"Why, Carter! Back already? I thought you were due tomorrow."
Lucy stands respectfully as Miss Paulson enters their little cottage. "I came back early, Miss Paulson. I hope you don't mind."
"No." Miss Paulson laughs easily. "Why should I mind?"
"I don't know." Carter looks down at her mathematical notes.
Miss Paulson is at a loss. She bites her lower lip, then says, "Well... I'd better get unpacked."
"Yes miss." Carter stands there, as if made of wood.
Miss Paulson lifts her heavy case, and makes for the foot of the stairs. When she is level with Carter, she looks again. She drops her case with a thud. "Why, Miss Lucy Carter, you have your new pince-nez! And they look splendid! Absolutely splendid!"
At this, Carter turns to Miss Paulson with a smile so radiant that Miss Paulson cannot resist hugging her and planting a little kiss upon her cheek. Then she picks up her case and hastens upstairs.
"Hmmm," sighs Carter, seating herself once more. She does not smile; but her nipples tingle and she feels ripples of pleasure radiating throughout her body from the little place where Miss Paulson kissed her. She crosses her legs and flexes them in mild irritation. She has just seen an inconvenient, but very interesting, flaw in that equation that she had previously considered so beautifully elegant. The professor had warned her that this might happen.
And upstairs, Miss Paulson puts down her case and kneels by her bed, like a little girl at prayers. "Lord! Give me strength! Must I be hankering after every young woman I see? O what is the matter with me?"
Another carriage arrives: it must be the sixth or seventh. Carter has watched each one from her vantage-point, at a window high above the main entrance. Each has disgorged its crowd of chattering schoolgirls, and each so far has proved disappointing. But now, from this carriage, there steps one whose elegant deportment, whose brisk assurance, at once attract her eye. Those sudden, wilful gestures; that way she has of whipping her head around: surely this must be Shipman at last.
The girl on the ground looks up, as if surveying the grand old building; and yes, it is indeed Shipman.
"Here again," Shipman thinks. "This is Hepplewhite. This is to be my home for the next few months." And what is it? A thousand blind, leaded window-panes bezeled in ancient, yellowed stonework. Yet Shipman cannot entirely banish the hope that behind one of those dull, slate-grey panes there might lurk a soft, deep blue eye, almost violet, watching. And perhaps that is what imprints the vision so indelibly upon her memory, that as an old, old woman, if she should ever hear the name of Hepplewhite, she will at once see those grey, blank windows, and remember the thrill of that impossible hope.
As for Carter: as she sees that adorable bonnet tip back, as she sees again that wonderfully precise, clear-cut countenance, luminous with its unique combination of intelligence and mischief, she turns away as if blinded by the direct glare of the sun. Her heart is hammering. And in her breast, an intolerable fluttering lightness, as if of rising hope, a fluttering that seems to waft her into mid-air. "What is happening to me?" she murmurs. "I must not even look at her, it seems."
Shipman looks round the study-room. As expected, Carter is nowhere to be seen.
"Hello, Ship!" It is Penrose.
"Hello, Vicky."
"Coming to the Assembly?"
"Of course. Do I have any option?"
"I suppose not. Why, there's Clark! Hello, Sarah!"
"Vicky! Ah... hello, Ship. Have you seen Carter yet?"
"No." Shipman is curt.
"I've seen her," Penrose gushes. "Doesn't she look wonderful with those..."
"I know. Just like Miss Paulson. Makes me feel all weak inside. Ha ha! What am I saying?" Clark grins at Penrose, then glances at Shipman. But Shipman is impassive, staring straight ahead. Clark decides that it would be prudent to say no more. "Come along. We'd best be going."
In the assembly, Shipman finds she cannot concentrate. Mrs Cunningham seems to be saying that all sorts of improvements have been put in hand, with financial donations from here, there and everywhere. Everyone seems elated. But just behind Shipman, to her right, stands Carter. Eventually, curiosity impels her to turn and snatch a furtive glimpse.
Although she does not know why, Shipman is shaken. Carter seems taller, more substantial, more upright than she remembers. The others were right: those pince-nez do more than she could have expected. Carter no longer looks the schoolgirl; more even than a young woman, she now appears as a force to be reckoned with. Shipman feels a heaviness in her heart, as if she has just seen her future. She longs to turn and look again; but she dares not.
It is nearly midnight, and Miss Paulson has just finished preparing tomorrow's lecture, when she hears footsteps, and then a quiet scratching at the door. Alarmed – who would come at so late an hour? – she hurries to the door and opens it but a crack.
"Carry!" She means to close the door a little, but despite herself, opens it wider.
"Oh Georgie! Georgie! I have been longing to talk to you! Where have you been?"
"Why, I have been here. I have had much work to do. But Carry: you should be abed! Why do you come here at this hour?"
"What? Will you keep me shivering upon the doorstep on a January night?"
"Carry – you know why I do not let you in. It is hopeless! We cannot continue like this!"
"Why no! It is not hopeless at all. You must hear me!"
Georgie looks to right and left, as if seeking for excuses. "But Carter is here – and very far from asleep!"
At this, Carry lets out an expression of impatience. "She knows everything!" And as Georgie falls back in astonishment, Carry boldly pushes the door open and makes her way in.
"O Carry, Carry..." Georgie whimpers, as Carry's gentle fingers alight upon her face. Their touch sends shivers of ecstasy radiating all over her body. She is lost already: and when those fingers trace their way over her ears and neck, Georgie can only shudder, turn her head and welcome with her own those lovely, softly supping lips. "So soon..." – another kiss – "so soon I am undone!" Gasping, Georgie pushes Carry a little from her, but now she cannot let go. Her eyes are molten. With her back, she presses the door shut. "Sweet Carry... You make me so afraid."
"Afraid, Georgie? Why?"
"You say that Carter knows... about us?"
Carry nods. "Since last term. She saw us through the window."
Georgie's eyes widen in terror. "Then we are as good as undone!" She looks to the window. "And for all I know..." But those delicate, intoxicating fingers, those sweet and infinitely gentle lips once again overrule her fears. And then, feeling Carry unbuttoning her dress at the neck, "Oh no! Carry, you must not!" She knows she should resist; but the sweetness of Carry's kisses paralyzes her. "Not here, Carry, not here!"
"Then let us go upstairs."
"But what about Carter?"
"Carter will not tell. She is our friend. Come... Come..."
As softly as they can, Carry and Georgie mount the stairs. Carry, who is leading Georgie by the hand, pauses for a moment beside Carter's door; but there is no sound. "I think she is asleep," she murmurs as she closes Georgie's bedroom door behind them. "No: just stand there, dear Georgie, and I shall do it." Carefully, Carry undresses her beloved, kissing and caressing as she goes, until Georgie is perfectly nude.
"And now you," protests Georgie, but Carry will not stop kissing her. Georgie squeals as Carry patters her fingers around the curves of her waist, and over the smooth firmness of her derrière. "No Carry, no Carry," she laughs and whimpers, squealing as Carry rakes her with her fingernails, laughing and shuddering with delight — and then she is silent, wide-eyed, for Carry is at her breast, licking, sucking, nibbling, moaning in her wantonness. And now Carry's fingers may do what they please – and they do – for Georgie can feel her contractions coming, faster and faster, and after each little nibble, a shudder which makes her moan out loud in exasperated desire, and then a furious beating in her most tender parts as her Number Eighteen cries out for solace. "O Carry, O Carry, no more! I must..." And, bereft of words, Georgie takes Carry's hand and presses it to her most needy place. But Carry only giggles, and gently, tenderly, pushes Georgie back until she falls upon her bed, laughing again as Carry's hands move all over her, draining her of strength, blinding her with passion.
But then Carry falls to her knees, captures Georgie's leg with her arm, and begins kissing the upraised knee. Georgie cannot help giggling.
"O Carry, what are you doing?"
"Georgie, Georgie..." Carry half moans, half whispers between kisses, "I have dreamed of doing this, night after night..." and her fingers trace their way down, deliciously down the inner thigh, until they are resting on that mysterious spot, not quite here, not quite there, where Shipman's naughty fingers taught their spider dance. And that is very well for naughty schoolgirls, licking their lips in masochistic delight, avid to savour a fresh erotic torment; but Carry is too much in love, far too much in love; she kisses, licks and kisses her way down that long, smooth thigh, and her moans of passion drive Georgie to such a state that she can scarcely even feel the delicious, warm, wet strength of Carry's tongue, the gentle touching of her lips, the sweet brush of her golden hair. And in her wildness, Georgie becomes the wanton schoolgirl, moving herself against Carry's naughty fingers, desperate for her most intimate touch. She begins to squeal "O Carry! O Carry!" in a little, high-pitched voice she did not know she had, a voice wrenched from her by the extremity of passion and emotion.
