Being Boxing Day, the coach is almost empty. Apart from Lucy, there is only a middle-aged couple inside. He is reading The Times, and she knitting what appear to be leggings, out of fine black wool. Her needles clatter with astonishing rapidity – Lucy watches in fascination, envious of her dexterity – while she looks aimlessly about her, now down at her work, now out of the window, and occasionally, with a little smile, at Lucy.
Lucy falls into a reverie, reviewing those memories of Elsie which, for the past few years, jealousy has thrust to the back of her mind. True, Elsie was not always kind to her younger sister; but then, there were also some moments of tenderness: huddling together on the rug before the bedroom fire; being comforted when Libby, Lucy's doll, lost an arm — and yes! Did not Elsie take needle and thread and stitch it back on for her? Lucy thinks regretfully of Libby: she was rather the worse for wear, but nevertheless she was a little token of Elsie's affection, the only one to have survived. "What a pity," she thinks now, "that Mother persuaded me to give her to the poor!" Mother had said that Lucy was too old for dolls, but "perhaps I'm not too old for a doll, even now," thinks Lucy, wiping a self-indulgent tear from the corner of her eye with her knuckle.
But then she remembers Elsie laughing at her drawing of a house, laughing and showing Nanny: "That looks nothing like a house! Does that look like a house to you?" – and Nanny being tactfully evasive, avoiding Lucy's eye. No, Elsie could be cruel; "but then, I've not been very kind to you, have I, Elsie? And all the same... whatever you did to me, you didn't deserve... that..." Lucy shudders as she imagines the agony of Elsie's last miserable days in the hospital, remembers Mother's tears and Father's pale, tight-lipped solemnity. And then they had sent Nanny away...
Lucy is suddenly distracted from her introspection: the middle-aged woman's busy needles have paused, and she is smiling strangely at Lucy. When Lucy meets her eye, she turns for a moment to her husband, who seems to have fallen into a light doze. Then she looks back to Lucy and, with a twitch of her lips, crosses her legs and gives a little, barely perceptible wink.
Blushing, Lucy uncrosses her legs. "Bother!" she thinks. She had decided not to do that any more: she feels she needs to make some little sacrifice, as much in sympathy with Elsie's shocking privation as to atone for her past uncharitable thoughts. Poor Elsie! Fancy not being able...
Suddenly aware that these thoughts are causing a familiar tension in her private region, Lucy tries to distract herself by looking out of the window, craning her neck a little to see if she can yet make out the next toll-gate. Occasionally she glances at the couple, but both now seem to be dozing. He has put down his paper, neatly folded, and she has put away her knitting, her gloved hands now resting under the folds of her voluminous grey travelling-cape. She has relaxed a little into the corner, and only the toe of one boot peeps from beneath the hem of her cape, bobbing gently with the motion of the carriage. She seems very comfortable and relaxed.
Lucy, however, feels restless and irritable. She would like to be able to get up and walk about. Continually she has to stop herself crossing her own legs. Just thinking of the relief it would give her arouses that insistent little prickle in her loins. "No! I won't! I'm doing this for Elsie," she admonishes herself. For the sake of the distraction, she slips off her glove and, closing her eyes, explores by feel the contents of her purse. There are the six gold sovereigns — Father had been surprisingly generous. Lucy counts them one by one. And then she feels the half-sovereign, the two half-crowns, the shilling and the four pennies – the remnant of the seventh sovereign, after she had paid her fare and bought two big twopenny blocks of chocolate. And there... ah yes! One of her springs. As she takes it out, the woman opposite suddenly lurches forward and coughs, making Lucy jump. The husband opens his eyes a little.
"All right, dear?" he mumbles.
"Oh! Just a little tickle in my throat! Ah! M'hm! Excuse me," murmurs the wife, relaxing back into her corner with a contented sigh.
Reassured, the gentleman closes his eyes again.
Lucy pretends not to notice, but tucks her purse away once more and toys with her spring, stretching and compressing it. Gradually her vexation lifts and her mind floats into tranquil mathematical contemplation.
The Duchess looks up. There is a maid in attendance by the door; and Jemmy, the new girl, is by the window, anxiously looking out. She stands with her legs awkwardly crossed, gyrating a little, wringing her hands.
"Hey you!" booms the Duchess, and Jemmy whirls round to face her, suddenly pale. "What are you waiting for?"
"I... I..." Jemmy seems incoherent.
"Is Lady Caroline out riding?"
Jemmy nods. "Yes, your grace," she stammers.
The Duchess lets out a musical chuckle. "Good. Young ladies of leisure" – here the Duchess gives Jemmy a quizzical look – "need some healthy activity to work off their surplus energies." She holds her stare on Jemmy for a moment before returning to the absorbing novel resting upon her knee.
When she is sure that the Duchess is distracted, Jemmy turns again and resumes her vigil. After a few moments, she starts for the door, but then stops in her tracks. "Oh!" she cries. "It's a carriage."
"A carriage? We aren't expecting anyone." With a sigh, the Duchess puts her book down on the tabouret table beside her and, rising, joins Jemmy by the window. "H'm," she purrs. "Those arms, if I'm not mistaken... Yes, they are..." She returns to her chair and seats herself slowly, arranging her dress with care. It is relatively plain but made of good, heavy silk, an attractive ivory shade with a discreet blue and gold motif at the waist and hem, and a pleasing effervescence of lace at the throat and cuffs. The Duchess is accustomed to wearing something altogether grander when receiving visitors, but this will have to do. "Well, well..." she murmurs wonderingly, tapping her fingers lightly upon the table beside her. "Well, well..."
