When Carter goes to her pigeon-hole, she is surprised to find a tiny envelope, not much larger than a visiting-card. It is plain, but for her name: Miss Lucy Carter, underlined with a flourish. Carefully, she detaches the tiny red seal. Inside is a piece of thin paper, folded in four. She unfolds it, and is surprised to see just eight lines of writing, written so very small that she will have to wear her pince-nez to read them. "That's odd," she thinks. "It seems that whoever sent it did not wish to reveal her name."
She goes to the dayroom window and stands holding the letter in her left hand, supporting her glasses with her right. And whatever it is that is written there, it seems to alarm her. People are passing to and fro, and nobody appears to notice her little cry, or how she wheels round to see if anyone has been watching her. Reassured to find that she is unobserved, she turns away, carefully folds the paper, tucks it back into its envelope and slips it, since it is conveniently small, into her bosom, where she can feel it nestling against her left breast.
She is distracted during the morning's lessons, and it is not until the afternoon that she is able, in the privacy of her room, to hold the strange little letter again in her trembling hand, and read more carefully its cryptic message.
Without your smile My heart will sink, And death beguile My lonely fears; My only tide Without your love An ocean wide Of heartbreak tears.
At that moment, Miss Paulson enters the cottage. Over recent weeks, Carter has become increasingly distant and incommunicative, often spending the entire recreation period in her room; and Miss Paulson suspects, from the noises that occasionally emerge, that Carter is devoting much of her time to the appeasement of certain intimate longings. For that reason, feeling that it is her duty to warn Carter of her arrival, she has taken to making as much noise and commotion as she can without making it too obvious that she is doing so on purpose.
But on this occasion, much to Miss Paulson's surprise, Carter emerges from her room and descends the stairs, apparently wishing to talk.
"Miss Paulson, I wonder if I might ask you a question," she says hesitantly.
"Why, of course, Lucy. I'll make us a cup of tea. Come into the kitchen and talk to me."
For a moment Carter watches Miss Paulson's preparations in silence; but then, hesitantly: "At the end of last term, you were kind enough to speak to me of certain... longings that a woman has in her physical nature, and how one may assuage them by certain delicate manipulations."
"That is so. It is as if the body has certain natural appetites, which if they are not checked, may inflame the passions and lead to intemperate or foolish behaviour. By the simple process of assuaging these appetites in privacy and quiet, we render ourselves more temperate, and better able to guide our lives by the light of reason."
"And would it be true to say, Miss Paulson, that in making a practice of assuaging these bodily appetites, we reinforce in our own minds the notion that we do not depend upon others for their satisfaction?"
"Why, yes, that would proceed naturally, I am sure, from the principle of the association of ideas."
"I had thought so. And now, Miss Paulson, I had always heard it said, and thought it true, that if entertaining thoughts of a certain person was apt to provoke those physical longings of which we speak, then those thoughts were in origin base and physical."
"That may be true. — There! I think it is ready to pour."
Carter takes the milk-jug from under its cloth and adds the milk.
"Come, Lucy, let us sit down," says Miss Paulson, leading Lucy out into the front room once more.
When they are settled, and have taken a sip of the hot, reviving beverage, Lucy frowns and cocks her head to one side. "But if those... thoughts of another person were born of base desire —"
"On the animal level, so to speak —"
"Yes, on the animal level — then would it not follow that the satisfaction of the physical desire would tend to deprive those thoughts of their inflammatory power?"
"Well —"
But Lucy interrupts. "Just as, for example, the thought of a chocolate cake might be very pleasant, and arouse an intense desire to eat, in the mind of one who is hungry; whereas, after a good meal, the idea of the same chocolate cake will be merely indifferent, or even acquire unpleasant connotations of being over-full."
Miss Paulson nods. "Your reasoning is very sound, Lucy."
Carter bites her knuckle.
"Don't forget your tea, dear," says Miss Paulson soothingly.
Carter raises her cup half way, then puts it down again. "But if, over a period of days or weeks, one were most diligently to extinguish all spark of physical longing as soon as it arose, and so trample, as it were, upon the fire of physical passion – if, as I say, one did that, would it not follow that an attraction born of animal instinct would likewise be extinguished?"
"It would seem so." Miss Paulson stares at Lucy as if a spectre has arisen between them.
"But if, nevertheless, despite satisfying the physical desire again and again, to the point of bodily exhaustion, still the thought of that... person were to recur and recur, and when it does, reawaken the longing, and if possible still more acutely, so that the longing becomes a torment, one that seems to occupy every waking hour and even to haunt one's dreams —" Lucy has become increasingly agitated, until Miss Paulson finds it necessary to interrupt.
"Then, my dear Lucy," she says, placing her empty cup upon the occasional-table, "it seems to follow that the attraction to that person may not be born of base physical desire, but rather be the cause of it."
"But then, whence does the attraction arise, if not from our physical nature?"
"If it is not from base desire, then does it not follow that it must derive instead from some higher faculty?"
"A higher faculty?"
"Lucy: do you know what day it is?"
"No, Miss Paulson. What day is it?"
"It is the fourteenth day of February."
