"Monstrous!" Henry Carter tears the letter into four.
"But Henry! That was addressed to Lucy!" Joanna, Lucy's mother, protests faintly.
"All the same – monstrous impertinence!" Henry is purple with indignation. "Spectacles, indeed! Have you ever seen a girl of seventeen wearing spectacles?"
"Ah... No dear, I must confess I have not..."
"Of course not! I've never heard such a thing! She must learn to see properly with the eyes God gave her! In any event, she is much too old now for Christmas presents! Seventeen? Ridiculous!"
"But Henry, dear," Joanna protests faintly, unsure of her ground. "I was only just now re-reading A Christmas Carol by Mr Dickens, and —"
"Ach! These modern novels! Full of bogus morality and popular sentimentality! All very well for you soft-hearted women, no doubt: but where are we taught to seek the eternal truth, eh? In this year's great novel, or that year's great novel? Not a bit of it! But here, here!" And Henry Carter jabs his finger at the great, heavy Family Bible in its place of honour, carefully positioned in the very centre of the table between them like a great black altar. "There is all the truth, unvarying from generation to generation, the eternal, unchanging will of the Almighty! Where in the Book do we read of Christmas presents, eh? And what sixpenny novel can supplant the eternal truth of Holy Writ?" Henry's voice has become a little harsh with passion, and his complexion acquired an unhealthy tinge.
Joanna is downcast, defeated. "Of course you're right, dear," she mumbles in a placating tone.
"Hmph." Henry takes out and consults his fob watch. "And now I must go to the office."
Joanna rises with him. "Have good day, dear."
"Thanks, m'dear," he says in a softer tone, hastily embracing his wife.
"Yes, Simpson?" Mrs Carter looks up from her reading. It is a book of sermons. Although she has heard the doorbell, and knows it must be Lucy, she feigns ignorance.
"Mistress Lucy, Ma'am," says the maid, curtseying.
"Very well. When she has completed her toilet, I wish to speak with her."
"Very good, Ma'am."
And so, ten minutes later, there is a timid knock at the sitting- room door.
"Good afternoon, mother."
"Ah, Lucy." Mrs Carter looks at her daughter. Yes, it cannot be denied: Nature has finally transformed her daughter into a young woman – the fuller figure, the more assured stance, and even a certain lustre to the skin — alas! Poor Lucy! For though Nature proclaims her ripe, who will pluck so plain a fruit? If only they had had a son! If only...
"Why, mother, what is the matter? Why do you stare at me so?"
"My dear child, I was just thinking how grown-up you have become. Why, you are now older than poor Elsie was when..."
"Mother, I beg you..."
"Forgive me. It was thoughtless of me, dear." Mrs Carter is well aware of the chagrin it causes Lucy when – as so often happens – her parents make sorrowful comparisons with her oft-lamented sister. "But have you any news, pray?"
"Well, I do have news."
"Then do sit down, and tell me all."
"Mother: do you recall Mrs Probert's report at the end of last year?"
"Yes, I believe I do recall... Did she not say that you had some ability at... was it mathematics?"
"Yes, mother. In her report I believe she used the word 'exceptional'."
"Very well. Go on."
"At the beginning of the term I wrote a little paper. It was about..."
"Dear, you know very well that I know nothing of mathematics. I would not understand it."
"Yes, mother, of course. Well, Mrs Probert found it very good, but a little beyond her understanding. She sent it to a professor at the university..."
"Goodness!"
"...who was so kind as to say that in his opinion I had as great a mathematical talent as any in England."
"But Lucy, I... I... I am astonished!"
"And he has offered me a position – unofficial, of course – to work with him and his colleagues in his department."
"But this is wonderful! Your father will be so delighted! Of course you did not discuss salary?"
"O but I did, mother."
"You did? Excellent!" Mrs Carter is delighted. "And how much?"
"He was very apologetic. It would not, unfortunately, be possible to find any salary for me. However, there would be a provision of board and lodging..."
"Oh." Mrs Carter's face falls. "I see."
"Nevertheless, mother, I am not without hope of finding someone who will be able to pay me a salary."
"And who, pray?"
"Mother, the foremost universities in England have no especial need of my skill. As the professor told me, there are men in plenty striving for positions there. But perhaps in another country..."
"Such as?"
Lucy blushes. "Russia, mother."
Mrs Carter raises her eyebrows. "Well, I suppose it is possible. Perhaps I should write to your uncle Fyodor."
"I have already done so."
"You?" Mrs Carter looks alarmed. "Oh, no! Then..."
"Mrs Probert wrote it fair for me."
"Ah. Well, that was wise. Did he respond?"
"He has been very encouraging, mother. If I can present a paper on something entirely new, and if it is as good as my earlier paper, he says he will be confident of finding me a teaching post."
"And... salaried?"
"We have not spoken of that yet, mother."
"There is not much money in Russia. I should not harbour too much hope."
Lucy looks down in dejection.
"Well... we shall see." Mrs Carter sighs. "And now there is another matter I wished to discuss with you. One of your teachers, one Miss Paulson, wrote to you enclosing a note for your father."
Lucy looks up, surprised. "Oh."
"Of course your father was furious."
"Why? What did she write?"
"She made so bold as to state that you had a need – a need, if you please – for spectacles! And that she had taken the liberty of making an appointment for you to consult an optician in the City. Liberty indeed!"
"Where is the letter, mother?"
"Your father tore it up. Nevertheless, I have kept it. It is upon the table by the window."
"Oh!" Lucy hurries to look at it.
Sadly, Mrs Carter watches as Lucy stoops over the table, her lips working as she reads.
"Oh... Oh! And this is... Oh!" Lucy reads for a long time, carefully holding the torn edges together.
"I am sorry, Lucy. Your father will not hear of it."
"Oh!" Lucy's hands are fists. She rises and falls on her toes, unable to find words to voice her frustration. But her mother has noted all this; noted, too, how Lucy stooped to read the letter.
"I have a little money put by. I think it will be enough. But do not tell your father."
Lucy's hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes suddenly shine with incredulous joy. "Oh mother... Mother..."
Mrs Carter does not like emotional displays. "Go now," she says, taking up her book. "We will say nothing. Send in Simpson."
"Well, that was a quite excellent dinner! How very kind of you to invite me! And how lovely to meet the staff," the Duchess murmurs in her mellifluous contralto as she sweeps into the Head Mistress's sitting-room.
"It is an honour for us, your grace. And might I offer a little of my own sloe gin? So very comforting at this time of year."
"Sloe gin? I have heard of it, but I don't believe I have ever had the pleasure of trying it. Why, how very educational you are, Head Mistress!"
"It is an old country recipe. My mother used to make it."
"How charming! I hope it is not too strong. May I sit here?"
"But of course. No, it is not strong at all. The sloes draw out all the harshness of the spirit. Miss Hanson! The sloe gin, if you please!"
"Very good, Head Mistress."
The Duchess's eyes follow Miss Hanson as she departs. "Still single?"
"Yes, your grace. But a wonderful secretary. Very discreet. And very faithful."
"Ah, faithful! Yes!" The Duchess half-closes her eyes, a superb smile upon her lips.
