truth is revealed, the rumour-mongers will be put to shame."
"Yes, I see..."
"And so, in the morning, you should go to the Head and tell her all. You explain that I was upset and unable to sleep. You found me, you comforted me, you treated me like a little sister. My bed was wet; so rather than send me away, you allowed me to sleep in your own bed. And you could add this: that you wanted her to know the truth, just in case any false rumours arose."
"Which they very well might."
"Exactly."
"Mmmm. That's clever." Walmsley ponders. True, the Head extols compassion, and has spoken out against malicious gossip on a number of occasions. But sleeping together – would she not object? Of course, it is common enough for sisters to share a bed. Why not? It will seem so strange after Georgie... But then again, it could be a useful alibi.
"I'll do it."
"I think you're my truest friend." Carter smiles, and yawns.
"You've been very kind to me, Carter. I don't understand why."
Carter shrugs. "I used to sleep with Elsie – my big sister. We used to cuddle sometimes, you know. I miss that now."
"She married?"
"She died nearly eight years ago." Carter speaks in a matter-of-fact way, almost lightly. Ignoring Carry's little gasp, she continues: "She was beautiful, unlike me. My parents were so disappointed." She makes the same wry grimace as before. It makes her seem far older than seventeen.
Carry does not know what to say to this. "Oh Carter – I'm sorry."
"You can be my sister for the night, if you would like. And so you should call me Lucy."
"Lucy: well, then, I shall be Carry. See here, we must get to bed. You take that candle..."
In Carry's bedroom, Lucy begins to undress, placing her clothes neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed. Carry is suddenly wide-eyed.
"You don't intend going to bed naked, do you?"
"I can't sleep in my day clothes, nor have I any night-gown here. Is it not a little strange that you, of all people, should be shocked, Carry dear?"
Lucy accompanies her question with a dry chuckle and a strange ironic little quirk of the mouth. Again, Carry glimpses Lucy's mysterious inner fortitude, and she looks down, abashed.
Naked, Lucy stretches out her arms and does a little pirouette.
"There you are: your deformed changeling sister!" her voice is hard with sarcasm. She feels suddenly rather brazen. Perhaps it is her tiredness, or the emotional extremes of the last twenty-four hours; but perhaps it is the extremity of fortitude. To stand up to gossip: that requires fortitude. To be ugly: that, too, has demanded fortitude; and so, in a different way, has the possession of secret knowledge. And to stand naked before one of the most beautiful girls in the school: that requires equal courage. But there is something thrilling in it – fortitude is a quality she will need henceforth, if she is to surmount life's obstacles.
But — "No, never deformed, never!" Carry is staring. "Honestly... Lucy... You have a lovely body."
Lucy blushes and lowers her shoulders. "With one or two blemishes."
The sudden droop of Lucy's breasts expresses a vulnerability so winsome that Carry cannot suppress a gasp of sympathy. "Yes, but all the same... You're beautiful."
"Ha! I'm really tired." Blushing now, Lucy clambers nimbly into Carry's bed and snuggles tight up against the edge, leaving as much room for Carry as she can. Compared with her own, this bed is marvellously comfortable.
"But you're thin!" Carry slips alongside her protégée and touches her back.
"Ee! Don't tickle don't tickle!" Lucy squirms.
"Shh! I won't. But why are you so thin?"
Lucy half-turns to Carry. "Don't you know? Who serves the food?"
"Well... The prefects."
"And the most popular girls... get the most."
"Oh, Lucy... I'm sorry..."
Lucy turns away again.
Carry puts a comforting arm around Lucy. "Shall I cuddle you?"
Lucy makes a soft little noise that might mean anything; and then, in a voice suddenly tender, "I'm not used to it any more."
"But you don't mind?"
After a pause, Lucy gives her head a quick shake. Even in the darkness, Carry understands. She moves her fingers to caress Lucy's arm. Her least movement causes Lucy to tense and gasp. Softly, so as to soothe her nervous companion, Carry murmurs,
"So... your family... There must be some noble blood, surely?"
"O yes. But what makes you think so?"
Carry's fingers move gently, and Lucy's breathing becomes faster once more.
"Oh... Lucy..." Carry breathes the words as soothingly as she can. "One can always detect the signs of quality... You are so sensitive... Tell me, then... whence this noble blood?"
"My mother's father – ah!... was a Russian Count... Related to the Romanovs."
"The Romanovs!" Carry snuggles closer. With the greatest caution, and with extreme gentleness, her fingers finally stray on to Lucy's breast. In a whisper that is more soothing than ever, "Does your mother speak Russian?"
Lucy gulps, but manages to answer. "French, actually. They all speak French in Russia."
"I didn't know."
Their voices become quieter and slower.
"Well they do. And my mother's mother was... a dancer. Of some kind."
"You have a dancer's body..."
"My mother was in the ballet."
"...Except for these, Lucy Carter..."
"Ahhh... That tickles."
"But Lucy... You've got such amazing nipples..."
Carry's touch is so gentle and so reassuring that after a little gasp, Lucy's tension seems to evaporate; but after a few delightful moments, she stiffens again:
"But don't touch me anywhere else! Please!"
The slight up-and-down motion of Carry's nose on Lucy's neck indicates sleepy acceptance, and Lucy relaxes once more into new-found bliss.
A few moments later, slower and quieter than ever, Carry breathes her good-night:
"Lucy Carter, I think you're wonderful."
"Mmmm..." Lucy yawns; and for the first time this term, she falls asleep smiling.