At the sound of approaching footsteps, Miss Paulson rises from the table, still absent-mindedly clutching Carter's letter. Her heart is already hammering with excitement: she does not need to look out of the window. The distinctive little scuffle of haste – or is it headstrong desire? – tells her at once whose footsteps these are. And then, without knocking, Carry pushes the door open and stands a moment, golden hair haloed in the outdoor light, a vision of loveliness that makes Miss Paulson's heart lurch in almost painful joy.
"Why, Georgie," says Carry in an amused voice, slowly closing the door, "you have a letter!"
Carry's smile, the way she stands, the slight movement of her eyebrow, the liveliness and poise of this perfect young woman steals the breath from Georgie's lungs. Unable to turn away, she pushes the letter away into the pile of papers on the table behind her. "Carry, dearest, we must talk."
Carry's splayed fingers press on the door behind her, thrusting her breast into prominence. She speaks jestingly. "It is from a lover. One of your Parisian admirers."
"No, no, it is not a letter to me at all."
"Then to whom?"
"Carry, we must talk."
"About what?"
"Dear..." Georgie shakes her head. "The more I see you, the more difficult this will be."
"What will be?"
"I have to leave Hepplewhite, Carry."
Carry stares in disbelief. "Leave? But you cannot!"
"I had already resolved to do so, even before Mrs Cunningham sent for me this morning. O Carry, this has been a day of fateful letters."
"What? She received a letter?"
Georgie nods, and bites her lip. "One of the governors, a very wealthy man, wrote to say that I have been putting poisonous ideas into his daughter's head, and that unless I leave at the end of this term, he will withdraw his financial support. And it appears that without it, the school would be in a very precarious state. There would be no more question of science at Hepplewhite."
Carry's eyes are bright with anger. "Who? Who was this?"
"I should not tell you this. But Carry — it was Carter's father."
"Carter?"
Georgie nods dumbly.
Carry is furious. She shakes her fists. "Then we must get up a petition! We cannot let this man simply take over the school! We must fight with every means at our disposal!" There is a delightful flush now on Carry's cheeks.
But Georgie shakes her head sadly. "No, Carry, we must not. Even before this, I had made up my mind." She smiles bravely. "There are many others who would be able to keep the flame alive. Mrs Cunningham knows of several. She said some very kind things, Carry, but she was quick to put my mind to rest. Miss Paulson may go, but the good work will continue without her."
"But what are you going to do?"
"Carter and I are going to go away together. She has been able to obtain a very satisfactory teaching position, and I am sure I shall be able to do the same."
"Where?"
"I... have promised I will not say, Carry – not to anyone, not even you. She has told me some terrible things about her family, you know. At least for the moment, she does not want anyone to know where we are going, for fear that her father might interfere to prevent it. From what she has told me, he is capable of anything."
Carry's hands fall to her side. She is pale now. "But Georgie... what about..." Her lips quiver. She cannot trust her voice, but can only whisper. "What about you and me, Georgie?"
Georgie looks aside. She blinks. Her cheeks are glistening. "You know that it is hopeless, Carry. Your father will insist that you marry. You yourself will want to have children one day. It cannot last."
Carry is beside herself. "You do not know what you are saying!"
Georgie presses on bravely. "The sooner we part, the less painful it will be for both of us. Do not fear: you will soon find someone..."
Carry clasps her hands in supplication. "Georgie! Oh no no no! You do not understand!"
Georgie closes her eyes, swallowing with effort. "Oh yes: I understand, Carry. Do not think this is any less painful for me than it is for you, but —"
"Georgie!" Carry sobs, struggling to regain her self-control. "Georgie! No more of this despairing talk, I beg you! You make me so afraid!" Georgie makes to interrupt, but Carry strides forward and takes Georgie by the shoulders, her eyes suddenly adamant, her breast heaving. "Do you think my father, or anyone, could compel me to marry against my will? Why, my mother would not permit it! I would not permit it! Georgie, I love you." For a moment, Carry holds Georgie in her defiant gaze. Then, more softly, "...And anyway, my mother knows." Carry looks into Georgie's shocked eyes. "She understands."
Georgie can only repeat, her voice tremulous with incredulity, "She knows?"
Carry looks down, momentarily shy. "More or less." Then, looking up once more: "And she wants me to be happy. I shall come away with you, Georgie. We will go to a far-off place where nobody shall interfere with our happiness."
And now, laughing and weeping at the same time, Georgie puts her hands upon Carry's shoulders. "Oh my..." She shakes her head in disbelief. "You sweet child... you sweet child. – But don't you see – ?"
"Georgie, Georgie..." Carry draws her lover close, so that each can feel the warm resilience of the other's breast. "I see that we can be happy, if only we allow ourselves to be. Nobody can stop us, Georgie, unless we let them..."
Georgie laughs softly as Carry kisses away her tears; then, when Carry begins kissing her neck, sways and tries to dodge her, squealing softly as she laughs. But there is no dodging Carry, and with a little groan, Georgie ceases to resist, turning instead to return Carry's kiss.