Carry, maddened by the warm, heady smell of Georgie's arousal, feeling Georgie's nectar at her fingertips, knows that it is time to indulge her dream. But the Georgie of her dream lay sweetly acquiescent, moaning and sighing in ladylike bliss. The real Georgie is a creature possessed, gasping, crying, wildly moving her hips in her desperation. To keep her still, Carry grasps her thighs behind the knee and raises them up and forward, so that Georgie is curled into a ball.
Astonished, "O Carry, what are you doing? Oh no no no..." cries Georgie; but Carry is a strong and determined young woman, and in the next instant Georgie is quite deprived of speech, for those dear lips have applied themselves with the sweetest ardour to the flower of her passion and are now supping upon her nectar with the most torturous gentleness. Beside herself with the exquisiteness of this new and redoubtable sensation, Georgie is suspended between "no no no" and "yes yes yes," and can only murmur "O darling... O darling" as her insides tense and heave with Carry's every gentlest movement.
And as Georgie's passion mounts, so she is filled with invincible strength, so that Carry finds her head tightly trapped between Georgie's thighs; and in the formidable strength of that embrace, Carry's heart leaps with impossible happiness, for she knows that Georgie needs her, Georgie wants her, Georgie will never let her go. Sensing that Georgie is on the point of climax, Carry allows her to rest for a moment. "O Georgie, Georgie, you are so beautiful," she murmurs. And after a few moments, she licks gently once more. Georgie sucks in air through her tightly clenched teeth, and Carry feels the thighs tighten about her ears, and Georgie's sudden, quivering rigidity. "Oh, you are lovely..." she murmurs again; her next lick, gentler still, sends Georgie into an even more protracted rigor. Again, again she does this, and each time, Georgie seems to be wound tighter and tighter; until, with a groan, Carry falls into a passionate frenzy of licking, and in the violence of Georgie's grip is tossed to and fro by the extremity of her lover's contortions. But at length, it is over, and Georgie is still. Slowly, slowly, Georgie relaxes her grip, until Carry is able to extricate herself and lie at last beside her lover.
Georgie is immobile, as if in a deep swoon, scarcely breathing.
"O my darling, my darling," Carry moans again and again, drawing Georgie to her in a tender embrace. And Georgie buries her face in Carry's breast, and begins to shake with a mixture of weeping and hysterical laughter. Carry strokes Georgie's hair, her neck, her ears, until at last she is still.
And then suddenly, without warning, Georgie is wild again, like a hurricane of passion, kissing, biting, almost tearing off Carry's clothes. Carry is in a whirl, her nipples burning, and then Georgie finds her core, and she is shouting in orgasm at the first touch. But Georgie is like one possessed, and will not stop until Carry has climaxed twice more, in a blind tumult of jubilant delight.
Only then, having exorcised the demons of their long separation, are they able to lie quietly, caressing, whispering endearments, kissing, looking deep into one another's eyes. And suddenly, they hear a groan from next door, and a moment later, the violent shuddering of Lucy's bed. They smile and kiss.
"Well..." murmurs Georgie.
"We must have woken her."
"Did we make that much noise?"
"Of course," Carry breathes. "Of course we did."
Almost at once, there is another sob from next door, and another commotion.
"It seems that Miss Carter has discovered something to her advantage, after all," says Georgie, her eyes sparkling with delight.
"How lovely," breathes Carry, kissing Georgie on the mouth, then drawing back; "how very sweet..." She manoeuvres herself on top of Georgie now, legs intertwined.
"Don't we fit well together?" murmurs Georgie into Carry's ear, reaching down and drawing Carry closer, closer. And then Carry's tongue is filling Georgie's mouth with its sweetness, and Carry's hips begin their slow voluptuous dance, and Georgie's sway in answer, and they begin to glide together into the garden of lovers' delight, their every glance, their every kiss a step toward their union in bliss.
The next morning, Miss Paulson cannot help singing as she revives the embers of last night's fire and makes the morning tea. She twirls her skirts and in her heart, remembers the brush of Carry's hair.
But then Carter's door clicks open, and there is Carter, red-eyed, scowling, her chamber-pot in her hand.
"Why, Carter!" Miss Paulson wants to ask what is the matter, but is suddenly overcome with shame, fully imagining that Carter must look upon her now as a debased and fallen creature.
"I am poorly," says Carter, tonelessly. "It is my time."
"Then I shall get the bath for you, and set it before the fire," responds Miss Paulson. Carter nods, and makes her way outside.
Miss Paulson greets her return with a cup of tea, which Carter accepts with a quick, ungracious curtsey. She does not smile, nor look at Miss Paulson.
"See, I have put on the big kettle. And in the bath I have put some scent of my own," she says soothingly, "it will ease the pains."
"You are very kind, Miss Paulson, and I thank you."
"I will tell your teachers, and you shall stay here and rest."
Carter nods. There is an awkward silence.
"I... I hope I did not... we did not... disturb you last night, Carter."
And now Carter meets Miss Paulson's eye, and Miss Paulson is shocked when Carter comes to her and embraces her, hugging tightly. Then, without a word, she draws back, leaving Miss Paulson bemused.
"Don't miss your breakfast, Miss Paulson. I will be perfectly all right here. Thank you."
Miss Paulson is just pulling on her coat to go to a staff meeting, when she hears a knock at the door. She is a little surprised to find Miller upon the doorstep.
"Good afternoon, Miller. May I help you?"
"Carter was not in school this morning, and I just wished to enquire after her."
"Well, Miller, that is very kind. But... it is her time of indisposition, I am afraid."
"Oh. May I see her?"
"She is not feeling very well, Miller. I am sure you understand. But I suppose you may go up and knock. Please excuse me. I have to go out."
Miller finds Carter in bed. Sheets of paper covered with diagrams and equations have tumbled from the bed on to the floor.
"Oh, Miller. What do you want?" Carter feels a wave of irritation. She half-expected Shipman to come, and then perhaps she would have had an excuse for her irritation; but as it is not Shipman, she feels still more annoyed.
"Why, Carter, I did not want anything, other than to see if you were well."
"I am sorry, Miller. I am just so irritable." Carter wriggles down under the bedclothes.
"I know... but everyone has been asking after you."
Carter's head turns. "Everyone?"
"Yes. Mrs Probert was saying this morning that the future of the Empire depends upon our knowledge of mathematics. And she said... Oh, Carter!" Miller sighs. She kneels beside the fire, which has burned low.
"What did she say?"
"She said that you would be a leading light in mathematics." Miller puts more logs on the fire.
"Huh!" Not wishing to show how pleased she is, Carter turns over on to her front, her head turned away and so burrowed into the pillow that apart from her tangle of light brown hair, Miller can see only Carter's ear, the tip of her nose, the sweep of her eyelash.
"I asked Shipman if she was coming to see you, but she went all of a bother. I do believe she's a little afraid of you."
"Huh!" Carter wriggles.
"O Carter! You are so tense!" Miller sits on the edge of the bed. "Would you like me to ease away the strain a little?" Miller begins to pull away the bedclothes.
"No, no, please don't touch me..."
Miller chooses to ignore Carter's protest. "But I am really quite good at this, you know... Oh! You aren't wearing your night-gown!"
Carter blushes. Apart from her bundle of rags, she is quite naked. "Please don't."
But Miller begins to knead at Carter's shoulders.
Carter groans. Yes: Miller is good at this.
"Is that nice?"
As her tension evaporates, Carter sinks down into her mattress. "Mmmm..." Miller's motions become less vigorous, more caressing. Carter is breathing deeply. Miller tugs the bedclothes further down Carter's back, and begins gently drawing her fingers down the ridges of Carter's spine. Carter cannot help worming her hips into the mattress. Elsie is beginning to clamour for attention.