"Is that a special day?"
"Look, Lucy. I will show you something." Miss Paulson goes to the table and returns with a small pile of folded letters, which she hands to Lucy.
Lucy turns them over in wonderment. Each bears a heart or a bluebird or other tender motif, each lovingly executed by a different hand. And, unfolded, each contains a little verse or motto professing undying love or admiration. Eventually, she looks up enquiringly at Miss Paulson.
"It is Valentine's day, Lucy. Most teachers get a few Valentines from their pupils — especially the younger teachers. I'm told that one may reasonably expect to receive half a dozen. I seem to have fared better than most." Miss Paulson's tone is one of tolerant amusement, but Lucy does not return her smile. Instead, she jumps up, shedding the pile of little notes topsy-turvy on to the floor, and stands trembling, her hands curled at her mouth, her eyes glazed with sudden tears. Miss Paulson takes her into her arms, feels her quivering, and then the sudden softening as she dissolves into passionate sobbing. Staring over Lucy's shoulder, she sees the disarray of little folded notes upon the floor. One, upside-down, depicts two bleeding hearts transfixed by an arrow. "Poor child," whispers Miss Paulson, stroking Lucy's hair, "my poor, poor child..."
"Good evening, ladies," Miss Paulson greets the members of the Scientific Society. She looks about her, delighted to see such intelligence and enthusiasm sparkling at her from so many pairs of young eyes. "Miss Carter, I am afraid we shall be keeping you busy this evening. We have here the two machines from the infirmary. One is not working very well, and the other has stopped working altogether. You must see if you can readjust them, or whether any improvements should be made to the design."
Carter acknowledges the request with a meek curtsey, and turns to the table where the faulty machines have been placed.
"Would you like an assistant?" prompts Miss Paulson.
"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss." Carter whispers it, with downcast eyes.
"Would you like Shipman as usual, or someone else?"
Carter closes her eyes and nods. "Shipman would be best."
"Very well. Shipman, will you help Carter, please?"
Shipman, too, is uncharacteristically meek. "Very good, miss," she says with a curtsey. She sits beside Carter, who is opening the lid of one of the oscillators with a sigh.
"Everything is loose," says Carter. "Just look at it! Everything! No wonder it won't work."
"I'm sorry, Carter," mutters Shipman.
"What did you say?" Carter stiffens.
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sent it."
"Oh." Carter sounds a little hurt; but then, after a pause, "Could we talk about it afterwards?"
"Afterwards?"
"Yes. I think we should talk about it." Carter's voice is a little higher than normal.
Shipman is afraid that Carter is very angry. Her stomach becomes heavy with fear. "Very well. Afterwards."
"Now what do you suppose has happened to this?" Carter jabs at the oscillator box with her finger.
"Why, Matron has worn it out, of course." Despite her anxiety, Shipman cannot repress a lubricious chuckle.
"Matron?" Carter's voice is cool. "Not Parkinson, you think?"
"Why, no. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard? What?"
Shipman steals a glance over her shoulder to ensure that they are not being overheard. But at present, Clark is experiencing the benefits of one of the oscillators, and the others are entirely focused upon her virtuoso performance. "Miller says that Matron has been using the oscillator all the time. All the time, Carter!"
"Perhaps she is nobly testing it, to ensure that she will learn of any ill effects before they might affect one of her patients." Carter's lips twitch.
"No doubt." Shipman grins and begins to relax. "Now what of this one? Should we mend it, do you think?"
"What if we didn't?"
"It might disappear."
"And where might it disappear to?"
"I'm sure you can think of somewhere."
"Maybe I can." Carter cocks her head from side to side, as if considering.
"We could say that we need to take it to Mr Jepson – to improve the design."
"Yes." Carter's eyes begin to gleam behind her pince-nez.
"But you could mend it easily, as soon as you got it back to your room."
"I could," says Carter, but with a peculiar emphasis that suggests that she has other thoughts.
"And then... only you and I would know —"
"Ship," Carter interrupts her, "could we talk about this later? Afterwards?"
Shipman looks quizzically at her. "Very well." Carter still seems rather stiff. Her manner is not unfriendly, but Shipman cannot dismiss the possibility that Carter is boiling with anger, and her politeness the fruit of restraint.
"Let's have a look at this one," says Lucy, opening the box containing the other oscillator. "Hmmm... do we have a screwdriver anywhere?"
Anxiously, Shipman waits in the stair-well. She clasps and unclasps her hands in nervous agitation. What does Lucy wish to say to her? From her dark corner, she watches the other members of the Scientific Society file down the corridor past her, discussing the evening's events as they go.
Eventually, it is quiet; but Lucy has not yet emerged. Shipman hunches her shoulders up and down, trying to relax. She takes deep breaths. In her mind, she rehearses the apologies that she hopes will prevent Lucy from utterly despising her – if, that is, she will even listen to them.
At the click of the classroom door, Shipman's heart jumps. Despite her deep breathing, her heart is hammering in her breast. She hears Lucy and Miss Paulson speaking in an undertone. As they pass the stair-well, Lucy speaks a little louder:
"Oh! I forgot the oscillator. I'll just go back and fetch it. I will be home in five minutes."