Mrs Cunningham responds with a look of irreproachable innocence.
"And so, dear Head Mistress, we come no doubt to the purpose of this kind invitation. You are clearly seeking more money. Tell me all."
"Well," Mrs Cunningham looks down, now, with a slight blush, "to tell the truth, your grace, we were hoping that we might be able to rely upon your influence at the governors' meeting next week."
The Duchess sighs. "Explain."
Before Mrs Cunningham can begin, Miss Hanson returns with the sloe gin and three glasses. She sets them down on the table between the two ladies. Mrs Cunningham pours. The Duchess follows Miss Hanson out with her eyes.
"No doubt you have heard about the remarkable discoveries made by our new Scientific Society," begins the Head Mistress, pushing a glass toward the Duchess.
"A little," says the Duchess, bright-eyed. She does not take her glass. "Carry told me a little, but was rather sparing with the details."
"Yes, your grace." Mrs Cunningham proceeds to explain about the galvanic experiments, and the equipment that is needed; but then moves on to draw a lively picture of the remarkably beneficial effect the electrical current has had upon the battledore team.
The Duchess nods sagely, her glass still untouched. "No doubt this is true, Head Mistress, but is this not something we may safely leave to the men? Surely it will be objected that wives and mothers do not need to understand the intricacies of electrical flows or nervous anatomy – after all, such things have no place in the nursery."
"But on the other hand, your grace, if we can but enable our girls to do their part, then we are demonstrating that there is no field of human endeavour in which women cannot make their distinctive contribution. Think of the benefit – not only to science itself, but to our girls and to the nation as a whole!"
The Duchess frowns and looks doubtful. "That is all very well, but..."
There comes a hesitant knock at the door.
"Come in!" calls Mrs Cunningham, with an inward sigh of relief. "Ah, Miss Paulson!"
"Ah, so this is the Miss Paulson of whom my daughter thinks so highly! Why, I am sure I noticed you at dinner!" The Duchess's eyes are now all a-twinkle.
Miss Paulson, who is carrying a deal of electrical machinery, blushes and curtseys upon the threshold, eyes downcast.
The Duchess laughs kindly. "And what, pray, is that extraordinary contrivance?"
Miss Paulson lays it upon the low table in the middle of the room. Both the generator and the oscillator are now neatly contained in baize-lined mahogany boxes, which Mr Jepson has only just been able to finish in time for the Duchess's visit. Miss Paulson opens them, one by one. The Duchess gasps as if they were jewel-cases, for the glint of freshly-milled brass and the neatly-wound copper are beautiful against the dark green baize.
"These machines, your grace, were designed by our girls. This, a generator, produces an electrical flow when the handle is turned. It passes through these two wires to this device, which is an oscillator. It converts the electrical flow into a rapid reciprocating motion."
Eyes wide in wonder, the Duchess sips her sloe gin for the first time, and is momentarily distracted. "But this is delicious!" she cries. She sips again. "To think that I have never tasted such a thing before! Mrs Cunningham, you simply must give me the recipe!"
"I shall have a bottle brought up for you to take tomorrow," replies the Head Mistress, gratified. "Let me pour a little more."
In truth, it is not very strong – hardly more than forty percent – but it is Mrs Cunningham's hope that the agreeable warmth it imparts may endear her plans to the Duchess.
"Now, Miss Paulson. All this is remarkably clever, I don't deny it; but of what possible benefit could such a device be to mankind?"
"I must admit, your grace, that our first intent had merely been to show the practicability of such a thing, and only afterwards to look at how we might make use of it."
"Hmph!" The Duchess takes another sip.
"But our young ladies soon discovered that the oscillator, when applied to certain muscles, brings about complete relaxation, together with a most refreshing and invigorating sensation."
"Is that so?" The Duchess is suddenly intent.
"It is well known to science that muscular cramps and tensions render us women less effective, particularly at certain times of the month..."
The Duchess nods, looking in fascination from one machine to the other.
"...and our early findings give us hope that with the aid of devices like these we may soon find a means to alleviate these female discomforts. It is a point of particular significance that when women participate in scientific endeavour, they are not only quite as capable as men, but are apt to make discoveries that are of particular benefit to their own sex."
The Duchess sits back, impressed.
"Perhaps, Miss Paulson, a brief demonstration would be in order," suggests Mrs Cunningham gently.
"Why —" Miss Paulson blushes charmingly — "of course, if your grace would like to see..."
The Duchess reclines comfortably, not demurring when once again Mrs Cunningham refills her glass. "This sloe gin is remarkably good, Head Mistress. Yes, Miss Paulson, please do show us."
Miss Paulson closes the lids of the boxes and takes up the smaller, the one containing the oscillator. "Very well. I shall tuck the box between my legs, like this, and then cross them, thus holding it fast."
Mrs Cunningham leans forward and takes up the generator. "Quite remarkable, is it not, the courage with which our girls experiment, pushing back the boundaries of knowledge, utterly regardless of any personal risk they might encounter?"
"Indeed," replies the Duchess. The excellent sloe gin has already somewhat softened her haughty countenance, and Miss Paulson feels a frisson as she suddenly catches a fleeting resemblance to her daughter. Yes, despite the many superficial differences – the Duchess is dark-haired and just showing a hint of grey – there are certain expressions, certain little tricks with the eyes, that recall Carry. And in that recognition, Miss Paulson feels a little spark of excitement: little can the Duchess suspect just how intimately this woman before her has known her daughter! It is as if thereby she has somehow gained a secret social advantage over the mother. And the recollection of that fervid, rapturous intimacy causes Miss Paulson to quiver with that hunger, that yearning that seems every day more voracious, more compelling.
"Very well, Head Mistress. I think... I'm ready..." Miss Paulson braces herself as Mrs Cunningham begins to turn the handle. "Just a little faster... Oooh!" And as the oscillator begins to make its buzzing, rattling sound, Miss Paulson lets out a little cry.
"What an extraordinary noise! Is this wise?" asks the Duchess anxiously.
Miss Paulson's eyes are closed. She is rocking to and fro, her hands clenching and unclenching upon the arms of the chair. "No... just..." she grates out, "Oh... oh..." — and now the mounting pitch and vehemence of her inarticulate cries suggests that she is becoming increasingly excited.
"Whatever is happening to her? O this is horrible, Mrs Cunningham! It is affecting her most strangely!"
"Fear not, your grace. We have rehearsed this several times. No harm will come. Watch!"
Suddenly Miss Paulson's eyes snap open. She looks imploringly at Mrs Cunningham, rapidly nodding as if in desperate encouragement.
"But she cannot breathe!" The Duchess is becoming increasingly concerned herself, as is evidenced by the vehemence with which she downs the remainder of her sloe gin. "Should we not loosen her dress?"
Indeed, Miss Paulson's bosom is heaving and swelling most noticeably; but "Mmm... Mmmm..." she moans, as if tasting some particularly delectable sweetmeat, and "Oh... Ach... Ach..." – and now, to the Duchess's astonishment, Miss Paulson seems to be in a silent frenzy: her leg kicks out, her fists drum upon the arms of the chair, her teeth clenched and her head rapidly shaking from side to side like a dog worrying a tough piece of meat.