"My sister does this for me," says Miller. "I love it when she does." She strokes the small of Carter's back, and is rewarded with a sensuous writhing motion which clearly betrays Carter's arousal. "It's a pity your sister died," Miller says sympathetically. "It's nice having a sister."
Suddenly, Carter tenses. "Oh, Miller... I don't know whether I should tell you this, but... I've got to tell somebody."
"What?" Miller withdraws her hands, and Carter turns a little to one side, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of delightfully rounded breast.
"Miller... I mean to talk to Miss Paulson about this, but... My sister... do you know, they killed her?"
"What?"
"Well... Not exactly that, but let me explain, and you'll see." Carter takes a deep breath. "Mother and Father found out that... that she was... you know — rubbing her... her..."
From her very hesitancy, Miller senses what Carter is trying to say. "Her Queensland?"
"Yes."
"They found out?"
"Yes. And they tried to make her stop."
"Oh no!"
"But she wouldn't. She kept doing it. So Father sent her to a doctor. And this doctor... Oh, I can't say it..."
"What? What did he do?" Miller is aghast.
"He cut her parts away."
"Oww!" Miller writhes in sympathetic agony.
"That's why she died. She died in the hospital."
"Oh no! How monstrously sad!" Miller's distress is all too genuine. "What was her name?"
"Her name? Elsie." Carter shudders.
"Poor, poor Elsie."
"Why, why did they do that to her? And why do people think it is such a terrible thing, Miller? My mother said it was a wicked, wicked thing to do. Those were her very words."
"Do your parents really think that?" Miller's voice betrays her alarm.
"They must do, or they wouldn't have gone to such lengths to stop her, surely?"
"Carter, I just cannot believe it."
"How I wish it were not true!" Carter turns to Miller now, and fixes her with her good eye. The momentary glimpse of Carter's breast deprives Miller of coherent speech; but then Carter rolls over again. "Do you suppose it can be injurious to health, to do that?"
"Why... I do not think so."
"That doctor... the one they took Elsie to... He said that it was."
"But... Clark has been doing it for ages, or so she says. There's nothing wrong with Clark's health, is there?"
Carter stiffens slightly at the mention of Clark. But then she concedes, "Um... no."
"And they say that Walmsley has been doing it for years."
They are silent for a little while, pondering. Eventually, the sight of Carter's naked back stirs Miller's desire, and she recommences her light stroking.
"Mmmm..." Miller's touches are causing the heavy sense of discomfort to translate into something very different. "Miller?"
"Mm?"
"What you said about Walmsley reminded me of something that she once said. And you know, I think it might have come from Miss Paulson."
"What was that?"
"She said... whenever we find something that makes us happy, someone wants to come and take it away from us."
Miller sighs. "That's true."
Carter tenses her shoulders again. Face down though she is, she cocks her head as if she has had a thought. "Do you suppose that it is men? What was it that Miss Paulson said?"
"Oh, Carter..."
"Yes, Miller, perhaps it is this:" – Carter turns toward Miller again – "if you examine the codes of morality, is it not so that they are always designed to keep the weak in subjection to the strong? And is morality not men's chiefest instrument for maintaining the subjection of women?"
"Well, yes, Miss Paulson has often said so."
"So that, for example, when a woman wishes to obtain employment, she will commonly be criticized for depriving a man of his right, and snatching food from the mouths of his children? Is that not so?"
"Why, yes it is."
"But now, think of this: is it not thought by men extremely pleasant to look upon a woman, and to lie with a woman?"
"Yes, Carter, but what are you saying?"
"Why, only that men want everything for themselves. We are supposed to have no desires, no appetites, that do not serve a man's interest. We are to be utterly selfless, utterly devoted to their wishes. When we have an idle moment, what are we most praised for thinking of?"
"The wishes of some man or other?"
"Exactly so, Miller. Is it not men who wish us to live in ignorance of pleasure, and without any desire for it, for fear that their own interests will suffer?"
"It could be..." Miller sounds dubious.
"Perhaps." Carter sighs. "Oh, Miller... Why are we made to think of ourselves as dirty? Why, if we must suffer this every month, must we be made to feel as if it is — oh, I do not know what I am saying. But if we must suffer so much anguish to be women, can there not be some pleasure in it, too, for us?"
Miller is silent for a little while. "The doctor just cut her parts away?"
"Yes."
"So that she could never..."
"Never again."
Miller sighs. "You know, I wonder." She lets the remark trail off, but it is clear that she is thinking hard.
"What?"
"If you were given a present of sweetmeats..."
"Yes?"
"But that is not quite right..."
"What are you saying?"
Miller is silent for a few moments. And then, "Yes! Yes! It is like this —" She bounces on the bed, suddenly attuned to her idea. "It is a box of sweetmeats. But not all are sweet: some are bitter. And we are taught that we may eat only the bitter ones. Now who would give us a box of sweetmeats, in which only the bitter ones were good, and all the pleasant ones poisoned?"
"Why, only one who hates us, and would bring about our destruction."
"Exactly. Don't you see?"
"No."
"Our bodies are the boxes of sweetmeats. Some things about our body are bitter, while others are sweet. But why do we feel it so?"
Carter is puzzled. "Do you mean our feelings of pain and pleasure?"
"Yes. Why are some things painful and others pleasurable? Why do we suffer aches and discomfort, yet pleasures also?"
"Why, the pains are there to make us avoid the things that harm the body."
"And the pleasures?"
"I suppose, to make us seek the things that are good for us."
"Of course. And who designed the human body thus?"
"Why... God, I suppose. Is that what you mean?"
"And why should God give us the capacity for pleasure, and the ability to discover it, if this should lead to our harm? Would that not mean that he hates us, and wills our destruction?"
"Oh. I see." Carter is thoughtful.
"And if God hated us, and willed our destruction, then why should we seek to please him?"
"Because we are supposed to please all men?"
"Hah!" Miller almost spits her contempt.
Again, there is a long pause before Carter speaks.
"Do you think it is true, then, that God loves us? Or is that just another lie?"
Miller considers her reply. "I think he does... But it's frightening, isn't it?"
"Yes." Carter shudders. "Do you think many girls know about... you know..."
"About touching your... about blissing?"
"Blissing?"
"That is what everyone calls it."
"Everyone?"
"Well... most people."
"Why do people keep it such a secret?"
"I don't know. How did you find out?"
"Well... You won't tell anyone?"
"Of course not." Miller sounds almost indignant.
"I suppose it was Miss Paulson... sort of..."
"Really? What did she do?"
"She didn't do anything. She just... told me... more or less. And you?"
"It was Shipman who showed me."
Carter whirls round. "Shipman? Showed you?" Her voice is harsh.
"Yes." Miller pulls back abruptly, somewhat shocked by Carter's sudden anger. "Shipman. She's done it to just about everyone in our dorm, I should think. Why?"
"What? She touched you?"
Miller is defiant. "Yes. As a matter of fact she did."
"But that's disgusting!" Carter draws up her bedclothes and buries herself beneath them. "That's contemptible!"
"Why, Carter! I cannot understand you saying such a thing!"
"I don't want to hear another word about that horrid creature!"
"Carter, what are you saying? She was only showing me the sweetmeats I had been given..."
"Sweetmeats! Bah! That's poetry, Miller! Poetry has crazed your brain!"
Miller sniffs. She rises to her feet. "You sound just as bad as your parents, Carter. If you mean to say what you seem to be saying, I do believe you'd send Shipman and me to that horrible doctor who killed your sister."
But as she makes to leave, a small voice comes from the bed. "Miller... I'm sorry. I'm just so irritable at the moment. I cannot think properly." Carter huddles into her pillow.
Miller is haughty. "Very well. But that was not a very pleasant thing to say, Carter. I will be charitable and lay the blame upon your parents. I shall talk to you again when you can remove their poison from your thoughts."
Carter half expects Miller to slam the door, but she makes a dignified exit. There is the sound of retreating footsteps, and then for a while all is still. Carter torments herself with the thought of Shipman with Clark, Shipman with Penrose, Shipman with Miller. Warm bodies in a dormitory bed... fingers between legs... breasts softly touching... kisses maybe.