"Oh... Oh..." Carry turns her head and kisses more passionately, now teasing Georgie's mouth open with her tongue; and once admitted, she moves it very slowly, deliciously, until Georgie squeals into her mouth and begins to move her hips insistently against Carry's. At length, Carry draws back. "You want me, Georgie..."
"Oh Carry..." Georgie returns the kiss, their bodies moulding ever closer together.
"Why, Georgie," murmurs Carry eventually, "without me, what would you have done?" Georgie squeezes Carry tighter. "Hmm?"
"Darling... I must confess something..." Georgie draws away. She cannot meet Carry's eye now. "I do feel... something for Lucy Carter. Nothing like my love for you, but..."
Startled by the sudden thought, Carry looks toward the ceiling. "She is not upstairs, is she?"
"No. She is out walking — with Miller."
"That is just as well." Carry pauses and reflects. "Georgie, I understand. There is noble blood in her."
Georgie shakes her head, striving to find expression for the complexity of her feelings. "She is very strong, very strong... But then, just occasionally, she will look at me, and I see such anguish in her eyes, Carry."
Their eyes meet, full of sympathetic understanding.
"Dear, compassionate Georgie!"
"I think she has been quite starved of love."
"I am sure of it!"
"And that is strange, because from what she tells me, her mother sounds rather sweet. But the very thought of her drives Lucy into a fearsome, silent fury. I think perhaps that she cannot forgive her for not standing up to her father."
"And so" – Carry makes a little moue – "you thought our love was doomed, and that you might... care for Lucy instead?"
"Yes; even though, I confess, she sometimes frightens me so. She is so cold, sometimes, Carry; and at others, so very passionate."
Carry looks a little displeased. "Oh? Passionate? How so?"
Georgie blushes scarlet. "I mean... when she is alone in her room... the walls are rather thin..."
Carry laughs open-mouthed. Her teeth are perfect. Georgie flies into her arms once more.
"O Carry... I never meant... I never meant that anyone... As if I could ever forget..." And then she draws back a little, looking into Carry's amused eyes. "You're not cross with me?"
"Should I be? After all, I will admit... I can see what others might see in her." Carry's smile is bewitching.
Georgie answers with a momentary smile of her own, but her eyes are troubled. "She's nothing like you, Carry, of course she's not, but... I must confess that sometimes, just when I least expect it... I mean, Carry, you are just beautiful always, from every angle, while she... I don't know..."
Carry gives a low chuckle. "What are you trying to tell me, Georgie?"
"Sometimes she just does something to me. Just an expression, or a little gesture, and I — I am sorry, dear Carry. I should not be saying this."
Carry laughs good-naturedly. "Dear, wanton Georgie. I see that I shall have to do something to prevent you straying, shall I not?"
Carry's words are spoken lightly, but something in her tone, something authoritative, something purposeful, sends a shiver through Georgie. She cannot help asking, "Oh, what, Carry?" But even as she says it, she sees the light in Carry's eye, and feels the unmistakable stirrings of desire. For a moment she recalls the sight of Carry's sweet mouth, lips slightly parted, approaching her most sensitive place with such loving tenderness — and the beautiful, beautiful pangs of pleasure that engulfed her thereafter. Georgie cannot conceal her longing: her gaze is beseeching, and Carry smiles in triumph.
"Come, O come upstairs," she whispers. And with a little giggle, Carry hastens to the haven of delight, determined to inflame Georgie's passion as never before.
"No!" she cries, when Georgie tries to embrace her. "No!" And then, coolly, "Don't touch me now; just undress me, without touching. For now, I am not Carry, but Lady Caroline Artemis Gloriana Walmsley, and you..." – Carry clears her throat delicately – "you are merely Georgie, my maidservant."
"Why, what game is this you are playing with me?" Georgie's voice is tremulous with desire.
"You shall see... but for the present, you shall not touch," Carry answers lightly. "There... there... slowly..." And for the next minute, there is no sound but the soft rustle of clothing, the breathing of two very empassioned women, and Georgie's occasional moan as more is revealed to her worshipping gaze. "And now, dear Georgie... tell me... is it Carter you want now? Is it?"
"O Carry, you are perfect... perfect!"
"Do you think I look perhaps a little better from this angle, h'm?"
"Carry, let me touch you! I beg you!"
But Carry only giggles and spins away from Georgie's outstretched hands.
"And so I shall have money." Carter says it in a small voice, not looking at Miller, trying to conceal the joy and pride that leap in her breast.
"Why, Carter, that's wonderful!" Miller is full of admiration. But then her voice is clouded with foreboding. "But of course, when you marry, all that will go to your husband."
"Miller, I beg you, do not be so ridiculous."
"But it's true, Carter! When you marry —"
"Of course. But what makes you think that I would ever marry? Oh — I know: you mean to say that a man might find my money attractive. Hah!"
For a while, Miller ponders how to respond to Carter's bitter irony. They walk on through the wood. It is still bare of leaves, but the weather has become gentle, and in the air there is the promise of spring.