Soon the carriage is at the door, the horses snorting and steaming in the cold winter air. In a few moments, a footman enters and bows. He is tall. His immaculate white stockings and breeches, and the splendid gilt frogging on his blue coat, make him appear more imposing than the Duchess.
"Mrs Fearnley, your grace. She begs to inform your grace that she had been out for a ride, just chanced to pass the gate, and begged to pass her compliments to your grace, but on no account to disturb your grace or impose upon your grace's kind hospitality."
"But of course she must come in," responds the Duchess, her voice smooth and glacially polite. And, as the footman disappears, "Well, well..." she drawls, to nobody in particular.
Something in the Duchess's tone makes the hairs on Jemmy's neck stand up, and a shiver passes through her, making her cross her legs more tightly as she watches for Lady Caroline.
And then Mrs Fearnley is introduced. She bustles into the room in a long navy-blue cape, her gloves still in her uplifted hand.
"My dear Aurelia, you must forgive me," she cries, drowning the Duchess's protests, "it is too, too rude of me to call uninvited like this. I merely wished to thank you so much for that wonderful evening —"
"But my dear Kate, they haven't taken your cape – nor your gloves!" the Duchess wrinkles the corner of her eyes in a momentary twitch of displeasure. "What am I to do with them?"
"O now don't be cross!" protests Mrs Fearnley. "I insisted that I would merely pass my greetings and thanks and then be on my way again."
"But that is impossible. You must stay! Jenkins, take Mrs Fearnley's things."
"Oh, but —" Mrs Fearnley protests weakly, but allows the immaculate Jenkins to divest her of her outer garments, revealing a most splendidly ornate blue and white confection beneath.
"And what a simply lovely dress!" the Duchess seems genuinely enthusiastic, walking around her visitor admiringly. "Where on earth did you find something so perfectly delightful?"
"You will not believe this, Aurelia, but I had it made in Hull."
"Hull? There is life in Hull? – How charming! And I would have said it must be French! Truly, you amaze me! – And now, of course you will take some tea?"
"No, no, truly, I promised I would not impose myself... but I thought you might be interested..." and here, Mrs Fearnley looks a little anxiously at the maids.
"Leave us!" commands the Duchess; Jemmy and the other maid withdraw, curtseying and closing the door. After a few moments, during which the Duchess watches the door as if expecting someone to burst in again at any minute, she places her hand lightly on her friend's shoulder-blade and guides her to the conversation-chair in the bay window. She takes for herself the seat facing into the room, leaving Mrs Fearnley to face the window with its view of the magnificent, sweeping lawn.
When they are seated, "I have persuaded him," begins Mrs Fearnley. "At first he was a little dismissive, don't you know, but I think your point about who spends the housekeeping —"
"Well, it is true, is it not? The gentlemen will entertain themselves all they can, but 'tis we who must decide what we are to eat, what is required in the kitchen, what must hang upon the walls..."
"Just so! And I think it convinced him."
"Excellent! And his grace is full of enthusiasm. Of course it is now his own idea —"
"But of course —"
"And so zealous is he that he has already sent word to your husband, and written also to one or two others whose experience may prove valuable."
"I am so very glad! I know that a man like his grace will have the factory set up in next to no time. He is so zealous, as you say, when it comes to a new engagement. No wonder they call him 'the Man of Affairs'."
"Yes..." the Duchess looks a little tight-lipped for a moment. And then, with a polite inclination of the head, "But are you sure that I cannot offer you something? A little tea?"
"No, no, truly! I promised myself that I would not even stay this long!" Mrs Fearnley pauses, hesitating. "But..."
"Yes?"
"I have been thinking. That buzzy device is truly wonderful, and no doubt there are other objects of great utility that may be devised and manufactured for the benefit of women. But think, Aurelia... This new enterprise is going to have to persuade women to part with their money. How can they be convinced of the virtues of these wonderful new products? Had I not tried it for myself, I do not know that I would believe what you said about that..."
"Oscillator?"
"Yes, oscillator. When you first told me of it in your letter, I confess that I thought it was — O you must forgive me!"
"No, no..." murmurs the Duchess.
"I thought it was mere flim-flam! But having experienced it for myself, I confess, I... I can scarcely find the words to describe how it made me feel."
"Really?" The Duchess cannot help observing the rise and fall of her friend's breast. "You seem a little agitated."
"I must confess that... the very imperfect recollection I have of it..." Mrs Fearnley closes her eyes tight, wrinkles her nose and gives a delightful little shake of her shoulders. "I really cannot find the words... I fear that with the passage of time... My mind is clouded..."
"Why," the Duchess's voice is mellow, breathy as the lower register of a flute, "perhaps you need to remind yourself."
"Oh, I did not intend in the least... Oh, that is..."
The Duchess looks at Mrs Fearnley from beneath her near-closed eyelids. Her friend is scarlet now, panting as if she has just been chased by a dog. "It really would be no trouble," drawls the Duchess. "But then, perhaps you have other, pressing demands upon your time..."
"Oh, no, no... That is..."
The Duchess represses her laugh and, rising, strides to the bell-pull. To the maid she says, "Mrs Fearnley is feeling a little weary. Tell her people to wait in the stable-yard. And send word to Mrs Crichton that Mrs Fearnley is to use the red room."
"The red room, your grace."
"Yes. Mrs Crichton will know what to do."
"Very good, your grace."
Five minutes later, the Duke makes his appearance.