All morning, Elsie has been nagging for attention; but now she is ravenous – perhaps because of Miller's gentle touches. Hitherto, Carter has resisted her, appalled by the sheer ghastly messiness of it. But now, breast heaving with desire, her reluctance is overborne by sheer need. She can feel how engorged she is. With a sigh, she reaches in; and groans in sheer exhilaration as her fingers encounter her beautiful slick wetness. "Oh! Oh!" she groans, dazzled by the delight as her fingers frolic in slippery heaven. Faster, faster come the waves – no longer unwelcome cramps, but each gilded with a more intense thrill of delicious sensation, each bringing greater and greater exaltation, so that even in her frenzy she shakes her head in wondering disbelief. And then it is upon her – a pleasure so intense, so persistent that she must fight and gasp and kick and struggle to endure it, until she cannot do even that, but can only quiver in an agony of delight, her mouth straining open in a silent scream, utterly engulfed by its monstrous, overwhelming force.
And after the plunge to earth, "O my goodness! O Elsie! Oh my!" pants Carter, shuddering. "We did it! We did it! That was... magnificent! Messy but magnificent! And O, how much better I feel now!" She lies in a euphoric doze, glowing in triumph.
"Miller was right, you know, Elsie," she murmurs after a little while. "I've been thinking. I do need to get their poison out of my thoughts. I don't know how I can be so stupid. But really, when I think of... And you should have seen her downstairs, Elsie, tied to that chair. Oh, her skin! It was so — Elsie! Elsie, you naughty girl! You never have enough, do you?" Her fingers begin to stir. "You are corrupting me, do you know that? All right, then... but this time, we'll not be in such a hurry. We'll take our time, and enjoy it more..."
When, some time later, Miss Paulson returns to retrieve her notes for the next lesson, she feels obliged to move as quiet as a mouse, because it is quite clear that Carter believes herself to be alone.
"Good evening, ladies, and welcome to our first meeting of term."
"Good evening, miss," the girls reply in unison.
"Ah — Carter? I am glad to see you back in our midst so soon. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, thank you, miss."
There is a little hum of sympathetic sighs. Shipman and Clark exchange a significant glance, and Shipman nods.
"Well now, ladies: thanks in part to Miss Shipman's and Miss Carter's valuable contributions, and in part to our Head Mistress, who has shown the greatest faith in our work here, and in the cause of women in science, we have been able to win extra funds for new equipment." Miss Paulson goes over to the cupboard. "Just see what has been accomplished!" And she opens the door with a flourish.
Inside there are five new generators, a number of oscillators, gleaming new coils of wire and five more voltaic batteries. The girls let out a gasp of awe.
"And that is not all!" Miss Paulson advances to the next cupboard. And here, row upon row of bottles, test-tubes, tripods, spirit-lamps – all new.
"And finally, the best news of all: Science is now officially part of the curriculum! That means that we will be able to begin a methodical course in chemistry for all the upper school. Of course I am more than happy to continue with these extra-curricular evening sessions, in which we may further develop our electrical studies.
"You have all discovered the beneficial properties of electrical current — with the exception of Miller, of course." There is a ripple of laughter, which Miss Paulson silences with an outraged stare. "Now at present, we cannot be sure if the beneficial properties flow from the electrical current itself, or from the nervous reactions which it causes. We have discovered that certain nervous reactions may be provoked by other means, notably by the oscillator which Carter and Shipman built last term. As you have seen, several more of these devices have been made. This is so that we may conduct experiments to see if the same reactions and the same benefits flow from using the oscillator. If they do, what may we conclude?"
Shipman's hand is up already, of course. Miss Paulson ignores it.
"Yes, Clark?"
"May we conclude that the benefits are due not to the electricity, but to the nervous and physical reactions it happens to produce, miss?"
"Excellent. Quite right. Does everyone understand?"
"Please, miss?"
"Yes, Shipman?"
"Miss, would it be useful to begin by testing the oscillator upon somebody who has not yet received the electrical current?"
"Well, Shipman, yes," Miss Paulson admits grudgingly, "that would be a useful beginning. Of course, there is only one person..."
Suddenly, all eyes are on Miller.
"Miller, do you feel that you could help us this time? It is purely voluntary, but it would be such a help to the cause of science. And really, it's only a little oscillating box. There is no physical risk whatsoever."
"Very well, miss. I'm sure it's nothing to be frightened of really."
"Well done, Miller! You'll soon feel less nervous," says Miss Paulson kindly. "Carter: would you please set up an oscillator and ensure that it is working properly?"
"Yes, miss." Carter begins fetching equipment from the cupboard and placing it upon the desk where she is accustomed to work.
"Do I have to lie down, miss?" asks Miller in a tremulous little voice.
"No, Miller, with the oscillator it is best to sit upright and hold the device between your legs. — Ah... Shipman: go and help Carter, please."
"Very good, miss," says Shipman, with an approving wink at Miller.
"Yes, Shipman?" says Carter, who is connecting one of the new oscillators to a generator.
"Miss Paulson said that I am to help you." Although Carter must have heard what Miss Paulson said, Shipman speaks timidly.
"Very well. You may turn the generator handle," responds Carter smoothly. She does not look at Shipman.
"I will do whatever you wish, Lucy."
Surprised at Shipman's meekness, Carter draws her breath in sharply, but says nothing until the generator is connected.
"Very well, turn the handle."
Shipman turns it. At first the oscillator does not respond. Carter slowly turns first one of the adjustment screws, then the other. Suddenly, as she turns it, the little machine buzzes into life.
"There!" she says delightedly. "Stop! — Now to get it just... perfect." She closes the little box and tucks it into the folds of her dress. "Just a few seconds, please, Shipman." Shipman turns the handle. Carter screws her eyes closed and wrinkles her nose. "Ooh! I think that's a little bit too quick. Stop!" Again she adjusts the screws and prompts Shipman to turn the handle once more. "Yes," Carter says after a few moments, "I think that will be better." Again she tucks the box into her lap, and again directs Shipman to turn the generator handle with a brisk gesture. At once she breaks into a radiant smile. "Oh, that's ideal! That's even better than the one we made last term." Forgetting her froideur, she hands the box to Shipman. "Here, you try it and I shall turn the handle. Let us see whether you agree."
Willingly, Shipman takes the oscillator and hands the generator to Carter.
"Tuck it in well and hold it tight," warns Carter. Then she begins to turn the handle.
"Ah! Ah!" moans Shipman. And now Lucy dares to look at her. Shipman's eyes are already glazed with pleasure.
Lucy stops turning the handle to ask, "What do you think?"
"Why Lucy, it's... it's divine!"
"Does it work, Carter?" asks Miss Paulson.
"It seems to, Miss Paulson. I'm just testing it." Carter turns the handle again, enjoying the way Shipman squirms on her chair. "I'm going to wake you up a little, Shipman!" she thinks to herself, and the corners of her mouth flicker into a perverse little smile.
"Oh, Lucy, Lucy..." gasps Shipman, overwhelmed.
Carter stops the generator. "It seems to work very well, Miss Paulson," she announces, plucking the oscillator from Shipman's lap. "I think we are ready to proceed."
"Perhaps it would be a good idea if you and Shipman were to ensure that the other oscillators and generators are working correctly."
Walmsley interrupts as politely as she can. "Please, miss?"
"Yes, Walmsley?"
"Would it not be best for them to witness the first operation of the oscillator, so that we may... check their reactions?"
"An excellent suggestion, Walmsley. Carter, Shipman: you can help. Are you ready, Miller?"
Carter kneels by Miller. French and Clark already have her hands, and French holds Miss Paulson's watch, monitoring her pulse. Walmsley holds the exercise-book and is already taking notes.
Carter looks up into Miller's eyes. Miller's eyes are wide; she licks her lips apprehensively.
"Very well," says Carter softly, "let's see what you think of this." She tucks the oscillator box deep between Miller's thighs. "Now cross your legs, Miller," she instructs. "I'll hold your knees. Ready?" She nods to Shipman, who begins turning the generator handle.
Smothered as it is by Miller's thighs and skirts, there is only a faint humming sound from the oscillator in Miller's lap. But immediately Miller's squeals fill the air. "Oh! Oh! O let me... Oh!" she screams, attempting to rise up out of the chair. Kershaw, who is behind her, has the presence of mind to hold her down by pressing on her shoulders, while Carter grips tightly at her knees. Startled, Shipman momentarily stops turning the generator handle. "Oh, don't stop," cries Miller. "I like it. It's just... Ah! Ah! Ahee hee hee!" Gradually, with much biting of her lip and furrowing of her brow, Miller manages to rein in her cries of exhilaration.