"It is a seizure! A seizure!" cries the Duchess; but with a long, melodious sigh of gratification, Miss Paulson suddenly falls back as if exhausted.
Mrs Cunningham's hand stills. All is silent: only the tick of the tall clock can be heard, unnaturally loud.
The Duchess is pensive. She rocks her empty glass to and fro. "Do you know, Head Mistress, I believe I am suddenly reminded of something..."
Momentarily, they are distracted by Miss Paulson's sudden jerk and loud intake of breath.
"Goodness!" cries the Duchess, turning to Mrs Cunningham who, however, seems quite unconcerned. "Will she be all right?"
"She will compose herself in a minute or two, you will see," comes the smooth reply. "A little more sloe gin, your grace?"
"Why, thank you." And then, in an undertone, as if to herself, "I cannot help being reminded... Dear me! — But that is not possible, surely..." She turns to Mrs Cunningham once more. "May I have another look at that remarkable little machine?"
Miss Paulson rises now and hands the little mahogany box to the Duchess. Her movements have a strange, floating quality. As she returns once more to her chair, it is difficult to overlook the peaceful radiance of her expression.
"Might I... just try for a brief moment?" asks the Duchess hesitantly.
"Why of course."
"I put it... here?"
"A little higher."
"Here?"
"Yes. It will help if you cross your legs. Just so."
The Duchess is plainly nervous. "I see what you mean about courage," she says faintly. "I am terrified to think what it will do."
"Would you like to turn the handle yourself, your grace?"
"Perhaps that would be best... dear me, what a strange thing this is," murmurs the Duchess as she takes the generator box, arranging the wires neatly. "So now I just... turn..."
"A little faster."
"Ah..." She turns the handle faster, the buzzing sound is heard from deep in the Duchess's lap, and at once she stops and lets out a squeal. "Oh! forgive me. Let me just try that again... Oh, haha, haha, that is most extraordinary... most..." she begins to laugh excitedly. She stops turning the handle, laughs, rearranges herself, turns the handle once more, and laughs again. "Why, that is just... extraordinary!"
"A little strange at first, is it not?" ventures Miss Paulson.
"Yes, haha... a little!" titters the Duchess, bemused. She closes her eyes tight and turns the handle once again. "I... I..." she stops and looks up, her eyes gleaming. "This is something quite, quite new," she says with a beatific smile. And then, as if recollecting herself, she removes the oscillator and places it, together with the generator, upon the table. "So this is... an oscillator," she says wonderingly.
"An oscillator, yes," replies Miss Paulson, as if encouraging a pupil.
"It simply... oscillates. Haha!" The Duchess lets out a delighted laugh. She takes her glass. "And you believe, Miss Paulson, that such a device may... benefit women's health?"
"There are promising indications, certainly."
"Well!" The Duchess takes up the oscillator again, and turns it over in her hands. "Of course I know the wives of some of the governors..."
Mrs Cunningham flashes a significant glance at Miss Paulson, and passes her a glass of the sloe gin. "Your grace, we should be so grateful if there is any influence you may be able to bring to bear..."
"Of course, people do need to be able to see the benefits of something like this for themselves, do they not? Until I had seen Miss Paulson's... most interesting demonstration, I must confess I could not see why the governors should need to find such a great deal of money. But if I were able to take this device and use it to demonstrate..."
Mrs Cunningham quells with a gesture Miss Paulson's movement of protest.
"Of course, your grace. You are absolutely right. I am sure Miss Paulson would have no objection — would you, Miss Paulson?"
"Oh, er... Oh no." the young teacher agrees hastily.
"I wouldn't be... interrupting your work, in any way, if I were to take this?" The Duchess smiles amusedly, her eyes half closed.
"No, no... I have various other projects." Miss Paulson assures her.
"I am sure you do," says the Duchess, her mouth twitching. "Hmmm... Perhaps we should invite you to Clathmorgan. I am sure that our Mrs Crichton would take to you greatly."
"There! That will put some colour into those love-lorn cheeks!" Annie is with Jemmy, the new girl, in the dining-room, through whose tall and stately windows they have just observed Lady Caroline departing on horseback with the two young Lords. They stare for some moments at the bobbing backs of the three riders, the swishing tails of the horses and the puffs of breath wisping in the crisp December air. But Annie recalls them to their duty: "Come! This will not get the silver done!"
Still, Jemmy dwells for a moment by the window, sighing. "She is so lovely. Why do you think she is so sad? Liza said that she took to her bed for much of yesterday. And yet I do not think she can be ill."
"'Tis a sickness of sorts," murmurs Annie, puffing on her spoon and briskly polishing with her rag. She pauses for a moment and fixes young Jemmy with her most authoritative eye. "There are some, young Jemmy, who'd as soon choose the quiet life as marry. And there are some who marry for love – though not in their class, I'll reckon." Here she jerks her thumb in the direction of the party on horseback, just now disappearing round a curve in the sweeping drive. "But there's some as needs a man, because they can't live without one. 'Tis like a sickness of the body. And that's what's afflictin' my young Lady Caroline, from what I hear whispered."
Jemmy looks puzzled, and Annie notes it. "Ay," she says, "There's those that will take a spinster's pleasure, and be comforted by it – and mind you, young Jemmy, there's many a wife will do the same, or so they do say – but not that Lady Caroline. No, try as she might, that one is yearning for a certain young gentleman, that's what they're saying, and 'tis only his hose will put out those flames. Why, even 'er grace is fair worried about it. Liza heard 'er only yesterday, goin' on – 'How can this have happened, Mrs Crichton? She will tell me nothing.' They say she won't tell a soul who he is."
"But what... what is a spinster's pleasure, Annie?"
Annie looks at Jemmy for a moment. Jemmy is only sixteen, a pretty waif whose seamstress mother, fallen upon hard times, is now a dependent of the Duke's charitable foundation at Askerley: and it was the Duke himself who brought the girl to work at Clathmorgan. Small, spindly and pale, the young maid yet has a lively aptitude for work, and a sweetly trusting nature. Her eyes are all innocence, her coarse, straight black hair emerging in a tight plait from beneath her white lace cap. Annie smiles impishly. To tease the young ones is, for her, one of life's innocent little pleasures. "Why, you do not know that? Fie, where were you brought up? But now, when Lady Caroline returns, you must attend her at her bath, and must ask her to explain it to you, for it is said that there is none more practised nor more diligent in the virgin arts than she!"
"Diligent? Virgin arts? I do not understand."
"Then you must ask her young Ladyship. An' you you must be sure to ask how it is done genteel and lady-like. And do not neglect to tell me how she answers! Here, that fork is perfectly well done. Take another!"
For a while, they are intent upon their work. And then, hesitantly, Jemmy asks shyly,
"And do you think that perhaps I shall one day marry?"
"Lor, young Miss Jemmy, why do you ask me that?" Annie looks at her kindly. "You might, if you wanted to. You're pretty enough." She puts down her spoon and picks up another, puffing upon it. "There's not so many that do, in service."