"Ah, Aury m'dear: I hope you'll forgive me, but I have ventured to invite Fearnley for dinner. It just so happens that his cousin is there at present, and I recall Fearnley telling me that this cousin is quite a gifted engineer fellah. Useful to have an engineer's advice if one is thinking of going into manufacturing, don't you know. But ah... that wasn't Fearnley's carriage I saw passing my window a few minutes ago, was it?"
"Dear, you are quite right; however, it was not he, but Mrs Fearnley."
"What?"
"Katherine, dear. She had been out for a post-prandial drive and just very civilly called to thank us for our little ladies' evening."
The Duke looks around him, bewildered. "But... where is she?"
"She was feeling a little faint, dear, so I suggested she have a lie down."
"Oh yes," mumbles the Duke vaguely, "of course. Hmmm. Must be that time of day. Of course if Fearnley can come, she might as well stay and dine with us too."
"I was just about to suggest it." The Duchess turns to Jemmy, who is at her vigil by the window once more. "You! Tell Cook to prepare for three dinner guests!" and, more softly to her husband, "We may as well be ready for him, dear. He is a lawyer; and my recollection is that lawyers seldom decline a dinner with their most illustrious clients."
"No doubt you're right, dear. I say! What is that clatter? Someone's in a hurry!"
They turn to the window. Carry is still a good way off, but they can already hear the crescendo of flying hooves on the gravel drive.
"That, dear," says the Duchess mildly, "is your speed-crazed daughter. I think she is determined to break her neck on that stallion of hers."
The Duke laughs heartily. "I like a girl with spirit!" he cries, slapping the Duchess playfully on the posterior. He looks about him: just at present, there are no servants within earshot. He leans to his wife's ear and whispers. "Just like her mother, who is still a damn' presentable woman, all things considered."
The Duchess turns in mock outrage, fists upon hips: "Still?" she demands with hauteur – but the play of her lips reveals her inner pleasure at her husband's remark. "All things considered? And what things, pray?"
Seeing the Duke's discomfiture, she turns to watch their daughter's precipitate approach.
"What a girl!" muses his grace, chuckling through his moustache. They hold hands.
"And there goes little Jemmy the new maid, to welcome her mistress," muses the Duchess. "For young girls such as she, Carry is an ideal of womanhood. Do you know that, Alfred? She is like a goddess to that girl."
The Duke chuckles. "And we made her. You and I."
"And look what she has become."
"Yes. A lusty girl like that will make a fine wife one of these days. I was just thinking of —"
"Now, now, Alfred! I'm not having you selling my daughter to one of your moneybag businessman friends. Carry is a dear, sweet, innocent maid and she's far too young to be sold into slavery."
"What? You don't call marriage slavery, do you?" the Duke is round-eyed in mock astonishment.
His wife sighs and does not answer directly. "Just seeing her makes me feel tired. I think I will go and lie down. It is, as you say, that time of the afternoon." She does not break from his gentle clasp, but returns the pressure of his hand. "You seem just a little frisky yourself, Alfred. Perhaps after your long Christmas holiday you are missing the attentions of your deeply indebted seamstresses."
"Oh Aury!" The Duke shudders. "You know I would never dream of doing such a thing!" He crosses the fingers of his free hand behind his back. "Those women are not even hygienic!"
"Oh?" the Duchess feigns wide-eyed horror. "So you have considered it, then?" And, sensing his discomfiture, she laughs indulgently. "You men... you men!"
"Ah... I am perhaps missing the attentions of a certain someone else..." he falters.
The Duchess giggles saucily. "Come up in five minutes, then."
As she bustles to the stairs, Carry makes her entrance, her cheeks flaming, her eyes brilliant. "Ah, mamma!" she cries, a little breathless. "I met Mr Fearnley's man upon the road, and took this letter from him. It seems papa has invited Mr Fearnley to dinner."
"Yes, Carry, so it seems." The Duchess takes the envelope and, since it is addressed to her, breaks the seal. Having examined the contents briefly at arm's length, she turns to the footman. "Pass word to Mrs Fearnley's people that they are to send back the carriage directly. Mrs Fearnley will stay."
"Very good, your grace."
Meanwhile, Carry has turned an enquiring eye upon Jemmy, who has been standing in a kind of awestruck daze.
Suddenly Jemmy comes to herself and, with a look of panic, turns and rushes to the kitchen to call up the hot water for her ladyship's bath.
Carry turns to her mother. "O mamma, have you noticed?"
"Noticed?"
"That little... Jemmy? I think she..."
"How could one not notice, Caroline?" The Duchess gives her daughter the benefit of her most knowing gaze. "I trust you have not been teasing her."
"Oh no, mamma."
The Duchess maintains her stare for several long seconds, but Carry's countenance is untroubled, her blue eyes dazzlingly honest. "H'm. I am afraid she is going to suffer. She will miss you when you return to Hepplewhite."
"But what can I do?"
"I am afraid these things must run their course. I will suggest your father finds a nice little friend for her."
"You are very thoughtful, mamma."
"It is all part of running a happy household, Carry. You must always notice and take account of people's feelings."
"Of course, mamma." Carry looks down, blushing slightly. Servants swirl around them, carrying the heavy coppers upstairs.
The Duchess regards her daughter intently until, after a few moments, Carry looks up again and meets her eye. "Beauty is dangerous, Carry. You know that."
"Yes, mamma." Carry's voice is a little hoarse. She looks down again.
"Sometimes, Carry, I am afraid that it is necessary to play the cruel, heartless aristocrat."