"One hundred and ten," says French.
"I see she's flushing already," notes Walmsley. "That's very quick for a first-timer."
"Ah yes, but this is the first time anyone has tried this particular oscillator," Shipman points out. "Carter set it up to her special preference."
Carter flashes Shipman an indignant look.
It is clear from Miller's countenance that great things are happening.
"I can hardly hold her, miss," remarks Clark, panting.
Suddenly, as if she has been holding her breath for a minute, Miller lets out an explosive gust of air. "Ah, ah, ah... uh..." She is going rigid.
"Don't let her go," warns Shipman quietly. "Keep hold of her."
Miller begins to shudder. "Oh... oh... ohh..." she gasps, her face crimson.
"I'm not sure," says Carter critically. "I don't think I have it set quite right. That was only a very little one, don't you think?"
"Maybe..." Shipman sounds unsure, but keeps turning the handle.
"Just have another try, Miller," Carter says encouragingly.
"That's it. You can stop now. Stop! Stop! No no no! I can't bear it any more!" cries the struggling Miller.
"Don't let her go!" Shipman commands sternly. "Hold tight!"
"One hundred and twenty!"
"I can't... I can't... Oh my God! My God!"
"I don't believe it," says Kershaw. "It looks as though..."
"Oh yes," says Shipman calmly. "She can do it, can't you, Miller?"
But Miller is already being forced to revise her opinion. "Oh! Oh!" she begins to moan, suddenly enthusiastic.
"Do you know, one might almost believe she were enjoying it," remarks French.
Miller's enthusiastic moans announce the beginning of a second, less inhibited nervous drama which clearly holds Miller's undivided interest to the end.
"She is just getting used to it, French. we must be patient," cautions Shipman.
Meanwhile, Miss Paulson is overcome. Swaying, she clutches the nearest girl – who just happens to be Walmsley – for support. "Oh my goodness, Walmsley," she pants, "it's... I think I'm..."
But Walmsley can see what is happening. "Oh Georgie!" she laughs, holding Miss Paulson tight untill she is able to recover herself. "Was that without touching?"
"Yes, Miss Walmsley. That was without touching. And be careful how you address me! I'm afraid that you might..."
But all the other girls are far too interested in Miller to have noticed Walmsley's indiscretion.
"Now that's enough, Shipman, that's... oh, no! Not again... Oh..."
Shipman continues implacably turning the handle. "You can take it, Miller. You can take it," she says coolly.
"Still a hundred and twenty."
Kershaw is alarmed. "How much more do you think she can take?" she asks Shipman, as Miller writhes in yet another onslaught of ecstasy.
"Oh, I think we'll know," says Shipman mysteriously.
"But surely, miss..." Kershaw appeals to Miss Paulson. But Miss Paulson, still clutching at Walmsley, is watching Miller with evident lack of concern: there is a tight-lipped smile at her mouth and a gleam of fascination in her eye.
"It's wonderful, Kershaw, what personal sacrifices we women will undertake for the advance of human knowledge," she breathes.
"Oh," mutters Kershaw, apparently deflated.
"Hold her! Hold her!" chides Shipman, as Miller erupts in yet another noisy outburst.
"A hundred and... twenty-eight," grunts French, doing her best to hold on to Miller's arm.
The crises seem to be coming more and more rapidly now.
"O yes! O yes! Ya-ya-ya-ya Oooh!... Oooh!" screams Miller.
"It seems as if she's beginning to enter into the spirit of things, doesn't it, miss?" asks Shipman conversationally.
But now, Miller's far-away look seems to have lapsed into a kind of slack-jawed imbecility. She closes her eyes, as if summoning a residue of strength. And then suddenly she is like a thing possessed, no longer capable of speech, but only growling deep in her throat like some wild beast.
Again, Kershaw appears most alarmed: "Really, miss, is this not..."
But the next instant, Kershaw needs all her strength, for with a cry Miller kicks out, sending Carter sprawling, and succeeds in wrenching her arms free of French and Clark. Only Kershaw's strength prevents her from tumbling off the chair, as with a final cry Miller tears the wires from the oscillator and slumps back, utterly drained.
"I say, be careful, you silly idiot," grumbles Carter, retrieving the oscillator and re-attaching the wires. She is blushing furiously, but this is no doubt due to her recent tumble, during which she was forced to reveal more than usual of her elegant ankles to Shipman's appreciative gaze.
Meanwhile, the other members of the society stand in silent awe, regarding the form of the stupefied Miller. Once or twice her whole body jerks and she inhales noisily.
"Well, Shipman, what do you think?" asks Miss Paulson.
"I am sorry, miss?"
"What do you think of the oscillator?"
Shipman recovers her alertness. "It's... very quick, isn't it, miss?"
"Yes, Shipman, very quick."
"It does not seem to leave very much room for doubt."
"Little, if any."
Shipman sighs.
Miss Paulson sighs.
At length, Miller comes to herself with a little shiver.
"How are you, Miller?" asks Miss Paulson.
Miller's smile radiates a charming lassitude. "Very well, I think, miss. But after all, maybe I could just..."
"No, Miller, I think that was enough."
Miller sinks back into the chair with a resigned little purr.
"I take it that you liked the oscillator."
"Mmmh!" Miller stretches out her legs luxuriously.
"I am greatly relieved. Some of us were quite anxious about you." Miss Paulson flashes a glance at Kershaw. "Perhaps it would be helpful if, when you are quite recovered, you were to write down as good a description as you can."
Miller looks vague. "Yes, miss."
"Ah... should I take a note of people's reactions, miss?" asks Walmsley.
Miss Paulson regards her young ladies. Without exception, they are flushed, brilliant-eyed, rising on their toes. They are like a stable of young race-horses. "No need, I think, Walmsley," she murmurs. "Just write 'Genesis seven'."
Now Miss Paulson begins assigning tasks. Kershaw will be the next to taste the marvels of Carter's little machine. And Carter herself is to ensure that the remaining oscillators are working properly; Shipman is to assist her. Miss Paulson notes Carter's blush and transitory expression of annoyance at this announcement; but Miss Paulson finds that she derives immense pleasure from watching them working together. "There is something going on between those two," Miss Paulson thinks, "but I am not sure quite what it is."
"Oh! Oh! Stop, Shipman, stop!" Lucy gasps a few minutes later. "I do believe I have set it too fast."
"Why, what makes you say that? It seemed to be working very well! Here, let me try it..." Shipman snatches the oscillator from Carter and hands her the generator.
Somewhat grudgingly, Carter takes the generator and waits until Shipman has the oscillator correctly positioned. Then, abruptly, she begins turning the handle as fast as she can. Shipman cannot suppress a squeal. "Hush!" Quickly, Carter turns to look at the others; but nobody is paying them any attention. "You see? It is oscillating too fast."
"No! Try it again!" Shipman rearranges herself on her chair. "It is very good like that. It is just that you began so suddenly, before I was ready."
For a moment, Carter's mouth twitches into an evanescent smile. Then she bows her head, and begins to turn the handle very gently, so that the oscillator does not move. Gradually she turns faster and faster, until Shipman suddenly tenses, and a faint buzzing noise can be heard from the direction of her lap.
Miss Paulson momentarily turns from Kershaw's noble struggles – as with Miller, the crises seem to be succeeding one another with ever greater rapidity – to see Shipman bouncing upon her chair, her fists trembling in agitation, her eyes tight closed and mouth pursed as if she were holding her face immersed in cold water. And there is Carter, placidly turning the generator handle, her face betraying no emotion. Only the intensity of her gaze, which never wavers from Shipman, contradicts her air of indifference. Eventually, without warning, she lifts her hand from the generator, her fingers poised in mid-air.
Shipman beats her fists once more, this time in frustration. "O why did you stop?"
"We have five more to do, Shipman. I shall not set the others to run as fast as that one."
"Why not? Some may prefer them like that."
"Yes, and some may prefer them slower," rejoins Carter with indifference.
Carter uncoils lengths of wire and holds them out for Shipman to snip off at the correct length.
"One of them is to go to the infirmary, I think."
"The infirmary? Why?"
"Miss Paulson has adopted my suggestion."
Carter's movements stop. She looks at Shipman warily. "Suggestion?"