"And why is that? Did you... did you never want to?"
Annie laughs, embarrassed. She is about to chide Jemmy for her forwardness, but again she looks at her, with her sweet turned-up nose, and the little rash of dark brown freckles across her cheeks. Really, the child is an innocent. "Why, Miss Jemmy, I might have done, I s'pose, if I'd wanted to..." Her voice trails off, and she pretends to concentrate upon her spoon. "— But then, I've good friends here, and all found, and I'm perfectly happy. Me an' Liza, we been here p'raps twenty years now. We're used to one another."
"Are you really twins? You don't look like one another."
"Oh, there's twins that are alike as two peas, and there's twins so different you'd not know them as related at all," Annie observes wisely, cocking her head and removing one final spot from her piece of silverware. "But no, dear, we're not twins. They just call us that, we've been together that long. I don't 'spect we'd marry now. Anyhow, if what Mrs Crichton says is true, marrying could be the death of you. What with all these damn doctors taking things over and interfering, blast 'em!"
"Why, what do the doctors do?"
"Well..." Here Annie narrows her eyes and takes up a knife, sweeping her rag with relish, "Mrs Crichton do say that of ten women in childbirth, the doctors now do kill four of 'em. Safer to give birth out in the fields, she reckons. An' that's why she'd not have children herself, you see. 'Safer to adopt, and there's plenty up for adoption,' she says, an' that seems right to me."
Jemmy screws up her face in an expression of distaste. "I could never do that! Never!"
"Never what, child?"
"Why, have a man's thing in my mouth like that!"
Annie howls with laughter. "Why, who's been tellin' you such things? You've been had on a piece of string, my dear!"
"Why, then, is it not true? Aggie May told me she'd seen — Oh!" Jemmy claps her hand to her mouth — "I wasn't to tell!"
"No, child, it's not like that you get yourself a babby." Annie is still shaking with laughter. "'Tis how you get with pin-money, more like."
"Pin-money?"
"Ay, pin-money." Annie stoops, her voice now confidential. "That's how a wife keeps herself safe, and her husband happy, you know. We don't speak about it, but when a husband needs his pleasure, and a wife wants no babby, then that is how 'tis done. An' if he's grateful, then maybe he gives her a present of pin-money. For her little things."
"Oh." Jemmy is round-eyed. And then there appears on her brow a little frown of determination. "I expect I'm not going to be marrying, then. 'Tis all too dangerous, and... and..."
"You never know, child. Mebbe some handsome young man will come along an' sweep you off your feet..."
Jemmy blushes and picks up another fork. Annie notices the blush.
"Oh, an p'raps you've just met a young man already?"
Jemmy's blush deepens. "Well no. Well yes. An' I don't like the way they touch a girl."
"Why, who was this? What's he done?"
"No-one." Jemmy purses her lips tight. She is scarlet. And in a reflex movement that tells Annie everything, Jemmy crosses her arms over her chest.
"Was it Robbie in the stables? Ha ha! I see it was. 'Twas easy to guess. He's a fine one, that lad. He's touched you?" Annie laughs disparagingly. "An' made no very good impression, seemingly."
"Why do we let them hurt us so?"
"Why, dear, he is but an ignorant stupid boy! But now – one who knows – well, that's quite another thing." Annie adopts a lofty, somewhat pious tone. "A lady wants touching gently – a lady knows."
"Then what of that curious machine the ladies had at the card party last night?"
"Ah, yes. That was interesting, was it not? The ladies seemed mighty pleased."
"One of them was leaping up and down and squealing like a pig!" Jemmy laughs at the recollection.
"But she wanted to try it again and again, did she not?"
"Yes, I remember that she did."
"Mrs Crichton told me that it just shivers gently, for all that it buzzes like a swarm of wasps."
"I wonder if her grace would let me try it, just once..." Jemmy sounds a little wistful.
"Now don't you go gettin' ideas, young Jemmy. Such things are for ladies, not for the likes of us."
Jemmy sighs, her polishing-rag moving slowly and mechanically. She is looking out of the window, when something catches her attention. "Why... Is that not Lady Caroline? Lor! How she flies!"
Annie follows the direction of Jemmy's stare. Sure enough, unmistakable now, Lady Caroline is bent low, her steed at a precipitate gallop, snorting plumes of breath as he charges toward the main entrance.
"Why, yes! Quick! Quick! Run to the back kitchen and have them take up her bath!"
Suddenly, the house is a flurry of action. It is fortunate that the staff are well prepared, for scarcely have four stout lads, and as many maids, staggered up the main stair with their pans of hot water, drawn from the mighty copper in the back kitchen, than Lady Caroline prances up the front steps, her cheeks flaming.
"Ha! Some people have no spirit, no spirit at all!" she cries, flicking her gloves at Annie, who catches them awkwardly. "Have them prepare a bath for me."
"They are just carrying the water up now, m'lady," says Annie deferentially.
Carry pauses, frozen, and makes a pleased, inward smile. "Hmmm," she says warmly. "That is well."
Annie chuckles. She knows how to please the young mistress. "I am sending Jemmy up to attend to you."
Carry's smile disappears, and a haughty expression takes its place. "The new girl?"
"Yes, m'lady. She is new, but keen, and anxious to learn."
"H'm." Carry tosses her head. "Very well." She strides energetically across the Hall and mounts the Great Stair, almost bounding with energy.
Annie shakes her head. "The young..." she murmurs. "One minute they're dying; the next, leaping over walls..."
The staff scamper out just as her young ladyship enters her chamber. She affects not to notice them – the maids' curtseys, the boys' tugs at their forelocks – but closes the door forcefully, almost slams it. She sees Jemmy, alone now, standing by the steaming bath. She is pale, a little overawed.
"I will take my bath at once, while it is still hot," says Carry with a little toss of her head. "Undress me."
She closes her eyes and extends her wrists with aristocratic grace. It pleases her to make a fine show of elegance. She imagines that it is Georgie's trembling fingers that fumble at her cuffs, then pick cautiously at the row of tiny, intricate buttons down her spine. She gulps, feeling an uncomfortable hollowness in her stomach. Rather that these nervous fingers were Georgie's, quivering in the sweet anxiety of lust, than those of an awkward serving-girl! O that these harsh, shallow breaths were not the nervousness of an inexperienced maid, but the panting of Georgie's desire!
Suddenly annoyed, for she had promised herself that she would not spend another day pining after Georgie, Carry thinks now of her ride, and of Neville, her splendid black stallion. Yes, Mother had been quite right: exercise does raise the spirits. She had received Neville for her fifteenth birthday, and is quite sure that he is the finest mount in all the Clathmorgan stables. She thinks now that she should have called him Sir Perceval, for he is a noble, knightly horse; but at fifteen she had chosen "Neville", and now it is too late to change. Shouldering off her dress, Carry laughs to herself to recall her brothers' astonishment as she spanked him into a gallop, their admonitory cries as they leaped the hedge into the meadow. She smiles as she steps from her skirts one by one, feeling the sweep of the satin against her thigh, imagining how Georgie would have adored to see her gallop past, her long golden tresses flying in the breeze.