At length, Miller dares a reply, blushing even as she says the words: "A man might find other things attractive about you, Carter."
Carter feels a sudden tightness in her breast. She came out without a coat, and hopes that Miller will not notice the tell-tale signs. And despite herself, "What things?" she mutters in a low voice, her entire body tingling with a strange excitement.
"Why..." Miller casts a sidelong glance at her companion's two silent, but eloquent, witnesses – a glance which Carter does not miss. "You have a very pretty shape, Carter. Everyone says so."
"Everyone?" Carter is scarlet, and somewhat breathless.
"Yes." Miller stares straight ahead, pretending not to notice Carter's confusion. "Of course, everyone says how pretty Shipman is; but I've heard several people say that in many ways you have the nicer shape."
"Oh? Who?"
"Oh..." Miller waves a hand vaguely. "Just... people."
Carter stumbles. Her internal muscles are beginning to misbehave.
Miller notices Carter's unease, her high complexion. "Are you tired? Do you wish to sit down? There's a bench over there."
"Thank you... yes..."
"Perhaps you are not quite recovered from your... indisposition."
"Oh I am quite recovered, thank you. Why, that was days ago!"
"Just so, just so..." Miller sits slightly apart, studiously looking into the distance. "Of course... it does help, when one knows how to... relieve the feelings. Do you not think it is a great kindness, when one is taught such an important thing?"
"Perhaps so." Carter finds that her mouth has become dry.
"I really did wonder at you, when you said what you did about Shipman." Miller's voice betrays an edge of disapproval, despite her sympathetic tone. "And really, it is so beautiful to be touched by another... Honestly, Carter, do you not secretly crave another's touch? Do you not dream of feeling a man's hands, worshipping your body? Does it not set your heart aflame?"
Slowly, Carter shakes her head. She sees her father's hands, and they are bloody. "No, Miller, in all honesty I do not. A man would be interested only in getting me with child, and cheerfully disregard the fact that I would risk death in bearing it. No, the thought of a man's hands just now makes my blood run cold." She shudders. "Come, let us walk on."
Together, they rise and rejoin the path, their long blue frocks swishing quietly as they go.
But then, after a while, Miller resumes, quietly beguiling. "But you know, Carter, the touch of another is so much more... oh, wonderful."
"What do you mean?"
"To touch one's self is lovely... but the touch of another is... Oh! It is beyond words!" Miller's face is radiant.
Carter feels the need to quash this line of thinking. "I am quite sure that you are wrong. Why, we know for ourselves just how we wish to be touched. Who is to say better than ourselves? Think, Miller: the world is for ever telling us how we need a man to help us with this, and to protect us from that. It is just a way of keeping us in servitude to men! You are quite wrong! We need nothing beyond ourselves!"
"Oh Carter... That is admirable, truly it is;" – Impulsively, Miller takes Carter's hand and squeezes it – "but you do not know... you cannot know..."
Carter remembers Walmsley's hand upon her breast, Miller's hand upon her back, and of course Shipman... Blushing again, she is silent for a time. But then, determined to give no quarter to this heresy: "Miller, what you say does not stand to reason. How can another know as well as we ourselves do, what touch will please us most? And is it not most true, that if we are to escape the bonds of enslavement to men – our masters – we must all discover this truth for ourselves: that we, ourselves, can please ourselves the most?"
"But Carter —"
"No, Miller, hear me out, I beg you. You may be right, that there is a certain..." – Carter stumbles again – "intensity of feeling when one is touched by another. But speaking for myself, I see no particular virtue in mere intensity of sensation. With what I have, I am more than content. Moreover, I can enjoy the emotional pleasure of knowing that I am indebted to no one, that I am complete in myself. After centuries of being taught that we are incomplete, and must depend upon men, and of being forced to render a show of gratitude for that protection which they themselves make necessary, do you not think that we should demonstrate to ourselves and to the world that we are not beholden to men for our completion, that we are strong – yes, strong, and in no way weak or defective?"
Miller hangs her head, searching within herself to counter this line of reasoning. "Perhaps..." she murmurs uncertainly. "But do you not think that Donne was right, when he said 'No man is an island'?"
"Ha!" Carter tosses her head. "Donne was quite right. 'Tis they who need us, for without us to wait upon them they would have to become complaisant, and cooperative, and as willing to serve others as to be served — and indeed to acquire all manner of so-called feminine virtues."
"Well, there may be something in that; but I do not think Donne was speaking only of men, you know. Have you not heard it said that a sorrow shared is a sorrow divided, or that a pleasure shared is a pleasure multiplied?"
Carter nods. "I suppose so."
"And is it not also true that we are spared much needless pain, and led more quickly to the ideal, when we are able to learn from the experience of others?"
"Yes, Miller, I cannot deny it."
"And you are to be a teacher."
"Yes, in a far-off land."
"O will you not tell me where?"
"No, Miller, I must keep it secret. I so fear that what befell my sister may befall me if I do not seem quite to vanish from the face of the earth."
"Well... I understand... But you will not deny, that it is a pleasure to teach and inform the ignorant."