"Yes." Shipman preens herself a little. "I thought that the oscillator might offer some relief for certain ailments." Shipman looks a little more sharply at Carter. "Don't you think?"
Carter sees the twitch of Shipman's smile and blushes. "Perhaps," she mutters, busying herself with another of the generators.
Shipman giggles knowingly, and is gratified to see Carter's blush intensify.
"Take this," says Carter more brusquely, thrusting the generator towards Shipman. "Help me get this next one working." And while Shipman turns the handle, Carter carefully adjusts the mechanism until it begins to emit a low buzzing sound.
"Do you think that's quite fast enough?" asks Shipman solicitously.
Carter tucks it into her lap, crosses her legs and closes her eyes. She reposes her hands daintily upon her crossed knees, one on top of the other. Watching her, Shipman continues to turn the handle. After a little while, Carter flexes her spine and makes an appreciative little murmur.
At once, Shipman stops the generator. "I think it's too slow."
"This one is for the infirmary. We do not want it to be too rough. Besides, it is soothing. You try it."
They exchange devices and Shipman composes herself. After a few moments, her face relaxes. "Aah," she breathes. "Ah, yes..." Carter continues to turn the handle. Soon it is Shipman's turn to moan her appreciation. But when her hands begin to clench themselves into fists, Carter stops at once.
"Oh you..." Shipman scowls in disappointment. But there is something bewitching in Carter's expression. Her eyes are bright, her mouth struggling to conceal an inner amusement. "Lucy..." growls Shipman, but she cannot suppress her smile either, now.
"We have yet four more, Shipman," Carter says lightly, plucking the little machine from the folds of Shipman's frock and setting it down upon the desk with exaggerated daintiness. She arranges the wires, flickering her fingers in a mockery of fastidiousness.
Carter is so pale; her movements so quick, the curve of her neck so graceful, that Shipman suddenly wants to... — Shipman gasps. She dares not think what it is she wishes to do, yet she can scarcely refrain from translating thought into action.
"So do you approve, Shipman?" Carter asks with an air of nonchalance, handing her companion the clippers and holding up a length of wire.
"Approve?" Shipman snips the wire next to Carter's fingers.
Carter's eyes roll behind her pince-nez. "Of the setting for the oscillator?" Her voice is light, teasing. "Is it not most wonderfully relaxing for the muscles?"
Shipman's eyes blaze in frustration. Her mouth hardens into a tight line. "Lucy, Lucy..."
Carter can no longer suppress her smile. "Do you not think so? I thought it most delightfully relaxing, most..." And then the intensity of Shipman's gaze checks her. Her lips part, her breast heaves and she gives a little gasp before turning back to busy herself with connecting the wire to the next generator.
Shipman, who is devouring her with her eyes, cannot ignore the outline of Lucy's nipples, tense beneath the soft, worn cloth of her blue school dress.
"Are the new machines working correctly?" Miss Paulson is right beside them, and they are suddenly frozen, motionless.
"We have encountered no difficulties so far, miss," Lucy says eventually, in a strange, toneless voice.
"Good." Neither Shipman nor Carter react in any way. "Very good." Miss Paulson turns away. There is definitely something going on between those two.
Miss Paulson claps her hands twice. "Very well, ladies," she calls, "that concludes our work for this evening. Shipman, I think you have tested that oscillator quite sufficiently."
"Yes, miss," Shipman responds meekly, placing the sixth and final oscillator on the desk beside its fellows.
"Miller, I see you have been working hard on your notes."
"Yes, miss." Miller blushes and turns the pages of her exercise-book. "Here they are, miss."
Miss Paulson takes the book and reads silently for a moment. "Goodness, Miller," she says after a little while. "This is very... poetic... but most expressive, nevertheless. Goodness!" As she reads, Miss Paulson seems to be becoming a little agitated.
"Please miss, what does she say, miss?" asks Clark.
"You will have to read it for yourself, Clark. Oh my, this is very well done, Miller."
"Thank you, miss."
With an effort, Miss Paulson closes the book and clasps it to her breast. "As we have seen," she begins bravely, "the new device seems to bring about the same beneficial effects as the electrical current, but more quickly and with greater directness. I was going to say that it worked like clockwork, but soon I expect we shall be saying that it works like electricity!"
There is a ripple of laughter, but Carter suddenly looks thoughtful. Shipman notices at once.
"I am making a quite serious point now, ladies; for we are at the dawn of a new age of mankind, the age of electricity. Electricity will change the way we live, and even the way we speak. One day people will think of clockwork as primitive and antiquated.
"But let us turn back to what we have learned this evening. We noticed very pronounced sympathetic reactions this evening, but particularly in those who had experienced the oscillator, when they witnessed its application to a new subject — did we not, Miller? Kershaw?"
"Yes, miss." Both answer demurely, but their blushes attest to the force and liveliness of the reaction.
"We have done well to set down in as much detail as we can the personal experiences of those who have experienced the electrical current, and those who have experienced the effects of the oscillator. However, in order to produce truly scientific results, we shall need to formulate a hypothesis about the effects of these treatments in terms of something that may be measured objectively. Does everyone know what I mean by 'objective'?"
Many hands shoot up, Shipman's the first by a small margin. It is late, and Miss Paulson decides to ignore them all this time.
"Good. Shipman has suggested one hypothesis. Before our next meeting I should like the rest of you to give the matter your careful thought, and see whether you can think of any other hypotheses which may be conveniently measured.
"We shall be donating two of the new oscillators to the infirmary. I have spoken with Matron about this, and she has agreed to allow us to investigate the effectiveness of these devices in the treatment of certain ailments, particularly muscular strains and... female discomfort."
There is a little murmur of interest.
"That may give you ideas for suitable hypotheses we might formulate and test." Miss Paulson looks around the room, catching the eye of each of her disciples in turn. "Think hard, ladies, and we will begin our next session by discussing your ideas.
"Very well: our meeting is over. Walmsley will assist me in putting away the equipment."
At these words, Miss Paulson catches a rather knowing glance from Shipman. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply in her attempt to avoid an unseemly blush. But she is rescued by the sound of the bell for evening assembly.
"Fear not, Walmsley, I'll conduct the assembly," says Benson, who secretly believes that she cuts a more imposing figure than the Head Girl.
"Thank you, Benson."
Carter is one of the first to leave, but Shipman hurries after.
"Oh, Miller!" Miss Paulson calls her back just as she is about to leave the classroom.
"Yes, miss?"
"I have been concerned that some of the younger girls in the infirmary might be a little afraid of using the oscillator. It occurs to me that since you have experienced its effects, and have written about them so beautifully, you might be the best person to introduce them to its use."
"Yes miss. Very good, miss."
"Very well. You may go now."
Miller curtseys submissively. "Thank you, miss."
Aware of her pursuer, Carter has dodged into a dark stair-well off the main corridor. But Shipman is close on her heels.
"Don't touch me, Shipman!" Carter is panting. She finds it difficult to breathe. "What do you want? O Ship — Oh no no no no!"
There is the sound of footsteps in the corridor behind them, and then Miller's voice: "Ship? Ship, where are you?"
Taking advantage of Shipman's momentary distraction, Carter breaks away, and quick as a flash, disappears into the throng.
"O Ship, there you are! You'll never guess what!" Miller has blundered into Shipman, hands waving in glee.
Shipman gulps. When she manages to speak, her voice is dull. "Yes?"
"Why, Miss Paulson has said that I should introduce the oscillator to the girls in the infirmary!"
"Oh. Good for you, Miller. Good for you." Shipman's tone is unenthusiastic, and Miller is momentarily deflated. But then she scampers after Clark, who is a far more gratifying audience.
Meanwhile, in the classroom, "There, that's the last of them put away," says Miss Paulson, closing the cupboard. "Why, Carry — what are you — Why are you locking the door? O Carry, darling, we can't! Not here! Someone might come!"
"Yes, Georgie," says Carry, taking Georgie by the waist. "And that someone might be you..."
"O Carry... I cannot..."
"Mmm?"
"I cannot..."
"Mmm?"
"I cannot... resist you..."
"Good afternoon, Shipman. Can I help you?" It has been several days before Shipman has been able to muster the courage to visit Miss Paulson's cottage.
"I beg pardon for intruding, miss," says Shipman with a gracious curtsey, "but I wondered if Miss Carter would like to join me for a walk."