And so Carry turns and steps and shrugs, until she is quite naked, and feels upon her bare skin the heat of the roaring fire and the moisture of the bath beside her. And then, hearing Jemmy's harsh breathing, she snaps her eyes open, her fantasy suddenly evaporated.
"Why, what are you staring at?"
Jemmy looks down, abashed. Her blush tells her mistress all.
Carry says nothing, but dips her toe into the water. "Ohh," she gasps luxuriously, as she puts one foot slowly into the warm water, and then the other. She looks again at Jemmy. Jemmy's eyes are lowered, but she cannot turn away; and Carry feels a sudden excitement. It does not matter that it is not Georgie, but a lowly serving maid: Carry feels admiring glances as if they were sensuous caresses. They intoxicate her, and she can no more reject them than she can change the colour of her eyes.
In a soft, melodious undertone, her voice suddenly gentle, "Do you like to look upon me?"
Jemmy nods, then looks up into Carry's eyes. Carry feels the tightness at her breast, the little shiver, the sensation of dampness. She wants... she wants...
"Bring the tall looking-glass," she commands, her voice suddenly loud again. "I wish to see what it is you are looking at."
Obediently, Jemmy turns in the direction of Carry's gaze. And there, against the wall, the tall glass before which Carry has spent many an hour in secret, contemplating her own charms with silent approval. Carefully, for it is heavy, Jemmy trundles the oaken stand forward on its eight brass castors, until it is right before the young Venus in her bath. Carry turns gently from side to side, gathering up her hair as she does so.
"Take the sponge, and wash me."
"I wonder when Alfred will return."
"His grace said he would be in time for dinner, did he not?"
"It's monstrous." The Duchess sniffs. "A father should be at home on Christmas Eve – not cavorting with fallen women. Nevertheless... I confess I find myself enjoying his little absences more and more." Lady Aurelia Walmsley, Duchess of Grantshire, stretches herself luxuriously. "Oh, what a lovely evening we had of it last night! That Mrs Fearnley – how she enjoyed the little machine, did she not?"
"Indeed, I do believe she came a half a dozen times!"
"Poor things. I feel sorry for them. I suspect it was her very first time, you know."
"And you think they will be able to win their husbands' co-operation?"
"I am sure of it. Lady Cleckheaton is very persuasive. They all are. And Fearnley is a most ambitious man – a very clever lawyer, don't you know. Yes, I can see a little syndicate forming in the not too distant future. The wives shall work on the husbands, and then we shall get the gentlemen together. Alfred will be so pleased. We shall have to make it seem as if it was his idea, you know, and not ours. But since it is he who spends all the money, it seems only right that he should gain it for a change, don't you think?"
"Assuredly. Manufacturing is the answer, I am sure."
"So it is."
The two ladies reflect for a while on the subject of money, and its general desirability. It is only their combined sagacity that has prevented the Duke's schemes from ruining the family fortunes entirely; but the opportunity presented by the oscillating machine holds a quite new potential for making money, as opposed to merely conserving it.
The Duchess looks fondly upon her dear friend. Mrs Clarice Crichton, once the governess and now her intimate companion, seems lost in thought. But then she turns to her mistress, who returns her enquiring glance with a smile.
"Aury?"
"Mm?"
"Do you really think it was Mrs Fearnley's first time? And she a mother of five children?"
"We are not all as fortunate as you, dear Clarice. Your Martin must have been an exceptional man."
"Oh, he was."
"But you will admit that you have been an unusually merry widow."
"Yes, and I'm sure I have him to thank for that, at least in part. There are not very many who have discovered... what we have discovered."
"Not yet, Clarice dear. But when every reputable lady has a Walmsley Comforter beside the bed — Why, what a clatter!" Hearing a storm of approaching hooves, the Duchess sits up a little. "Clarice, dearest, go to the window and see who it is!"
Clarice is shocked. "What – like this?"
"Of course. Nobody will see."
"Except you."
"Except I."
With a little giggle, Mrs Crichton rises and tiptoes to the window. "Why, it's Lady Caroline. Alone!"
"Come back. You'll get cold." The Duchess extends her arm.
"Ohhh! You're right."
When Mrs Crichton is settled again, their conversation resumes.
"Ah, Carry... Carry," murmurs the Duchess. "There's a young lady who knows a few secrets... And I do believe I know who taught her one or two, hmm? Did not her dear governess's roving hands map out some secret territory, hmm? Around this area, perhaps?"
Clarice writhes and giggles. "O Aury! Aury! Not there! Please!"
The Duchess chuckles lazily. Her hand continues to move. "Well, it doesn't seem to have done her any harm..."
Clarice turns, suddenly serious. "Why should it do her any harm?"
"I don't know." The Duchess is smiling, but pensive. "It's strange, is it not? We are always taught that what we enjoy is bad for us, and what hurts us is good for us. Yet nature seems to say exactly the opposite. And in going against nature, do we not create boundless misery? Does the human race not have a genius for creating needless suffering?"
"I think you are right. But speaking of suffering..."
"Oh — Carry. I know. She isn't herself at all. Did you see her yesterday at luncheon? Eyes all red from weeping, and scarcely a glance at that pretty new girl Alfred found us. When Carry ignores a fair maid, I think we must know what is responsible."
"She's in love?"
"Of course she's in love – the silly girl."
"She seems to wander about like a ghost — that is, when she finally deigns to leave her room."
"Where, I suspect, she is dissipating just a little too much energy at present."
"But who can it be? She cannot come across very many young men at Hepplewhite."
"Oh, no. Not a young man, I think." The Duchess's tone is dismissive.
"You mean... one of the girls?"
The Duchess chuckles. "O Clarice, Clarice, were you never at school? Did you never come across some wonderful young teacher, someone who inspired you, someone who lit a fire in your young breast?"
"A teacher? One of the teachers?"
"Of course. And I think I know which one."
"I wonder if the teacher is aware of it."
"I cannot tell. Needless to say, Carry will admit nothing."
"Poor lamb! And I suppose she knows nothing of his grace's intentions for her."
"Clarice, that man cares about only one thing – I mean of course his precious seamstresses. But his daughter's heart – pah! He will marry her to money, if I do not prevent it."
"But will she not be broken-hearted?"
"Well, that depends, you know. If he's rich enough – and Alfred means him to be, of course – why, then he will do exactly what all the men do: get her pregnant and find himself a mistress. And then there will be nothing to prevent her finding herself a confidential friend..."
"O Aury! Aury! Don't!" Clarice titters as the Duchess begins to tickle her.
"I know what you would like... Hark! Hark now!"
The ladies are still again, and listen to the heavy footfalls of the servants in the passage.
"They are bringing up the water for Lady Caroline's bath," observes Clarice.
"Yes, and I repeat that I know what you would like, to revive your wanton heart."
"What, pray?" Clarice is stiff with anticipation.
"You would like to gaze upon beautiful Venus, rising from the waves. She will be fresh-cheeked and invigorated from her ride, and I think we should distract her before she dissipates all her energies for yet another solitary afternoon, don't you think?"
"Then we shall have to get dressed."