"Of course not. It is a wonderful thing to see understanding dawn in the mind of another, and know that one has led another soul into greater knowledge."
"Exactly! And the more useful the knowledge, and the greater the pleasure of learning, the greater is the pleasure of the teacher."
"Miller – what are you saying?"
"Only that it is not so very wrong, if someone such as Shipman should help her friends..."
"Oh, that old argument!" Carter's mouth compresses into a thin, tight line.
"Why yes. I was mindful of what you had said the other day. It seemed so unjust. Surely you cannot deny that when someone has the very great kindness to impart such very useful and delightful knowledge, that one cannot reasonably be anything but grateful. Are you not grateful to Miss Paulson for what she told you?"
Carter blushes and nods. "Yes."
"I was thinking about your sister Elsie. I was really sad to hear that about her, Carter. But don't you think — had she lived, and if she had loved you, she would have – you know – told you?"
"What? — About... blissing?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. Perhaps. You're not still arguing about Shipman, are you?"
"Well... only partly..."
"I assure you, you have made your point, Miller, quite sufficiently, I thank you." Carter does not sound grateful.
"There is more to it, Carter. You see – when I am at home, I sleep with my little sister."
Carter looks at Miller. Miller looks a little flushed and anxious. Carter is still feeling an irrational annoyance; but it is clear that Miller is about to confess something. Carter tries to sound sympathetic, but all she can say is, "Well?" It sounds most ungracious, and Carter clears her throat. "What is her name?"
Miller gulps. "Polly." Her voice is a little harsh. She stares straight ahead. Her expression betrays nothing.
"That's a nice name." Carter does her best to be placatory. "Do you love her?"
"Of course I do." Miller's voice is stronger now. "She's a little dear."
"You're lucky. It's lonely, not having a sister."
"It must be."
The woodland floor is carpeted with leaves. Miller kicks them aimlessly as they walk.
"Carter: it was my time just before Christmas."
Carter makes a sympathetic grunt.
"She hasn't begun yet."
"How old is she?"
"Twelve."
"No, of course she wouldn't."
"But I don't think it will be very long now."
"Twelve is quite young."
"She's quite... grown-up for her age, you know, Carter."
"Everybody is different, I suppose." Carter does not wish to say too much, now, because she senses what Miller is trying to say.
"Yes. I... I showed her what was happening. I told her about it."
"I think that's good. At least she won't be so frightened when her time comes."
"Yes." Miller kicks another flurry of leaves. "She touched me. I told you that, did I not?"
"Like you touched me? Yes."
"Not only like that, Carter. I showed her another way."
"Oh." Carter tries to keep the emotion out of her voice.
They walk on, with just the sound of their feet upon the dry leaves, and the swish of their heavy skirts.
"On Friday, I am to show Matron how to use your oscillator machine. Little Parkinson will be there."
"I see." Carter does not know what to say.
Miller glances at her companion. "Carter, can you imagine what it is like, to give someone that feeling for the first time?"
They both come to a halt, panting slightly.
"What is it like?"
"It is so beautiful, Carter. I was able to show her everything. She liked it so much!"
"But... only twelve!"
"Do you think... Do you think I did wrong, Carter? I only wanted her to know. But after that..."
Carter gulps. "She... You..."
"She begged me, Carter."
"I see."
"Was that... very wrong, do you think? I mean... I only wanted to help her."
Carter looks up into the sky. "No," she breathes. "No, I don't think that was wrong."
Miller lets out her breath in a harsh sigh. "Would you like to come with me, on Friday?"
"Would it... would it help if I did?"
"Yes." Miller gives Carter a sidelong glance.
"I... Very well." Carter can scarcely breathe. "What time?"
"In the afternoon recreation."
"I'll meet you?"
"In the study-room at two o'clock?"
"Very well. Miller, I... I simply must be getting back to the cottage. I have some prep to finish."
"Yes." That strange glance again.
"I'll be going, then."
"Yes." Miller turns to watch as Carter hurries off.
The lovers freeze, their idyll interrupted by the sound of Carter's hurried entrance. Hearing Carter mount the stairs and come almost to the door, Georgie thinks to hide; but Carry's gaze holds her immobile: those blue, blue eyes, looking out from that perfect naked body, so beautifully and comfortably displayed to her adoring gaze, pierce her with their fearless dignity.
Both of them listen, quieting their breath. And in the silence, they hear Carter open and close her bedroom door. Soon they hear little impatient grunts of effort. It is clear that Carter is a young woman in a hurry: hardly is she inside than there is a violent flurry of rustling clothes, and then a heavy thud as she casts herself upon her bed.
Carry's eye is clear and untroubled. "She cannot suspect we are here."
Carter's groaning puts it beyond all doubt.
"Indeed she cannot. I wonder what must have befallen her. I know that she is a passionate creature, but this..."
"Georgie, I..."
"Are you passionate too, my love?"
Carry's eyes plead. Silently, she nods.