"O mamma... Sometimes I wish that I could get away from all this... and just be myself... Be who I really am, deep inside."
"I know. I... I want you to be happy, Carry. I only hope that if you do, you will do it far, far away, so that I do not have to explain you to your father. I do not think he would like to know exactly who you are, deep inside."
"No, mamma."
"But there is one who does." The Duchess's tone lightens – questions almost.
"Yes, mamma." Carry blushes. She has a defeated air.
The Duchess's voice sinks to an undertone. "Do not think I do not understand, Carry. I understand more than you know. I do not believe your father would be sympathetic, but..."
"Oh, mamma!" Carry flies into her mother's arms, and they hug for a moment. But then the Duchess pushes her daughter gently away. She is smiling.
"Pooh! I'm sure it's your horse, not you. But I do think you should lose no time in having your bath. Have Annie wait on you. We will find little Jemmy something else to do."
"Yes, mamma."
The Duchess sighs as she watches her daughter bustle upstairs. "Lucky Miss Paulson," she thinks. And with another little sigh, she follows more sedately, to await his grace.
On the landing, she encounters Mrs Crichton, and a morose Jemmy.
"Jemmy... go to Mrs Crichton's room." The Duchess takes Mrs Crichton's arm. "Clarice, come with me a minute... Close the door. His grace will be here in a minute, and I desire that we shall not be disturbed. But now: you have seen how that little Jemmy looks at Caroline."
"One could hardly fail to."
"Quite. And as you know, the gentlemen are going to need to look at the oscillator after dinner."
"Yes."
"I had it in mind that once dear Katherine Fearnley has quite exhausted its possibilities..."
"Yes?"
"You might entrust it to little Jemmy for safe-keeping. Then she can bring it down to the dining-room."
"What?"
"Of course, you will need to instruct her on how it is to be handled."
"Handled?" Mrs Crichton seems deliberately slow-witted.
"Oh come, now, Clarice! Do you not think that her need is greater than yours? After all, his grace will be off to London tomorrow. And then we shall have more time together." The Duchess's voice becomes softer, more insinuating. "Meanwhile, I am sure that you can keep yourself occupied, distracting poor little Jemmy from her tender fixation... H'm?"
Mrs Crichton begins to smile. "Oh Aury... You are such a thoughtful dear!"
The Duchess slaps her confidante playfully. "Now go, quick! Before his grace comes..."
Despite the driver's protests, Lucy insists on alighting at the top of the school drive. The little path down to Miss Paulson's cottage is not wide enough even for a pony and trap. Besides, she has only one travelling case, albeit crammed with all her worldly possessions. She is out of breath when she finally reaches the little ivy-clad cottage, barely visible in the early dusk of winter. It is with relief that she puts the case down upon the doorstep, but with a surge of desolation she realizes that she has no key, and her little home is locked and barred against her. "Of course," she thinks, "Miss Paulson must still be away with her family." She looks in through that window, not without a little remembered thrill. But all inside is dark: there is no welcoming fire. Lucy shivers. This is what it is to be homeless.
But then, with a spark of courage, she resolves to try the old back door into the primitive kitchen at the rear. It has not been used for years; they had always left the kitchen table up against it. Pushing her way through the dense foliage to the side – for the cottage is surrounded by trees and bushes – Lucy finally reaches the muddy rear threshold. She presses the latch, and the door creaks open – but only an inch or so, before striking against the kitchen table, still in its place. "Why," thinks Lucy, "I believe I could push against it and make my way in." And so, with a few grunts, she pushes the heavy old table across the uneven floor, until she is able to squeeze through into the dark interior.
Once inside, her courage falters. It is deathly cold, and she begins to feel an irrational fear. She needs light, light to combat the terrifying gloom. Stealthily she enters the front room. Upon the table is the oil lamp, and there upon the hearth, the tinder-box in its accustomed place. All is unnaturally quiet, as if there were a dead body in the room. In a panic of terror, she flattens herself against the wall, her hair prickling. But all is still: nothing moves. Eventually, she calms her frenzied breathing, edges round to the hearth, and grasps the tinder-box. Then, moving hurriedly to the table, looking anxiously about her as she goes, she strikes the flint with shaking fingers. She has done this countless times before, but it is once, twice, three times before she can blow the little muslin pad into a feeble flame. She lifts the chimney of the oil-lamp and lights it; and then, at last, gloom dispelled, the room is transformed into its old, homely self, and her terrors abate.
More confident now, she summons the courage to go out and recover her travelling case from where she left it at the front door. Inside at last, she laughs at herself for her nervousness, but nevertheless pushes the kitchen table firmly back against the door. And upstairs, in her own little room, she carefully sets and lights a fire. At first disturbed by the snapping and crackling of the burning wood, she soon allows the grateful warmth to revive her feeble spirit. She did not realize how cold she had become – cold to the bone. After a little while, she unbuttons her coat, opening herself to the reviving warmth.
"Come, Caroline," urges the Duchess with a trace of irritation. It has been a most congenial dinner: Mrs Fearnley in particular has been unusually charming and her conversation most diverting. Indeed, she has been as voluble as Caroline has been reserved.
But throughout the meal, the Duchess has been covertly scrutinizing this Mr Matson, this engineer friend of Mr Fearnley. Until the main course, he could hardly take his eyes from Carry's bosom; but then, Jemmy had appeared, sprightly as a grasshopper, dancing attendance on everyone – fussing over the Duke, topping up Mrs Fearnley's wine – but clearly reserving her most special attention for Lady Caroline. Carry, poor thing, has taken every care to be as pretty as a picture, and nobly striven to contribute agreeably to the small-talk. But it is little Jemmy, flitting around the table like a beneficent fairy, that Mr Matson's eyes follow wherever she goes. "Come: let us leave the gentlemen to their port."