"Yes, dear Clarice, I am afraid we shall."
Obediently, Jemmy takes the huge sponge, dips it in the water and, after a moment's hesitation, dabs it into the hollow of her mistress's armpit. Noisily the water cascades down the glistening, perfect body.
"Ahhh!" Carry breathes rapturously, closing her eyes, tilting her head back. "Make me wet! Wet me all over! Quickly, now!" She cannot help giggling at the hidden sense of her words. She twitches in delight at the caress of the sponge, the trickling of the water, the boiling wantonness coursing deliciously through her veins. She opens her eyes for a moment and sees herself in the glass, beautiful, twisting to and fro in quiet frenzy. "Now the soap! Rub it on my skin! I want it all over!" Carry moans and giggles: she cannot conceal her pleasure at Jemmy's soapy caresses. "Oh, I think you are good at this," Carry encourages her, "you are doing it exactly right. Now my legs... higher up! Yes, higher! Make me completely clean!"
And then, suddenly, Carry senses that she is going to come, that she is going to come most deliciously at the hands of this innocent maid. She will try to disguise it, but she knows it cannot be far off. "Now the other leg. Use more soap! Work it in! Harder! Oh! Oh!" She wiggles her toes in her excitement.
And then, abruptly, the door flies open, and Jemmy drops her sponge in dismay.
Carry struggles to conceal her rage of disappointment. "Good afternoon, mother," she says lugubriously.
"Why Carry, my dear, how charmingly healthy you look! — Come, Clarice, take a seat. — We have come to cheer you up!" The Duchess laughs silently at Carry's inner struggles. "Oh, you have the new little maid! Has she been washing you nicely? What is her name?"
Carry looks down at Jemmy, still kneeling before her. "What is your name?"
"Jemmy, m'lady."
"She says her name is Jemmy, mother."
"Jemmy, continue to wash Lady Caroline. — Yes, Carry, we have come to cheer you up. You know, of course, that your father intends to marry you off to someone rich? And that in our present circumstances this might have to be rather sooner than later?" The Duchess pauses to observe the look of anguish that has fallen over her daughter's countenance. "Come, don't fret, child. I think I may have found a way to rescue you."
In Carry's eyes, the look of sullen despair transforms into a gleam of hope. "O mother – you cannot mean it! Truly?"
"But I shall require your co-operation, my dear."
"Why, what must I do?"
"In the first place, if your father should mention the subject of marriage, kindly do not make a commotion at him. It will do no good at all. You should feign meek acceptance. Do you understand?"
"Yes, mother."
"In the second, Clarice and I have thought of a way to make money – enough to make the question of your marriage quite irrelevant. We are proposing to send your father into manufacturing."
"Manufacturing?"
"Manufacturing. It makes a very great deal of money these days, as I'm sure you know. We intend that this manufacturing will benefit not only us, but your school as well. However, we will need you to use all of your persuasive powers to ensure that we receive all necessary support."
"Very well. Of course I will help."
"You are a good girl. One particular target I have in mind is one of your teachers. We shall need you to win her over. Now what is her name? Paulson, I think. Do you know a Miss Paulson?"
"Oh mother! Mother!" Carry's eyes are ablaze.
"Hmmm... I see you do. Stop doing that, Carry. You are splashing the girl."
It is gloomy in the Carter dining-room: there are but two candles at the table, and little enough light from the forbidding winter sky outside. The only quite cheerful thing in the room is the glowing fire, striking ruddy glints in the brass candlesticks.
Lucy glances at her father. Solemn as ever, she feels him as a brooding, oppressive presence. At least today her mother is making some attempt at gaiety, and for this Lucy is grateful. Their secret outing to the optician the day before yesterday has given them a fresh bond, a memory they revive together in quiet little smiles when Father is not looking. Indeed, that day was one of the happiest, for in the carriage on the way into town Mother had spoken at length of her childhood memories, and Lucy had listened and questioned with lively interest. And when she goes back to school, in just a week's time, a lovely new pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez will be waiting for her in a velvet-lined box. For a moment Lucy sits back in contentment: she has eaten heartily, and even had two glasses of wine; and although her dress now feels rather tight about the waist, she feels most wonderfully comfortable.
Again she glances at her parents, now also both staring into the fire.
"Shall I have another log put on?" asks Joanna.
"Hmph. Perhaps, since it's Christmas," murmurs Henry.
Lucy returns to her recollections of her day out with Mother. What of that absurd piratical eye-patch, that she must wear over her good eye? One hour each day, he had said, to strengthen her bad eye – and a strange and giddy thing it is to walk about with. How Mother had laughed!
But then that extraordinary ride home. What of that, indeed? It had been just as they were getting into the carriage, and she had gone to thank her mother with a kiss: that involuntary flinch, that little recoil, that grimace of regret – soon suppressed, but not soon enough. And after that, Mother had been silent, morose, looking out of the window as if somehow the whole mood of the day had been spoiled. And on the road, blazing with anger, Lucy had clenched her thighs tighter than ever, squeezing and squeezing in her rage. And whether it was the heat of her indignation, or the rocking of the carriage, she does not know: but it had come, that sudden inside-out feeling, several times, until she had had a fit of coughing, and Mother had asked her if she was perhaps not feeling well. Such an extraordinary feeling! And afterwards, she had felt as light as thistledown, as if she might have just blown away in the wind! A curious discovery, and rather a strain for her poor leg-muscles – yet it had certainly whiled away a dull journey.
Henry Carter drains his glass. It is time to say grace. And not only that: for, despite an hour at Matins and a two-hour Christmas Service, he decides that there must be a thanksgiving psalm as well. And of course a prayer for dear, departed Elsie, and a tear from Mother.
"And now a reading, I think. Yes, Lucy, you shall read to us."
"But Henry, you know how..." Joanna attempts to intercede.
"The girl must practise. It is sheer laziness! Now let me see..." Henry Carter opens the huge family bible and turns the pages carefully, reverently. "Although it is Christmas, and we have celebrated the dawn of our redemption, we should always keep the Law of the Lord upon our lips and in our hearts. Yes... Here." He holds the book out to his daughter, indicating the passage with his finger.
Taking the heavy book, Lucy begins to read, haltingly, in a quavering voice. Her father's stern solemnity quite discountenances her.
"And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Speak unto the children of Israel, saying, If a soul shall sin through ignorance against any of the commandments of the Lord concerning things which ought not to be done, and shall do against any of them..." she breaks off.
"Well?" growls her father. By now it is darker still, and his face is in shadow.
"But father: how can anyone sin through ignorance?"
"Why, you question Holy Scripture? That is insolence!" He pounds his fist upon the table. "But of course ignorance of the Divine Law is sin! Why do you think that I strive and strive to imprint the Law upon your insubordinate heart?"
"Henry, dear..." Joanna leans forward beseechingly. She is mindful that they have had wine, and Henry has had perhaps a little too much of it. And, being now seventeen, Lucy has had a little, too, and drunk it perhaps a little too quickly.
"But father, surely, if a person doesn't know that a thing is wrong, then it is no sin. Miss Paulson says..."