"Oh... My beautiful one..." Georgie clambers on to the bed and gently kisses her way along Carry's satiny, sweetly parted thighs until she encounters a moist and tumultuous welcome. And if Carter hears the passionate cries from next door, she gives no sign of it.
"Ah, Miller..." Shipman greets her in the study-room. "When is it that you are to show Matron the oscillator?"
"This very afternoon. We are to use it on Parkinson." Miller's eyes glow with quiet enthusiasm.
Shipman is solemn. "I am concerned about what might happen. We must ensure that we win the sympathy of Matron — and the doctor. It is very important to get these things right, don't you know."
"Of course."
"I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me to come with you?"
Miller blushes with the realization that she has strayed into a region of particular delicacy. Shipman's recent mournfulness has been the subject of whispered comment for several days now, and its cause widely understood, if rarely stated outright. "Well... it might have been... but I'm afraid I... You see, I have already asked Carter to come."
"Carter – oh, yes." Shipman closes her eyes a moment in silent anguish.
"I... I only thought that should the machine need to be adjusted, Carter would be the best person..."
"Yes, yes, quite true," says Shipman heavily. "If Carter will be there I shall not be welcome."
"She seems angry with you for some reason, Ship."
Shipman seems surprised. "Angry, you say?"
"Yes." Miller is thoughtful. "At any rate, she is not by any means indifferent to you."
"You think not?" Shipman clutches at the ray of hope with an eagerness that is painful to behold.
Miller adopts an encouraging tone. "Certainly. Perhaps, in time..."
Shipman grins shyly, biting her lip. "I will speak with you of her again, Miller. But just now, my concern is pressing. You see, it may be that Doctor Straker will interest himself. And truly, it would be surprising were he not to."
It is Miller's turn to be ruffled. "I hadn't thought of that."
"It's very important that you speak privately with Parkinson before you start."
"Privately? But how am I to do that?"
"Oh, it should not be too difficult. Explain simply that the patient needs to be set at her ease, and Matron will understand. And what are you going to tell Parkinson before you begin?"
"Well, I shall tell her what to expect, of course."
"Yes, certainly. But what else, Miller?"
"I don't know. Tell me, Ship."
Shipman makes a hissing sound. "Really, Miller, you must anticipate. It is most important that we proceed with the greatest circumspection. What do you think Doctor Straker would say if he were to realize that the treatment was intensely enjoyable?"
"Oh..." Miller looks aghast. "I see what you mean."
Shipman nods emphatically. "If a medical treatment is not at least mildly unpleasant, it will not be taken seriously. You must explain to Parkinson that whatever she happens to feel, she must give the correct impression."
"Yes, of course..." Miller's eyebrows arch picturesquely.
"And what if Doctor Straker should ask about the principles of the treatment? What will you say to him?"
"Well, I should say that a number of us have found by experiment that it relieves those unpleasant feelings..."
Shipman closes her eyes and holds up her hand. "Enough! Do not act the simpleton, I beg you. Consider for a moment: whom are you addressing?"
"Why, Doctor Straker, of course."
"Yes, dear. And he is a doctor, is he not? He has treated patients for – what? – fifteen, twenty years? Do you seriously believe that he will be amenable to that sort of argument? Come, let me make you understand. What do doctors call the knee-cap?"
"I... I don't know. The knee-cap?"
Shipman shakes her head contemptuously.
"Er... knee-bone?"
"Miller, I can tell you know nothing of doctors. Have you never been ill?"
"Well... not very..."
"They call the knee-cap the patella."
"Oh, Latin."
"Yes, Miller, Latin. Try another one, now. What do they call the shoulder, do you think?"
"The... er... scapula?"
"Good! And the throat?"
Miller shakes her head. She does not know the Latin word.
"Larynx. Greek. Now do you see the principle of their discourse?"
"Why... it seems to be to make everything as obscure as possible."
"Exactly! That is why it would be such a disastrous mistake to speak in plain language, or ever to appeal to common sense. Why, our whole enterprise might be undone!"
"O Shipman, I am so glad you warned me!"
"Yes, Miller. So am I. Fortunately, I thought to do a little research. Now let me instruct you, dear..."
"O Shipman! Thank goodness!" Carter has been rushing down the corridor to the study-room – skirts gathered about her knees, quite contrary to the school rules – and now finds herself sliding on the smooth, polished floor. Shipman grabs her by the shoulders to steady her.
"You were looking for me, Lucy?" There is something in her intonation, but Carter is in too much of a hurry.
"Yes! We have only five minutes before we have to be at the infirmary! And Miller has forgotten that blessed word! What was it again?"
Shipman looks at Carter. She is pretty when she is out of breath. The little gold chain of her pince-nez is graceful about her slender neck.
"Why did Miller not come, then?" Shipman's voice is low.
"She said she was tired." Carter's blush betrays the lie. In fact, Miller had said, "If I ask her, she won't come, because whatever I say, she will think you don't want her."
Shipman turns away, bemused. "Tired, you say?"
"Well?" Carter is desperate. "It was Anna something, she said."