Miss Paulson studies Shipman for a moment. She seems anxious, a little drawn. "Very well. She is very busy with her mathematics. But I will go and ask."
"Thank you, miss." Shipman drops another curtsey.
Upstairs, there is a whispered conversation.
"I don't wish to see her."
For a moment, Miss Paulson is tempted to stand on her dignity, and not be used by this impossible pair as their go-between. But clearly emotions are raging on both sides. "Then what am I to say?"
"Say that... that I do not wish to be added to her collection."
"But what does that mean?"
Carter's eyes are like coals. "Shipman will understand perfectly."
Miss Paulson sighs. "Very well, Lucy."
When Shipman sees Miss Paulson return, there is a look of desperation in her face. "What did she say, miss?"
"I do not know what she means. She said that she does not wish to be added to your collection."
"She said... she said..." Shipman's eyes fill with tears and she turns away.
Miss Paulson's heart melts. And more: it is as if she is abnormally sensitive to Shipman. If her customary impish cheerfulness grates like sand-paper, Shipman's desolation is even more unbearable. It is like a beacon of despair, a sinister omen. Miss Paulson puts her hands on Shipman's shoulders. "I am sorry, Shipman. I do not know what she means to say, but truly I am sorry."
"No... no..." Shipman's shoulders heave. "It is I who am sorry. Do not tell her, I beg you... Do not say anything to her..." and Shipman scurries off without a backward glance.
That evening, Lucy Carter presses Miss Paulson to write in her fairer hand the completion of the treatise on springs. Miss Paulson is bent over the table, and Lucy stands behind her, directing her in a tense, urgent voice. It is her habit now to wear her eye-patch in the evening, and this gives her a menacing air.
"No, no! Down a little! Yes, just there. Omega-p."
"Lucy, there are times when I wish that I understood what all this means."
"For me, miss? For me, this means the chance of freedom."
Miss Paulson speaks while writing. "You are lucky, Lucy, to be able to hope for freedom."
"Why, miss: why do you say that?"
"I..." Miss Paulson puts her pen down. "I cannot say." She lets out a sob, but then masters herself. "I am sorry, Lucy, I am feeling miserable this evening. Let us not talk about it. Let us get on with our work." She smiles bravely. "It is good for me to distract myself."
Lucy kneels beside her. "No, tell me, tell me, Miss Paulson."
Miss Paulson shakes her head. Despite her resolve, her eyes are welling with tears again. And then she smiles, despite herself. "It is ridiculous," she sighs. And yes, it is: the prospect of losing Carry, of having to leave Hepplewhite, these seem tragic enough. But if the truth be told, it is the misery, the desolation she glimpsed in Shipman's face that afternoon, which epitomize and give form to her own despair.
"If it upsets you, Miss Paulson, it cannot be ridiculous," demurs Lucy earnestly. "Is it about... is it about Carry?"
Miss Paulson nods.
"But what? But what? Does she not love you?"
"Yes!" Miss Paulson laughs. She looks up at the ceiling and flashes a sudden, radiant smile. "Yes, she loves me, Lucy." But then her expression is grave. "But what can come of it? We cannot resist one another, Lucy. It is a kind of madness. And the longer it persists, the more tragic I fear its effects will be. Whether it will all erupt in scandal, I cannot tell. She is so... so impetuous! And I, who should know better, I cannot deny her!"
Lucy takes Miss Paulson's hand and presses it comfortingly.
"And do you know, Lucy? I am tormented by a vision of the future. It ought to be a thing of beauty, but to me it is a nightmare."
"O what is that?"
"I see Carry, ten years from now, sitting in a garden, on a white chair, in a lovely white dress." Miss Paulson speaks slowly, reflectively. "At her feet, her beautiful children, playing on the grass. And beside her, a great bear of a man – her husband – the man her family ordained her to marry. And he is proud. And she is happy. And she has forgotten, quite forgotten..."
"Oh no, Miss Paulson..."
"Yes... but I shall never forget..." Miss Paulson's voice is weary, resigned.
Lucy shakes her head in distress. "But Miss Paulson – this vision – it need not be!"
Miss Paulson's eyes are huge, her mouth suddenly firm. She takes Lucy's face in her hands. "O Lucy, you are young. You do not know. I have lived with this vision for months now." She shakes her head. "It will be, Lucy."
"But why?"
"Lucy, it is the law of life. I see her children. And they are so beautiful! I cannot – Lucy, I cannot – stand in their way. I think I love them as much as I love Carry."
"Then come away with me. If you cannot stay here – come away with me to Russia!"
Miss Paulson looks piercingly, imploringly into Lucy's eyes. "But what shall I do? How can I live?"
"There is the Smolnyi institute. There they teach English – and French – and you could teach science, and more besides... Really, it is just like Hepplewhite... When I send my monograph... we shall write, to Uncle Fyodor. And we will tell him of all your scientific studies. He will find a place for you."
"O Lucy dear, it is so sweet of you to try to cheer me up." Miss Paulson gently removes Lucy's eye-patch, and tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. "Do you know that you are beautiful?"
"Oh no... no, Miss Paulson." Lucy is aghast.
"Not like dear Carry." Miss Paulson manages a feeble smile. "Not like her. Hers is a beauty anyone can see. But yours is hidden. It is deeper. But it is there, Lucy. I have seen it."
"Oh Miss Paulson!"
"I am not the only one, Lucy." Miss Paulson relinquishes her, and turns back to the papers on the table, pretending to look at them.
"What do you mean?"
"Lucy... I am going to break a promise."
"I do not understand."
"When... when Shipman came for you this afternoon..."
"Yes?" Lucy draws back in apprehension.
"And I gave her your message..."
"What? What?"
Suddenly Miss Paulson leaps up from her chair. "O! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!" And she scurries up the stairs to her room, slamming the door behind her.
And as Lucy hears Miss Paulson cast herself upon her bed, weeping piteously, she feels a heaviness in her heart, and a sense of unknown destiny pressing upon her. She rises and seats herself in an armchair before the fire, stiffly upright, her hands clasped in her lap. In the ruddy light of the fire, and the yellow glimmer of the table-lamp, her face gleams pale, her eyes dark, staring sightlessly into an unknown future.
"Thank you for coming, gentlemen," rumbles the Duke as they seat themselves round the table. "Glad you could spare us some time, Carter. And since no doubt you have many pressing matters to attend to, perhaps you'd be so good as to give us the benefit of your consideration first of all."
Henry Carter hunches his shoulders and wriggles uncomfortably into his chair. His usual decisive, humourless demeanour has been emphasized recently by a haggard, anxious look. Over the last few days he has begun to feel unwell. It gives his words an added urgency, and seems to draw greater respect from his hearers.
"I will speak plainly, your grace. This is an interesting proposition. We may lament it, but in fact your thesis holds true. It is women who direct the spending of a great deal of our money. This could be the spur to a successful manufacturing enterprise."
The Duke coughs happily and leans back contentedly in his chair.
"And from what you tell me, you need a mere... what? Three quarters of a million. That is easily come by — for the right proposition. However, it has one problematical aspect: it is new. And as we know, subscribers are creatures of habit."
"Very true, very true," murmurs Fearnley. Matson looks up sharply.
"What I would recommend..." Carter speaks slowly and pauses for effect.
"Yes?" His grace is leaning forward now, suddenly alert. This Carter is one of Carraghers' brightest stars, and his pearls of wisdom are on no account to go unheeded.
"...is that you have a second line of products."
"A second line?" The Duke tries to say it in a brisk, intelligent voice, but it sounds inept, nonetheless.
"Yes. A manufacturing line that subscribers will see and recognize as good for reliable revenue. It is..." – Carter leans back and looks at the ceiling – "It is always more appetizing to the subscriber if, as well as some innovative aspect to the business, there is some sure-fire, reliable source of the bread and butter."
"Oh, quite." The Duke frowns briskly and clasps his hands before him on the desk. "So... what would you suggest?"
"Arms."
"Arms?"
"Certainly. The market in arms is very brisk at present."
"Ah, that is good..." Matson is smiling at a corner of the ceiling. "I recently had a rather beautiful idea..."
"Go on," urges the Duke.
"A very simple mechanism that could be fired from cannon..." The engineer holds his long, slim fingers together thoughtfully.
"Yes?"
"For insurrections, and that sort of thing..."