"Miss Paulson? Miss Paulson? Who is Miss Paulson?" Henry stabs his finger towards the enormous, black-bound bible. "These are the words of Almighty God!" His voice rises dangerously high. "Do you think that the almighty Creator of all in the heavens and all upon the earth is going to sit like a schoolgirl, listening to what Miss Paulson says?"
"O but father! That was not what I meant!"
"Insolence! Intolerable! Get to your room!"
"Henry, dear..." pleads Joanna, but to no avail.
"To your room, I say!"
"Very well!" And, head held high, Lucy knocks over her chair and sweeps angrily out of the room.
"Come back here and pick up that chair!" yells her outraged father.
"There, there, Henry dear..." murmurs Joanna, picking the chair up and setting it in its place once more. "She is only young."
"Ungrateful wretch! Daring to preach to her father like that! Insolence!"
Joanna attempts to soothe him. "But she is very good, you know, very good in a mathematical way. Look how hard she has been working away at it, up in her room..."
"Mathematics be damned!"
"O not on Christmas Day, Henry, please!"
"Oh..." Henry looks, and notices Joanna's imploring countenance. "Oh, very well. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my dear. Let us have some port. You too. It is Christmas, after all."
"Oh, Henry..." Joanna smiles fondly upon her husband. Like the Almighty, she thinks, he is quick to anger, but always merciful — eventually.
"Joanna..." Henry reaches across and pats his wife's hand. "Let us say a silent prayer for her."
In her room, Lucy paces up and down in a fury. "I hate this house," she exclaims to herself. "I hate it!" She takes up her treatise on the properties of springs. Yes, she has made a presentable conclusion: she has found a particularly pleasing expression for omega-null. She re-reads her last, triumphant steps and feels her strength return.
Fortunately, Simpson has been meticulous in keeping the fires well-banked, and the room is at least warm, if a little stuffy. Breathless in her tight-fitting dress, Lucy struggles out of it and places it over her chair. Then, to keep warm, she lies down on the thick rug before the hearth.
Lucy is still angry, but a little frightened to think that she has quarrelled with her father – and on Christmas Day, too. This has never happened before. If only she had someone to take her part! Miss Paulson would – wouldn't she?
But there is nobody, and so Lucy goes over the argument in her head, seeking to reassure herself. Could one sin through ignorance? Surely, if you are ignorant, then you don't even know that it is wrong. How could that be a sin?
But eventually, Lucy's confidence evaporates. She decides that it would be best to go and apologize, even though she knows her father was unduly harsh. Timidly, she makes her way downstairs; but when she returns to the dining room, she finds it empty.
"Simpson... Simpson... Where are Mother and Father?"
"They have gone out to Evensong, miss."
Determined to do the right thing, Lucy retreats to her room and writes a note. She struggles to make it neat, and re-reads it several times to ensure that she has spelled every word correctly. Then she hurries down, and leaves the note for her father upon the hall-stand, where he will see it upon his return. That done, she scurries back to her room, closes the door and lies once more upon the rug.
She is not sure that her father will forgive her, but at least she can now be at peace with herself. She does not care about the stupid argument anyway. She shivers, not because she is cold, but because she wants a friend, a sympathetic soul. She remembers walking into Miss Paulson's cottage, and being greeted by a smile. Here, whenever she enters a room, there is always that look of fleeting disappointment: not as good as Elsie, not as pretty as Elsie, poor dead Elsie. Damned Elsie, spoiling everything from the grave!
Elsie did not know about springs. Elsie was not very good at mathematics, even if her handwriting was so very neat. And, Lucy suddenly thinks, Elsie did not know about the inside-out feeling – that extraordinary thing that happened when Shipman touched her so very gently, and again in the carriage, when she squeezed. And what was it Miss Paulson said? "When we feel a hunger inside..." Yes, Lucy feels a hunger: just thinking of that inside-out feeling reawakens it. "Something wonderful..." It is strange certainly, and powerful; and afterwards, that wonderful lightness, that floating... "Just touching gently, with one finger..."
Yes, thinks Lucy, yes I will. She draws up her petticoats. She feels the heat of the fire upon her thighs. Carefully, she reaches down and explores. It is all very sensitive. She brushes the fluffy hairs with the tips of her fingers. It tickles slightly, and is very soothing. After a few minutes, she wants more. Where was it? Near the top? Oh yes. This is like the feeling she has when she squeezes, but stronger, and far less tiring. "I like this," she whispers to herself. "I like it." She does not hear the scuffling of her feet upon the rug, as she fidgets her legs into the most comfortable position. She does not hear her noisy breathing, echoing from the plain walls of her little, high-ceilinged room. She feels rays of pleasure flowing through her, swimming like eels throughout her body. Her hair is prickling. Her lips are dry.
For a moment, she stops. "Shall I do it some more? Or shall I stop now?" Curious, she jerks her petticoats up further, so that she can see where she has been touching. Yes, there is the little place. It has always been there, waiting for her to play with it, asking to be touched. Why then has she never found it before? Because she was told that it was ugly, so ugly that she was afraid to look. Watching her finger, she touches it. Immediately the sweetness floods into her again, stronger and stronger now. Again, she forces herself to stop, just gently playing with the hairs around it. She thinks of Walmsley. Her parents are rich, rich beyond telling. Assuredly Walmsley will have received many Christmas presents today. Combs and jewellery and dresses... "Why can we not have Christmas presents, too? Everyone else does," she thinks, "everyone! Well, all I have is this." She touches it again. "It's for me. It's mine!" She begins to touch a little harder. She moans out loud: she needs to press more firmly. "I like it! Ugh! Yes, yes!" She is turning inside-out now, she can feel it, and yes, she wants it, her body wants it, and "Oh!" it hits her, it makes her crazy, and she drums her heels on the floor. And then it lets her go, and she can feel the squeezing, again, again, again.
She feels dizzy. She has been holding her breath, and now she lets it out with a little cough. Lovely little eddies and wisps of feeling, shivering in odd corners of her body. And then sweet calm. So this is what Shipman does, and Walmsley does, and Miss Paulson does. No wonder! "And I can do it whenever I like," she thinks to herself. "Even if nobody else cares, I can give myself this lovely feeling. They can take away my home, my food, even my clothes, but I shall always have this." She wriggles a little. She is supremely comfortable. She stretches her limbs. It feels good. And then she feels it again: where she touched, that little place, tingling and tickling. She touches it, and the tingling stops. She gives it a little rub – and laughs in delight. "Again! I'm going to do it again!" She thinks of her grave, mournful father and his stupid temper. She thinks of her mother, cowed and melancholy. What do they matter? "I don't need Father," she grunts, "I don't need Mother... uh... don't need Shipman... I don't need anybody!" And then she is inside-out again, and it is even stronger than before, oh madness, madness, lovely madness, so much so that she is laughing and laughing with the sheer release of it even as the contractions squeeze and squeeze and sweetly squeeze her.
"I'm wet!" She feels her wetness. Her fingers make a squelchy sound, but the smooth slipperiness is delicious. She strokes again and again. "I'm getting all messy. But I don't care!"