Once the ladies have withdrawn and the decanter has been passed, the Duke himself rises and retrieves from a sideboard two boxes, connected by loops of wire. "Here, gentlemen," he says solemnly, returning to the table, "is the oscillator. What do you think of it, Matson?"
Mr Matson looks knowingly at the boxes for a moment or two through half-closed eyes. Then he reaches for them and draws them to him. The Duke takes a cigar and offers them to his guests with a gesture. Mr Matson turns the generator handle, and the box containing the oscillator buzzes and jitters on the table.
"Remarkable!" murmurs Mr Fearnley, eyeing the strange device with fascination.
"Amazin' what these gals can do, eh, Fearnley?"
"Yes, indeed, your grace. What do you think of it, Charles?"
Matson has opened the boxes now, and is examining their contents with a critical eye. "Not bad, not bad, uncle... Quite nice workmanship. Who did you say made it, your grace?"
"Some fellah called Jepson. A clockmaker, Caroline tells me."
"He could be useful to us."
"I had thought of it. But now: what of the design of the thing?"
"Well... There doesn't appear to be anything particularly novel here," says Matson smoothly. "Ah... were there any drawings?"
"Ah yes, the drawings, the drawings..." The Duke gestures to the butler. "You: pass those papers from over there, would you?"
"Very good, your grace."
Mr Matson is surprised to be presented with a folder adorned with drawings of flowers and ribbons, and at first incredulous to see the neat diagrams within, meticulously documented in round, careful schoolgirl handwriting. But soon his professional interest is aroused, and he begins unconsciously muttering "Yes... interesting... quite ingenious..." He turns back to the front page for a moment. "Shipman and Carter: who would they be?"
"Oh," says the Duke dismissively, "just a couple of the girls from the school, don't you know."
"Hmmm..." Matson continues his scrutiny of the papers. "Interesting, anyhow."
Leaving him to his perusal of the drawings, the Duke turns to Mr Fearnley and addresses him in an undertone. "Your dear wife was looking remarkably well at supper."
"Katherine? She was on uncommonly good form, I thought. She thinks the world of this device here, I don't mind telling you. She can hardly stop talking about it. Seems to think every woman should have one. As a matter of fact, she's had some quite interesting ideas on how we might go about advertising. She really has a business brain, you know."
"Aha. Tell me more."
"According to her, women prefer to buy things on personal recommendation. So she was suggesting that when we're established, we could employ women to hold social events – tea-parties and the like – at which they could present the company's products in a domestic setting, as it were."
"Hmm. Interesting. We shall have to bear that in mind. Of course, I know where I could find some suitable employees."
"Quite. But principally, I have been devoting my thoughts to the question of subscribers."
"Ah, subscribers, yes." Pensively, the Duke sits back in his chair. "I've met an interesting fellah who might be able to help us. Don't know if you've heard of him. Met him through the Board of Governors at my daughter's school, actually. Henry Carter. Have you heard of him?"
"No, I don't believe so."
"He's at Carragher's."
"Ah! Well I've heard of them, of course. Quite in the ascendant, I'm told."
"Certainly. Hepplewhite's – that's my daughter's school – have managed to get him on to their Finance Committee, and he seems a particularly capable fellah. A bit strait-laced and all that, but that's no bad thing in a finance man. I was wondering if you'd be in London next week, by any chance, to meet him."
"As a matter of fact, I do have a conference in Clerkenwell on Tuesday. – One of these railway cases, you know. Lots of parties involved. – So perhaps on Monday or Wednesday..."
"Excellent. I'll see what can be arranged."
Charles Matson puts down the papers, closes the folder and sits back with a thoughtful air.
"Well?" asks the Duke.
"I think it should be reasonably straightforward. Of course wooden boxes like these would be extremely laborious to manufacture in any quantity."
"Yes," agrees the Duke at once. "I had thought of that. I was wondering about metal containers of some sort."
"Very possibly," nods Matson. "I shall give it some thought. But honestly, gentlemen: do you really believe that this is the sort of thing that a woman would want?"
"Well, apparently," murmurs the Duke, "when brought into juxtaposition with certain muscles, it has an astonishingly relaxing effect. Apparently women seem to like it. I suppose you wouldn't know what strange creatures women are..."
"Well, no," concedes Matson, "not yet, at any rate."
"His grace is absolutely right," Fearnley assures him with a rueful smile. "We men just don't have any understanding of what excites a woman's fancy." The gentlemen laugh for a moment at the folly of the weaker sex. "They are a mystery to us at the best of times. But when a woman sees something she wants..."
"...no matter how strange it might be," interjects the Duke, passing the port.
"...She has to have it. And that is the rationale of his grace's proposed new enterprise."
"Well, ours is not to reason why," Matson chuckles, taking the decanter. "Thanks."
The Duke narrows his eyes, contemplating his smouldering cigar. "About the container for the oscillator itself, Matson..."
"Yes, your grace?"
"A box seems a damnably awkward shape for something to be placed on the muscles, don't you know. I was wondering if we could think of something more distinctive. Would you see any particular difficulty in putting such a mechanism into a cigar-shaped container?"
"You mean cylindrical?"
"Something like that, yes. No sharp edges, of course. Women don't like 'em."
"Hmm." Matson is pensive. "I don't see why not. Actually the mechanism would fit quite well. And I suppose it would be more comfortable to hold if it were cylindrical. I shall have to think about it."