Slowly, Shipman drops her hands to her sides. "Anatriptic. Tell Miller to write it down."
Carter does not move. "Ah... Ship?"
"Yes?"
"Miller has gone completely to pieces. She can't remember anything of what you told her. I... I think it would be best if you came, too."
"You want me to come?"
"If you don't mind."
Shipman looks at Carter for a moment, as if considering. And then, suddenly urgent, "Come then: there's not a moment to lose!"
And seconds later, two young ladies make their very precipitate and unladylike dash through the school to the infirmary.
At the door, they meet Miller, who is wringing her hands and almost jumping in excitement. "O thank goodness! Thank goodness!" she exclaims. "Now who will knock?"
Shipman, not at all out of breath, puts her back to the wall beside the infirmary door. "Lucy, you will knock. You're the respectable one. Miller is a poet and I'm... well... I'm..." she glances down with a sly smile.
Recovering her breath, Carter knocks. The door opens almost immediately.
"Why, three of you!" Matron is amused. "I was expecting only Miller."
"Well, I..." Miller seems tongue-tied.
"She brought Carter in case the machine needed adjusting, and me to explain how it works," says Shipman matter-of-factly. "How many machines have you?"
"Two."
"And there is a patient?"
"Yes: Parkinson." Matron makes a grimace.
"Should I go in and see her?" asks Miller.
"She is in room three. I told her to expect you," Matron answers with a nod.
Carter sees the oscillators upon the side-counter. "Which one shall we take?" She tries each one. They rattle noisily on the counter as she does so, making Matron jump in alarm. "This is the slower, I think."
"Come, then, Carter."
When they have departed, Shipman takes up the other oscillator. "Have you observed these machines, matron?"
Matron has indeed been staring at them from time to time, not daring to touch them. She nods.
"Perhaps it would be useful if I were to explain the principles of its application to you while the others assist Parkinson?"
"Thank you."
"Just hold it in your hand while I operate the generator. You will find that it quivers."
"It won't hurt me, will it?"
"Not in the least. It will help if you sit down, Matron, and hold it in your lap. Just so..."
After squealing and nervously dropping it a few times, Matron gradually gathers enough confidence to hold the strangely trembling little box. "It's alive! It's like a little fish!" she cries excitedly.
And Matron, somewhat awed now, soon finds herself receiving an enthusiastic lecture from Shipman on the principles of "anatriptic relaxation", "paradoxical contraction" and "therapeutic paroxysm".
Miller and Carter are walking down the path to Miss Paulson's cottage. Miller is laughing, and even Carter is chuckling.
"Oh that was so funny! The look on Matron's face when Ship was talking to the doctor – I shall never forget it." Miller wrinkles her nose as she laughs.
"I'm sure that Shipman was talking complete nonsense."
"But the doctor seemed to be taking her entirely seriously. Ship always sounds so confident, so very definite!"
"Oh, that's Shipman."
"And when Ship was talking about how relaxing it was, and the release — what did she call it?"
"Parox —"
"Yes, paroxysmal release, the doctor seemed completely mystified." Miller puts her hand up to stifle a rather naughty giggle. "Do you suppose men can have them too, Carter?"
"Ah..." Carter's expression takes on a far-away look. "I rather think, Miller, that men prefer not to believe that ladies can have them."
"Oh." Miller is thoughtful for a moment. "But that's because..." her voice trails away; and after a few moments, she speaks as if changing the subject. "Carter, have you ever put anything inside yourself? You know... where the man is supposed to put his... thing?"
"No, of course not!" Carter says it crossly, with a hot little flush to her cheeks.
"What? Not even a finger? Not even a little way?" Miller giggles incredulously.
"Well..." Carter takes a deep breath. "Maybe just a very little way."
"Carter... I tried it with a candle."
"A candle?"
"I was ever so wet. It went in – well – fairly easily."
"You didn't!"
"I wanted to know what it would feel like."
"And... what was it like?" Until now, they have been staring straight ahead, not daring to look at one another. But now, in her curiosity, Carter turns a shy glance of enquiry toward her companion.
"It felt nice, Carter. I just moved it around a little, and it was... nice. It made me want to..."
"Yes?" Carter is becoming somewhat breathless.
"You know," murmurs Miller, after a strained pause. "Paroxysmal release." She waggles her fingers in a suggestive little circle, one which Elsie recognizes immediately.
"Yes, of course."
"But I didn't do it."
"What? You didn't?"
"No. I thought, 'Perhaps the man's thing is supposed to do it.' So I just kept moving it around. It felt really nice, and I kept wanting to... finish it. I did it for ages and ages, and at last..."
At length, Carter's curiosity leads her to prompt her companion. "Well? What happened?"
"I began to get tired of it."
"Oh."
"So in the end, I... you know..." Miller moves her fingers again.
Carter turns away, her nose in the air. "I don't think I shall trouble with a candle. I can manage perfectly without."
"It was nice, though, Carter."
Carter's expression betrays a mixture of curiosity, longing and tight-lipped disapproval. "It's always nice."