"Yes?"
"Very cheap to manufacture, very elegant... Just take the leg off below the knee..."
"Just the thing!" cries Carter, his grey eyes suddenly focused on some distant point, as if watching a ragged crowd falling in bloody confusion.
The Duke slaps the table and guffaws. "Well I'm damned!"
Carter turns to him. "You are intending to use this young man, your grace?"
"Yes of course. This is Matson."
Carter narrows his eyes and looks at Matson approvingly. "He will be good. With someone like this, I think the company will be most attractive... most attractive."
The Duke sends a significant glance to Fearnley.
"Well... that's really all," says Carter, leaning back again and slipping his thumbs into his waistcoat lapels.
"Well thank you, Carter, much obliged," says the Duke. "We were intending to move on to... I should say, if you're in a hurry..."
"Oh no," replies Carter airily. "I find this interesting. We're always interested in new business. I can spare a few minutes." Carter fastens his gaze on Matson, who seems abstracted once more.
"Aha. Very good of you. Well, Fearnley, what of the incorporation?"
"Ahem. Glad you can stay with us, Carter," says Fearnley deferentially.
"Yes yes. Quite," adds his grace.
"Well now... as to the articles... it will be easy enough to add an article pertaining to the armaments. Would you place that first, Carter?"
"Not necessarily." Carter opens his eyes wide and consults the ceiling again. "It could well come second."
"Yes. Well, it is only for confidence, after all. So I can well insert a new second article. One small matter we need to address is the rights of manufacture."
"Rights?" The Duke is puzzled.
"Yes, your grace. The new company will need to own exclusive rights to the manufacture of these goods. Accordingly, Mr Matson's revised designs should form the basis of an application for letters patent..."
"Ah, yes..."
"...and all rights thereto should vest in the new corporation. It is most important, is it not, that other concerns should not simply copy the designs?"
"Oh, assuredly."
Fearnley turns to the young engineer. "I am afraid, Matson, that you will have to assign all your rights to the new company."
"Really?" Matson is suddenly awake.
"Oh yes. Is that not so, Carter?"
"Absolutely. If they resided with a private individual, why — the subscribers would instantly catch cold."
Matson looks rebellious.
"Of course..." Fearnley turns a keen eye to the Duke. "Of course, Matson, it is customary to reward the inventor with a share of stock..."
"Quite, quite," nods the Duke.
"Oh. Ah. And... how much would that be?"
"Some five per cent is considered generous, I believe," murmurs Carter.
"Only five per cent?" Matson looks outraged.
Carter sits a little more upright and fixes Matson with his coldest, most knowing stare. "Oh yes. Five per cent of a thriving company could easily be a million, you know."
"A million?" Matson's countenance is suddenly transfigured.
"Indeed."
"Oh, very well, then." Matson relapses into pleasurable contemplation.
"Very good," says Fearnley in a professional tone of voice.
"But... I say, don't you know, what about the school?"
Carter and Fearnley turn their eyes to the Duke, expressions of incredulity on their faces.
"The school?" murmurs Fearnley, uncertainly.
"Why, yes. The original idea, you know... Why, it was from the school. Surely they should have something."
"Oh yes, yes..." Fearnley waves his hand dismissively. "The school should have a small grant..."
"But how much?"
"Any more ideas likely from that source?" asks Carter astutely.
"Quite possibly," nods the Duke.
"Four per cent," says Carter. "Important to maintain good will. And all similar ideas to the company."
"I believe I can draw up an agreement to that effect," says Fearnley.
"And then what of the original inventors of the oscillating device? Should they not receive something?"
"Ah yes — what were their names?" Fearnley scratches his head.
Carter leans forward. "Any interests of that sort – buy them out. Most important that the new company owns everything. Otherwise... you know..." He wipes his forehead.
"I mean, they did have some contribution, didn't they, Matson?" his grace presses.
"Well... Yes, there were one or two ideas, certainly," Matson allows with all the generosity of a millionaire-to-be. "Not that they could have been commercially exploited as they stood, but yes, one or two ideas."
"Very well. How many of 'em were there?" Carter leans across the table. "Let's get rid of 'em."
Fearnley takes a folder that is lying on the table in front of Matson. He adjusts his spectacles as he opens the absurd, girlish document. "There are only two. One Shipman and... oh. You'd better have a look, Carter." He passes the document across the table.
Carter looks at the title page, stiffens, then cursorily glances at one or two of the diagrams before snapping the folder shut. "Ha." He leans back. He is not feeling very well. "I think one of them is known to me. I can take care of that one. Give the other one – Shipman – one per cent. More than enough."
Matson's jealousy is piqued. "One per cent? But that could be as much as two hundred thousand, if I'm not mistaken."
"Yes, yes..." Carter leans back, affecting boredom. "But you seem not to appreciate how important it will be to the subscribers to have these people out of the way." Secretly, he delights in the thought that he might instil in his daughter's heart a bitter, corrosive jealousy. After all: five hundred pounds! He should never have listened to Joanna. Five hundred was far too much. A young minx like that should be properly punished for her impudence. And to think that his own seed, the fruit of his own loins, should be so monstrously disrespectful! "Well... I must be going. Glad to meet you, Matson." He reaches across the table to shake Matson's hand. "I foresee a bright future for you. And for this company. I wish you good day, gentlemen..."
After they have seen him out, the gentlemen resume their deliberations.
"He seemed to like it, don't you think, Fearnley?" asks the Duke anxiously.
"I've never seen him so keen, your grace. He doesn't say much, old Carter, but when he speaks of bright futures... well..." Fearnley purses his lips.
"You think he can do it?"
"If he cannot, no man can. If a man in his position says that a business venture looks bright..." Fearnley extends his arms, as if to encompass the world. "But of course we need to attend to his concerns."
"Concerns?" The Duke furrows his brow.
"Certainly. And from the first we should be most attentive to the matter of the letters patent." Fearnley turns to the young engineer. "As a matter of form, it would be a good thing if you were able to adopt his grace's suggestion of a cigar shape for the... er..."
"The Invigorator," says the Duke decisively. "The Walmsley Invigorator."
"Oh yes... Good name," murmurs Fearnley.
"As a matter of fact, I have," begins Matson, opening another, bulkier folder. "I had some quite good ideas. For example: the oscillating frequency of the prototype from the school was clearly far too low, and the amplitude far too great. For proper muscle relaxation, I should have thought that this design..."
"Yes, yes," laughs Fearnley, "it is good to see that proper engineering considerations prevail." He turns to the Duke. "For the sake of the letters patent, your grace," he continues in a more conspiratorial tone, "it is as well to depart from the original design as much as possible, just in the unlikely event of a challenge."
"A challenge?" His grace looks a little apprehensive.
At once, Fearnley assumes an expression of angelic innocence. "Not that there is any great likelihood of one. But without entering into all the technical details" – Fearnley laughs airily – "it is clear that our first product must represent a great advance upon the crude original." He nudges Matson. "Very important, though, old boy, to make a thing of the new ideas, and play down the old ones. Strengthens the position of the company. So: you'll need to make much of the new shape, new amplitude and whatever." Fearnley waves his hand vaguely. "All that is excellent. And – take my advice – once you're sure you can do without them, it would be better to destroy this." He stabs at the schoolgirl folder with a lawyer's finger.
"Destroy it?" Matson picks it up half-regretfully.
"Definitely. We will not want any bones rattling in the vault of our new company."
"It seems sad, somehow."
"I assure you, Matson, in business we have no room for sentiment."
Matson sighs and puts the folder down.
"Well," says the Duke, relaxing, "I'm mighty glad we managed to enlist old Carter. Seems to know his stuff."
"Very true," agrees Fearnley. "I knew you'd take to him. I say, Matson, do you think you could go and call down for a bottle of champagne? I believe we have a birth to celebrate."
"A birth?" Matson looks blank.
"The new company, man!"
"Oh... Oh yes." Matson rises and stumbles out.
When the door closes, Fearnley leans across to the Duke. "Old Carter liked it. I could tell. How much d'you get him for?"
"Fifteen per cent."
"That's good. So with my five, and your... what?"
"Twenty-five."
"That leaves... forty-five per cent for the subscribers. Perfect!"
Shortly afterwards, Matson reappears with the champagne, looking very pleased with himself. Soon, he will be able to look for a wife.