Now that the festive meal is quite cleared away, Felicity's mother goes to visit the children in the nursery. George and Frederick are playing with bricks. Felicity is bent over the table, her mouth full of pins. The room is warm and cheerful.
"Why, Felicity! What a busy little needlewoman you are! And I didn't think you liked sewing. And on Christmas Day, too!"
"It is fun, mama! I did not realize! I think I shall be finished tomorrow!"
"But what is it you are making?"
"She's making a pair of trousers, mama."
"Be quiet, Frederick!" Felicity scowls at her impudent brother.
"A pair of trousers, Felicity? Why, that's a strange thing."
"It's... It's for the school play, mama. Look, they're velvet! Feel them!"
"Lovely, dear!"
"They will be beautifully warm."
"So they will, dear. How very nice!"
Henry and Joanna return from Evensong. Simpson hangs up their coats.
"Miss Lucy left a note for you, sir," she says, indicating the paper on the hall-stand. And there, in a careful, childish hand, Lucy's peace-offering: "I am sorry. I was wrong. Lucy XX"
"Bah! Stupid girl!" cries Henry, dashing the note down again. He stalks into his study, shaking his head.
"Oh, poor dear!" cries Joanna. "I will go up and see her. She is a good girl really."
Neither Lucy nor her mother will ever forget that moment, when Mrs Carter walks in without knocking, and finds Lucy toppling once more into a helpless rush of ecstasy. It is fortunate that Mrs Carter does not scream, but with commendable presence of mind slams the door closed behind her.
"O Lucy, Lucy, no, no, no! Dirty girl! Dirty, dirty!" She falls on her knees beside her daughter and grasps her wrist, tugging the petticoats down to cover her daughter's shame. "Never do this! Never again! Oh I cannot believe it! You too! What is to become of us?"
"Hush, mother! Why all this fuss?"
"Lucy, Lucy, never again, please! Promise me, now! Oh, to lose one is bad enough!"
"Mother! Whatever do you mean?"
"Never again! It's a wicked, wicked habit! Oh, I don't want to lose you as well!"
"What are you saying, mother?"
"Don't let your father know. I'm not going to tell him. I can't bear it. I don't know what he'd do."
"Are you speaking of Elsie, mother?"
Mrs Carter is suddenly silent. She lets go of Lucy's wrist, and draws back with a sigh. After a moment, she nods.
"Did she do... did she do this?"
"Yes." Mrs Carter is solemn. "Yes, she did. And by the time we found out, she could not stop it. We threatened to send her away. And she just said 'good!' Can you believe it? She turned against us, Lucy. She was disobedient. She even told your father she hated him."
Lucy turns away from her mother with a snort. "Perhaps Elsie was not all bad," she thinks.
"We had to send her to the doctor."
"The doctor?" Lucy turns back sharply. "Why the doctor? She was not ill."
"Oh, but she was. It was a sickness of the soul. She was so full of fury."
"But mother! Perhaps she needed to do this. That is what my body tells me, mother: I need it! It is like hunger, or thirst. I thought I could ignore it, but I find that I cannot."
"Oh nonsense, Lucy! Your body needs no such thing!"
"But how do you know? How do you know what my body needs? Why should you believe some doctor? And what of men? Do they not talk continually of their needs? Why should women not have needs, too?"
"But Lucy – men like to believe that we are perfect. We are not supposed to feel such things."
"But that is ridiculous! Elsie was perfectly normal."
"She was unhappy, Lucy. She was miserable. The doctor said that it would ruin her health. He said he could cure her."
"This is all nonsense. She was not sick." Lucy shakes her head in disbelief. "What sort of doctor was this?"
"Oh, he is a distinguished surgeon – most distinguished – Mr Isaac Baker Brown. He is very famous, and it was a very expensive operation. But we so wanted to cure our poor Elsie! It was the only way."
"Mother, what are you telling me? What did this Doctor Brown do to poor Elsie?"
"He cut the parts away."
Lucy squeals in rage and horror. "What?" she cries.
"Yes, dear. He told us that in obstinate cases, it is the only cure. So you see, we had to agree."
"He cut her?"
"Yes, dear. With little sharp scissors. He said it would not be unduly painful."
"So that was why she was in hospital! And I thought she was really ill!"
"She was ill, Lucy. She had to be cured. It is the law of God."
"Where in God's law does it speak of what she did? Where? And where in God's law does it say that a man may cut off a woman's parts? Mother, she died, didn't she?"
"Yes, Lucy, she did. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't drink, she wouldn't talk, and she wouldn't stop bleeding. In the end she died."
"You make it sound as if it were her fault, mother. Why should she not die after such a barbaric operation?"
"Barbaric? What on earth do you mean? Mr Baker Brown is a highly reputable surgeon!"
"Why did he not rather cut off her hands?"
"That would indeed be barbaric! There was nothing wrong with her hands! We do not do that kind of thing in civilized England!"
"But mother – what is the difference? I do not understand you, really I do not!"
"Neither do I understand you, Lucy."
"And how long did she live in agony after that barbaric operation?"
"Six days."
Lucy is silent for a while. Then, her voice choked with passion: "Murderer!"
"What?" There is fear in Joanna's voice.
"That Doctor Brown is a murderer. And so are you, and Father!" Lucy's voice rises in her outrage. "You murdered my sister, and then you lied and told me that she was ill. Murderer! Liar!"
Lucy begins to beat at her mother with her fists, but Joanna, pale with terror, restrains her. Something in her eyes quells Lucy, even in her fury. "Hush! Don't let your father hear! O Lucy, do you not think I have been in torment myself these eight long years?"
"Good!" Lucy breathes venomously. "You utterly disgust me. You go on and on and on about the law of God, you force me to read about wives being subject to their husbands and women being stoned for adultery and women belonging to men like beasts, and yet secretly you lie and murder, and say that it is the law of God!" Lucy shakes her head. "That is not my God, mother."
"What is your God?" asks Joanna, desolate.
"Mother: do you remember?" Lucy's eyes begin to fill with tears. "Do you remember the statue by Elsie's grave? The one of the angel weeping?"
Joanna sobs. "Yes, I remember."
"My God is not the angry, jealous Bonaparte in the sky you and Father like so much to worship. No: my God weeps for Elsie like that angel by her grave."
"Lucy, Lucy, do not do this to me!" Joanna is weeping too, now.
"Tomorrow I will go. You will find my fare, and I will leave this accursed house."
"But where will you go?"
"I will go back to school. I cannot stay here."
"But what can I tell your father?"
"Tell him... oh, tell him that I am ill, if you must."
Late that night, Henry turns over in his bed. "Joanna: are you awake?"
"Yes, Henry."
"Can you hear a sound? Is that weeping?"
"Yes, Henry. It is Lucy."
"Well, I am glad that she is sorry. Outrageous conduct today." Henry grunts. "Something must be the matter with her."
"Indeed I think she is run down. She says she wishes to return to school, to work on her mathematics."
"Can she do that?"
"She says she can."
"Good. I shall be glad to be rid of her. She is a perfect fountain of misery."
"I will see what can be done."
"Thank you, Joanna."
Within a few minutes, Henry is snoring.
End of Part V.