"No, I mean – nicer than usual. When I eventually did it, you know. It's like when someone else does it. It's sort of... stronger, somehow. I think I made rather a noise." Miller giggles behind her hand.
Carter blushes. "I can't help making a noise. Nor can... Oh!" And now it is Carter whose hand flies to her mouth. "I've just thought of something."
They have stopped walking, now, and have turned to face one another.
"What?"
But now it is Carter who is giggling, and Miller who is mystified.
"Miller... I don't know whether I ought to tell you this, but..."
"What? Tell me!"
"No, no, I must not!"
"If you tell me, I'll tell you a secret that you'll want to know."
"No, it would be wrong."
"You'll always be glad I told you, Carter."
"What is it about, then?"
"Ha-ha..." Miller laughs mysteriously.
"Oh very well... But you must promise not to tell a soul."
"Of course I won't."
Carter crosses her hands over her breast. "God's honour?"
Miller copies the gesture. "God's honour."
"Well..." Carter clears her throat and licks her lips. "When Miss Paulson was away, I went into her room. I... I don't know why, but I looked under her pillow."
"You did?" Miller's eyes gleam.
"You'll never guess what I found there."
"I don't know. A... a candle?"
"A ruler."
"A round one?"
"Of course."
"A ruler! Hee hee!"
For a moment, they stand giggling.
"At the time, I had no idea..."
"But... Oh, Carter, that is wonderful! Do you think she does it... often?"
"Oh, I expect so," Carter says airily, "I wouldn't really know. And what of your secret?" She turns, and they resume their walk.
"Ah. Well..." Miller halts again. Carter is close beside her. They both look straight ahead. "Have you ever used spit?"
Carter shakes her head. "Spit? Ugh! What would you use that for?"
"It works even when you're dry. It's nice and slippery. It feels lovely, Carter." After a pause, Miller looks shyly at her companion.
Carter is blushing bright red. She exhales noisily, crossing her arms over her breasts. She begins to walk on, and Miller does likewise.
From Carter's rapid breathing and constant blushing, Miller can sense the direction of Carter's thoughts. "Mind you, the oscillator is very nice too – not better, of course, but just different. And — oh! So quick! Have you ever given it — you know, a proper trial?"
"No," says Carter wistfully. "I have not had the opportunity."
"That's not fair! As soon as you invent something, the prefects and the battledore team take charge, and before you know it, they are having all the fun, while people like us..."
Carter gives a mirthless laugh of agreement.
"Of course, Parkinson is in a very fortunate situation... very fortunate."
"Not that I should wish to suffer from her complaint."
"Certainly not. But — Oh!" Miller's voice becomes dreamy. "She is to have a treatment twice a day from now on. Twice, Carter!"
"That is what Shipman suggested, yes."
"And how her eyes sparkled at the very thought of it!"
"Whose? Shipman's?"
"Well, I dare say... But it was Parkinson I meant."
"Huh! She revised her opinion, then."
Miller laughs. "Such a fuss she made at first! What was it she said?"
"O Miller, Miller! Just thinking about it makes me..." Carter is gasping.
"I had to put my hand over her mouth, did I not, when she squealed?"
"Miller, please!"
Recalling Parkinson's excitement is enough to bring a delicious tingling warmth to Miller's most sensitive parts. But to see Carter so hopelessly excited makes Miller suddenly wet, and she becomes a little forward. Laughing throatily, she goads Carter further. "Something like, 'It's tickling my whatsit!' — Do you remember?"
"Stop it, Miller, stop it!"
"And then, when she came for the first time," Miller laughs again, "I believe she said something like 'Woo-ooo-ah!'"
"Ah... ah..." Carter halts in her stride, apparently in the grip of some very powerful emotion.
"Did I make all that fuss when you and Shipman tried it on me?"
Carter manages to regain control of herself. She turns her eye on Miller. Her stare is piercing. "You made at least as much fuss, Miller."
Miller blushes slightly and, after a moment, laughs. "Wouldn't it be lovely to have one of one's very own, Carter? If I had one, I know what I would want to do. This very moment."
"Yes." Carter almost gasps her reply. She is rocking her hips, clenching and unclenching her fingers. She is quite artless, quite incapable of concealing her arousal.
Miller fancies she can almost smell it. "Carter... I think I need to... I feel what I think you feel."
"What are you saying?" Carter is jigging uncomfortably on her toes. Her ankles are perfect.
"O Carter, Carter... I begin to see why she wants you so much."
Carter pales now. "What do you mean?"
Emboldened by her arousal, Miller speaks as plain as she knows how. "Not 'what', Carter, but 'who'. And I think you know perfectly well."
They stare at one another, each wondering what the other is thinking. They stand thus for a long moment, until they are distracted by the sound of laughter, and approaching voices.
"Speaking of whom," murmurs Miller; and yes, appearing round a bend in the path, as it skirts a clump of rhododendron bushes, Clark, Penrose and Shipman come into view.
"Ah, Miller!" cries Clark.
Carter makes to turn away, but Miller takes her hand. "Come," she says. "They will wish to talk with us."