"Really, your grace," laughs Fearnley, "isn't that making it all rather difficult? What on earth made you think of a cigar shape? Just staring at your cigar, like Newton with the apple?"
"No, no, old boy," replies the Duke loftily. "I suppose I just thought that a shape like that might appeal more to women, that's all."
Once the cheerful fire has warmed her bones, and she has hung up her dresses – all now tight-wedged into the small wardrobe the school has provided her – Lucy Carter remembers that she is hungry. Fortunately, she has had the foresight to pack some emergency supplies of military chocolate, a commodity of which she is inordinately, but secretly, fond. And now, with shivers of relish, she consumes enough to pacify the aching, hollow emptiness within her, which has gradually been intensifying, unheeded, over the past few hours.
"The trouble with chocolate..." she mumbles, her mouth still full. "I like you, but..." It is true: she feels a kind of warm, dreamy intoxication. She licks the remaining smears from her fingertips with relish.
She crouches in front of the fire, holding out her hands. She would like to lie down, but feels that she will not have the energy to rise. "And I can't sleep in these clothes," she thinks. Instead, she sits upon the floor, her back resting against her bed, her legs outstretched toward the fire, and closes her eyes.
Behind her eyelids, confused visions of Miss Paulson, of Elsie, of Victoria Penrose, of Shipman. And after a minute, "Oh, no!" she moans; for suddenly, her breast is all a-tingle, and down below, a return of that raw, aching hunger that demands she cross her legs and squeeze to pacify it. "Oh Elsie, I promised you I wouldn't do this..." she says out loud. "But now I just have to, all the time. It was Shipman, you know. It was she who started me doing this. And now I keep needing to do it. You don't know what Shipman is like." Lucy shudders with a mixture of disgust and lustful fascination, and feels the burning in her crotch intensifying. She squeezes again. "Ah! I just have to, Elsie. Do you understand that? It's just agony if I don't... And when I do, why, I... I think I shall faint if I do it again. Oh, just thinking about it... I'm sorry, Elsie, I..." She squeezes again. "Ah! Ah! You don't know what it's like for me these days. Every time I do it, it feels nicer and nicer. It's not my fault, Elsie, really it's not. It's that Shipman. It's she that's responsible. Oh!"
Suddenly Lucy realizes that she is talking out loud, quite as if her sister were in the room with her, and she feels foolish. "Come, Elsie," she whispers, "let's make sure we're quite alone together. Then I will tell you everything." She struggles to her feet, slightly dizzy from the warmth of the fire. After a moment or two, her head clears, and mercifully, her intense arousal seems to have abated. "Oh, that's better! Come! Let's just make quite sure." She takes the lamp and slips out on to the landing, closing the door behind her to conserve the heat. Shading the lamp with her hand, she resolves to check downstairs first. It is startlingly cold. Swiftly she makes her way down to the front room. Everything is just as it was. The two empty armchairs; the cold ash in the fireplace; the front door, locked shut. The little cottage is absolutely silent. Even the clock on the mantel has stopped. Making as little noise as she can, Lucy pads into the little kitchen. There is the table, wedged tight against the back door. No one. No one for miles around. "And if there were, we'd be sure to hear them," she whispers.
Only one more room to check now, and that is Miss Paulson's. "I've never been inside before, you know," Lucy whispers to Elsie. I'm sure she's not in there. But we'd better be extra certain." Up she goes again, and slowly, quietly turns the handle of Miss Paulson's door. Indeed it is empty. Everything is very plain: apart from the fact that there is a double bed, and an extra window at the side, it is not so very different from Lucy's room. The bed is not stripped, but the bedding has been drawn right back to allow the sheets to air. Lucy puts the lamp down on the little cabinet beside the bed. "Wait there a moment, Elsie. I'm just going to steal some logs for my fire." She takes an armful of the larger logs and carries them to her own room, where she stacks them neatly on the hearth. "There. That should keep me warm."
Back again, she looks round Miss Paulson's room. "I wonder what's in here," she says, opening the wardrobe. "Oh! Most of her clothes are here. It looks as though she didn't intend to be away very long." She turns back to the bed. The pillows are slightly disorderly. "I wonder if... Oh!" By some bizarre instinct, Lucy lifts one of the pillows; and there, beneath it, sinister black against the white linen, an ebony ruler. "Look at that, Elsie! A ruler! What would Miss Paulson want with a ruler – in bed, of all places? You know, she does some most frightfully strenuous exercises in bed. I shall tell you of those another time. But this... I do hope she doesn't hurt herself with it. She's rather strange and strict, you know. Or... I wonder... No, no, that would be ridiculous..." Hurriedly, Lucy replaces the pillow and takes up the lamp. "Come on, Elsie, let's get back into the warm."
After an excellent dinner with some of his colleagues, Dr Paulson enters the sitting-room. "Why, hullo, George. Still up? Mother in bed? And what's that you're reading?"
Georgie snaps the heavy book shut with a barely perceptible blush. "Good evening, father. Yes, mother has retired. I trust you had a good evening?"
"Excellent, I thank 'ee. Think you could join your old father in a wee glass of port?"
"Why, that would be delightful, father, thank you."
The doctor takes down the decanter and two small crystal glasses from the corner cupboard. "So: what's that you've been studying, eh?"
"I have just been filling some gaps in my anatomical knowledge, father."