"How is Parkinson?" cries Shipman, when they are closer. "Did you manage to overcome her fears?"
Miller giggles. "Yes, I think so."
Clark and Penrose chuckle in delight.
"Did she..." Shipman is about to ask "Did she come?" but she flashes a glance at Carter, who is avoiding her eye, and becomes embarrassed. "Did she appear to benefit from the treatment?"
"Oh yes!" Miller nods emphatically.
"Twice, even?"
Miller giggles and holds up four fingers.
"Four!" cries Penrose in triumph. "Almost as keen as you, Miller!"
Miller giggles and all, save Carter, laugh in good-natured ribaldry.
"But you must hear what Ship said to Matron," cries Clark gleefully. "Tell her, Ship!"
"Well..." Shipman seems suddenly modest. She glances anxiously at Carter, who seems to be ignoring everyone.
"No, tell her," Clark insists. "It's perfectly brilliant, Miller."
"Well..." Shipman repeats, seeming to gather courage. "I told her that she should be sure to test the oscillator each time before giving Parkinson the treatment, in case it had gone out of adjustment."
"Did Matron try it?" asks Miller intently.
"Of course."
"And... she liked it?"
"She seemed to," admits Shipman with a smile so villainous that even Carter's lips twitch. "I am sure she will be most punctilious."
"But that is not the best part, Miller. Truly, Ship was brilliant, absolutely brilliant."
Carter looks from Clark to Penrose. Both have their eyes fixed adoringly on Shipman, as if she is about to perform some miracle before their eyes. She glances sideways at Miller, who – to her chagrin – seems much the same. "They're like sheep," Carter thinks crossly. "They will applaud whatever she says. They will do whatever she tells them."
Shipman speaks. "It will be tea-time soon. Don't you think we should turn and make our way back now?"
"Yes," agrees Clark at once.
"Good idea," adds Penrose.
Carter purses her lips.
"If you..." Shipman looks at Carter, suddenly hesitant. "If you'd like to come?"
"Oh do come!" pleads Miller, tugging at her sleeve. "Come with us!"
Carter gives a little nod, and so the group follows Shipman's suggestion. Shipman leads, with Miller beside her and Carter close behind. Penrose and Clark take up the rear. They hold hands.
"Yes, I have thought of a way of disseminating the benefits of the oscillator more widely," says Shipman, raising her hand in an expansive gesture. "You see, I explained to Matron that the oscillators would need adjustment from time to time, and that therefore we would arrange to bring her a new pair every now and then, and take the old pair away for adjustment."
"Is that true, Carter?" Miller asks. "Would they need adjustment from time to time?"
"Oh – probably," comes the murmured reply.
"Of course," resumes Shipman, "while the oscillators are being adjusted, they are in fact available for others to discover their benefits."
"What – you mean that we take them and... But where would we keep them?"
"Oh, I know of one or two quite good hiding-places."
"But that would be marvellous! We could have a sort of secret society, and meet during recreation, and —"
"Yes," Shipman cuts Miller short. "Something of the sort had occurred to me."
"Perhaps we could keep one in Carter's room," suggests Miller.
"That would certainly be prudent," nods Shipman. "After all, she's the principal inventor."
"Oh? I thought that was you, Ship," protests Penrose.
"I helped, certainly," concedes Shipman, "but the real brains behind the oscillator are Lu — are Carter's."
"Oh," says Penrose, her tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.
Miller takes Carter's hand and squeezes it. Carter feels a strange warmth, almost an elation, as she realizes that part of the flow of adulation has just been diverted from Shipman's channel to hers.
"Our next step," proclaims Shipman, "will be to convince Miss Paulson that more equipment will be needed in order to make up for those generators and oscillators that wear out."
Carter turns her head in surprise. "Wear out?"
"Of course," says Shipman, her eyes staring straight ahead, "they won't really have worn out — yet. Although I expect they shall."
Clark laughs in conspiratorial glee. "'Tis we who shall wear them out — is that not so, Ship?"
"Precisely. Or maybe vice versa. And of course, it would only be right for Carter to have one of her own to keep."
Miller cannot contain her delight. "Oh, Carter, wasn't that just what we were saying? How lovely!"
Carter, flushed scarlet, finds it necessary to resist a transitory impulse to force her handkerchief into Miller's mouth.
Shipman, amused at Carter's embarrassment, stifles a laugh. But then, seeing how pretty she is when she blushes, she turns away and grits her teeth in silent pain.
"Hello, Ship," Clark greets her friend in the study-room a few days later. "You look worried. What's the matter?"
Shipman looks up from her desk, where she has been sitting, staring moodily into space, her chin in her hands. "I have just done something rash, I'm sorry to say."
"Something rash? That's not like you, Ship. What have you done?"
"I sent her a note."
"What – her?" Clark's tone makes it clear that she has at once inferred who the recipient must be.
Shipman nods gloomily.
"Well — that's good! That's what I've been telling you to do for weeks and weeks."
Shipman shakes her head. "I'm afraid she will think even worse of me now."