Dr Paulson takes the book and peers at the spine. "Oh, Frobenius on the maladies of motherhood. I remember it well. Not sure about his theory of the humours, rather dated stuff that, but undoubtedly a keen observer. A very rare book, that." He hands the book back to his daughter, and pours two glasses. "There: a man-sized glass for a wise young lady."
"Thank you, father."
He seats himself in his favourite armchair, in the opposite corner. "You're looking well, George," he observes. "I sometimes feel uneasy, because I've always looked upon you more as a friend, even a disciple, rather than as a daughter. But of course I realize that you're more than a brain, an intellect. You have a heart. We don't find it easy to speak of such things, but... You don't intend to spend the rest of your days as a schoolmistress, surely?" He drinks. "I'm sorry. Bad manners of me."
"No, no, father... I do not mind. But if you mean to ask if I have a young man... Then, no: that is not where my interests lie. No, I have decided to consecrate myself to the cause of science. There is so much to be done..."
"Assuredly. But... forgive me. I have thought that once or twice, over the last two days, I had seen a tear in your eye. I did so hope you had not suffered a disappointment."
For a second, Georgina's heart freezes in terror. "Oh no. Perhaps I need new glasses. I have been reading so much."
"Yes. Perhaps." Dr Paulson clears his throat. "Well, well... We were discussing a most irksome surgeon tonight."
"Oh yes?"
"Ghastly fellow. From what they tell me, he's been operating on young women without their permission. Head full of all sorts of curious ideas."
There is a long silence. Dr Paulson sips his port. Georgie is pensive. "If there were women doctors, such things would not be allowed to happen."
Dr Paulson opens his eyes wide in thought. "You're probably right. No reason why not. You'd make a good doctor, you know, George."
"But that's not possible, father, is it?"
"Maybe one day."
"All we can do is try to prove our worth in the physiological sciences."
"It would be better if you could work at a university."
"But father, that's impossible. Where I am, there may not be much money or equipment, but there are willing minds, and I am able to do so much good..."
"Perhaps. I shall drink to that, yes. Well, my dear..." Dr Paulson rises. "I am tired, so I shall bid you a good night. Don't stay up too late."
After his departure, Georgie thinks of university. Should she seek a post as an assistant, perhaps, to some professor – if there is one open-minded enough to employ a woman? Perhaps it would be best. For several days now, Georgie has tortured herself with thoughts of Carry meeting a young man, of Carry being swept into marriage. It is inevitable. And what could be more hopeless, more fraught with danger, than her doomed love? Hepplewhite with Carry means constant temptation, the risk of discovery and disgrace; but Hepplewhite without Carry would be torment indeed. Georgie is sure that she will never be able to look at a class again without searching for that sweet face, those dear eyes. She will have to leave Hepplewhite. She weeps.
It is now beautifully warm in Lucy's room. In a fit of self-indulgence, she has banked the fire high with logs, and they are burning merrily.
"Now I promised to tell you about Shipman, didn't I?" she says to Elsie. "What a creature! She does it with other girls, they say. What do you think of that? And I've seen her looking at me... Brrr!" Lucy shivers, but not from cold. "She looks at my... at my breast, Elsie. And she's not the only one, either. There's Vicky Penrose. She... she undid my dress, and she undid my blouse, and she touched them." Lucy undoes the buttons down the front of her dress. "I should hang this up. I will in a minute. But look... look at them. What do you think, Elsie? Do you think they're pretty? Oh, I so like touching them. Just lightly." Lucy groans with mounting lust. "I'm getting all wet again. I can feel it. I must do it! I must! I must!"
Lucy leaps to her feet, tearing at her clothes. Soon she stands naked before the hearth, panting. "Shipman did this to me. Shipman and Penrose." Hurriedly, she hangs her dress and folds her petticoats. "There!" She leaps into bed, submerges herself under the heavy eiderdown, and begins running her hands over her smooth, warm nakedness. "I'm burning, Elsie! I have to do it! Will you forgive me? I know I promised that I wouldn't, because I'm so, so sorry what they did to you. But you do understand, don't you? You shall feel it with me, Elsie. You and I together. You are with me now, and you shall feel everything. But first, I have to tell you a secret..."
Lucy shudders. But she has to tell someone. "Promise, promise you won't tell? Sister's honour? Elsie, Shipman did something naughty. And the prefects tied her up and made me touch her." Lucy begins to pant as she remembers it. "I have tried not to think about it, but... I liked touching her, Elsie. Oh! The feel of her legs! I like the way she looked. And they made me kiss her... even her bottom! Yes, even there! And oh, the smell of her... Elsie... I want to do it again to her... I want to..." Lucy's fingers reach, and find her glorious, silken wetness. "I'm doing it now... Ugh! Can you feel? And Elsie... She did it to me too... And I liked it! And she knows I did! And I want... Ugh! I can't help... I've got to..."
There is no one to hear Lucy's yell of triumphant determination as her body erupts in a blaze of blissful energy to which she gives herself in noisy and wholehearted abandon, and which leaves her panting, gasping and twitching for delicious ages.
"Oh, Elsie," Lucy breathes eventually, "did you like that too? We'll have another one tomorrow. I promise... But now..."
"We don't need them, do we, Elsie?" Lucy grunts as she tugs on her warmest clothes. The firewood has all been burned now, and the chocolate is long gone. "What do we care for Penrose or Shipman? Huh!" Lucy tosses her head contemptuously. "We've got one another... Oh look at that bed! What a mess!"
The same thought had struck Lucy the last time she had got up, three hours earlier. But then, Elsie had let her know in no uncertain terms that she wanted more; and after so long an estrangement, who was Lucy to deny her poor, long-dead sister? But now it is noon, and Lucy feels the need to be up and about, before cold and hunger make it a matter of sheer necessity.
Lucy is a little dizzy; but this she explains to herself as no more than the result of having been so long a-bed. The last few days – how many? Two? Three? – have passed in somewhat of a blur: by turns, hours of boiling rage and indignation; then of delightful, wanton thoughts and recollections; then of luminous clarity and soul-searching; and finally, of sweetest communion with dear Elsie, who has made her new home in the wet, slippery heaven between her thighs. It has been like a kind of illness: but now Lucy feels light of heart and limb, clear-headed, and ready to get on with her mathematics. But first, there are certain necessities to attend to.
And as she descends the stairs, Lucy marvels at how light her body feels, how effortlessly she moves. But when she sees the note upon the table, the song dies in her throat. She looks sharply to the door: yes, it has been unlocked. Someone has been. She takes up the paper, and holds it close.
"Mrs Cunningham requests the pleasure of your company as soon as convenient." Goodness! She flees upstairs to wash in what little water remains, and to make sure she is presentable.
Mrs Cunningham puts the letter down. "'Grossly impertinent,' he says. Do you wish to tell me about it?"
Lucy sighs. This is horribly embarrassing. "I merely dared to question a passage in the scriptures, Mrs Cunningham. He flew into a rage at once, before I could explain."
Mrs Cunningham laughs. "And here you are, feeling as if you have not a friend in the world. You're not the first to run away from home, you know."
"I didn't run. I came by coach."
Mrs Cunningham laughs again at Lucy's determination to maintain her dignity. "On foot or by coach, Lucy, you need friends. I am sure you would prefer to have Miss Paulson here, but that is not yet to be. However, if you need the ear of a friend, or the help and advice of one who is concerned for you, then I offer them to you with all my heart."
Lucy opens her purse. "Well... I really have run out of food, and I do have some money here. I'm sure it's enough, I..."
Mrs Cunningham lets out a little grunt of disapproval. "Lucy, Lucy, put your money away. Before we go any further, I think I should tell you about the other letter."
"The other letter?"
"The letter your mother does not wish your father to know about."
"My mother?"
"Listen!" Mrs Cunningham picks up from her desk another, smaller sheet. "'Dear Mrs Cunningham, As my husband may have informed you, our daughter Lucy has left home and we hope and trust that she is safely with you. I must ask you to keep this matter in confidence from my husband. Although he is a dear and loving father, he does not truly understand why Lucy has left us. It is not a matter that I can communicate by letter, but you must know that Lucy is in a state of the greatest conceivable distress. I do not think that it is a thing her father can ever truly be brought to understand, although I have tried. He has, however, agreed to set up an account at Delbridge's in her name, and has there deposited the sum of five hundred pounds'" – here, Lucy gasps – "'five hundred pounds, which is hers to support her until she is able to find some suitable means of employment, and which is given on the understanding that she has no further expectations of us whatever. I believe you also have a cheque to cover her more immediate necessities. I confess that I had the greatest difficulty in securing her even this amount, but I hope it goes some way to expressing my deepest sorrow, and my hope that one day she may come to forgive us...'"
Mrs Cunningham pauses, and Lucy rises to her feet in a storm of incoherent emotion.
"There is a little more: 'to forgive us, and realize that we sinned through ignorance.'"
"Oh!" Lucy cries as if she has been struck. "Oh! Oh!" And then she collapses on to her chair in floods of tears. Mrs Cunningham is swift to rise from her desk, to hold and comfort her. "That was the very thing... the very thing..." Lucy sobs.
"Hush! Hush now!" Mrs Cunningham soothes her. "You don't have to say anything now. When you're feeling better, my dear..."
Eventually, Lucy calms. "You are very good to me."
"That is why we are sent upon the earth, Lucy. To do good to one another."
And Lucy embraces her Head Mistress, something unthinkable only a short time ago.
"There is something else here for you, Lucy," says Mrs Cunningham, at last.
"Oh?"
"Would you like to open it now?"
"Why... yes. What is it?"
"Open it and see."
It is a small parcel, quite heavy and rectangular, a little narrower than a hymn-book. Carefully, Lucy breaks the seal and peels open the heavy brown paper with its fastidiously-penned address. Inside is a red leather case. And when she opens it – "Oh!" – Lucy begins to weep once more, but this time, for joy. "They're beautiful... and with a chain... of gold!"
The pince-nez have arrived.
"Put them on!" says Mrs Cunningham, delighted. "You'll look just like Miss Paulson."
Lucy does so, laughing and crying at the same time.
"There! Stop crying, you silly girl! They're misting over!"
But Lucy laughs and sobs a while longer, hugging Mrs Cunningham, who does not reject her.
"What shall I do now?" Lucy asks, at length.
"Now? You must go to the kitchen and have a good, hot bath. It will cheer you up. Tell Cook I sent you. The school kitchens are closed until next Monday; but until then, you may lunch and dine with us. We have dinner at six in winter. I have sent Hanson down to the cottage, to set the clock and light the fire for you."
And it is Hanson who greets Lucy, fresh and pink from her bath, with a pile of fresh bed-linen. "Well!" she remarks with an impudent smile, "You'll be needing these, seemingly."
Lucy blushes as she takes them.
"See how long those last you," Miss Hanson chuckles.
Lucy curtseys awkwardly and makes to go, but Miss Hanson puts a restraining hand on her shoulder.
"There's no shame in being a woman, Miss Carter. You're one of us, now."