"Of course," comes Miss Paulson's response. Shipman hears her footsteps disappearing down the corridor, and sees Lucy flit back towards the classroom. Cautiously, Shipman begins to emerge from the shadows. But then, Lucy is standing before her.
"Hello, Ship."
"Carter, I..."
"Don't call me 'Carter.'" Lucy's voice is incisive, dangerously quiet.
"Lucy, I..."
"Ship!" Lucy raises her hand. "Say nothing. Not one word, I pray you."
Puzzled, Shipman watches as Lucy approaches her, closer and closer. She begins to feel a little afraid; she braces herself, half expecting Lucy to strike her.
A little closer than arm's length, Lucy pauses. "Why," she thinks, "Shipman's just a girl like me. Just another girl." One step further forward, and with a little sigh, Lucy plants a kiss upon Shipman's mouth. Then she draws back. Shipman is motionless, apparently thunderstruck. In the gloom, her eyes are dark, beautiful. Her lips were soft. Her mouth... Lucy reaches out, takes Shipman by the waist, draws her close. She is warm, alive. Lucy turns her head and kisses again, harder, urgently, passionately. And now Shipman responds, and their bodies are warm together, bending together, alive together. And as their lips part, Lucy feels Shipman's tongue with her own. It is more thrilling than the electricity – more thrilling than anything – and Lucy kisses once more, until the tension in her loins makes her want to scream. She draws away, panting. Far away, the bell rings for the evening assembly. "I must go," she whispers.
"But Lucy... What about the oscillator?"
Lucy gathers up her skirts. "You bring it," she says, and rushes away.
For a time, Shipman does not move. She stands, looking at the place where Lucy had appeared, remembering how she looked; the hair drawn back into its tight bun; the fine golden chain about that lovely, graceful neck; the slim, pale fingers, reaching; the breast, warm, resilient, pressed so ardently to her own. Eventually, she steps out of the shadows into the corridor, then turns and looks back. "It was there," she thinks, looking upward. "Under those winding stairs. That is where it happened."
"Good afternoon, Shipman," says Miss Paulson, surprised to find her at the door. "Was it me you wanted, or — ?"
"Please, miss, I have something here for Miss Carter, and I wished to ask if she would like to come a-walking with me."
Miss Paulson shakes her head sadly. "I will go and ask. Shall I take it up to her?"
Shipman nods dumbly and passes the bag to Miss Paulson, who disappears inside.
A few moments later, Lucy is at the door, pale and unsmiling, her shawl about her shoulders. "Come, Ship. Let us go somewhere quiet where we can talk."
"Not the rose-garden, then."
"Too busy."
"The woods?"
"Yes." Carter lifts her skirts a little. "See: I have my boots on already." They both laugh.
For a little while, they walk side by side in silence. Occasionally, Shipman steals a glance at Lucy. And when she is sure that it is safe to do so, she takes Lucy's hand, draws her closer.
"Lucy..."
"Yes?"
"Just having you beside me, I... I'm so happy, I think I shall die."
Lucy tugs gently at Shipman's hand. They stop and turn to face one another.
"Ship, I know, but before you say any more, I... You've heard, haven't you, that Miss Paulson is to leave at the end of this term?"
Shipman is aghast. "No! But Lucy, that is terrible! Why?"
"An influential parent has said that she is corrupting his daughter. It's a question of money. Mrs Cunningham had no choice."
"Oh Lord!"
"This is secret, Ship. Really secret."
Shipman nods. "Of course, Lucy."
"But that is not the only reason."
"Why, what else?"
"You know about Carry..."
"Oh, Carry is madly in love with her, of course..."
"Ship, they are lovers. Real lovers."
"What... you mean — ?"
"Yes, Ship. They get naked together. They do the things lovers do. And if word gets out, there will be a scandal. They are going away together, Ship — away from here; away from England."
Shipman is astonished. "I had no idea."
Lucy turns away. "So am I, Ship. I'm going away too."
For a moment, Shipman is silent. "What?" she asks in a small voice.
"I'm leaving England, and I'm never coming back. Never."
Roughly, Shipman pulls Lucy round to face her. There is a tear on Lucy's cheek.
"But that's not possible. That's just not possible."
"I'm sorry, Ship. I must go. I really must go."
"But Lucy, you cannot go! What shall I do? Lucy, I..." Shipman shakes her head, blinks away the tears, waves her hand. "Look around you! Look at the trees! Do you not see the buds appearing? Do you think that I could endure to see the green leaves without you beside me?" She cannot suppress a sob. "Don't you understand?"
Lucy's face is wet with tears. "It will be hard for me, too, Ship – terribly hard. But I have a job. A teaching job. It's money, you see, Ship. I have found a proper job with proper money. I shall be able to have my own house, my own clothes. And I shall be able to live how I please. It's my only chance. It's all I've ever hoped for. Don't you see? I must do it."
Shipman looks down solemnly. Shuddering, Lucy struggles to suppress further tears, steels herself to endure her despair. Shipman is breathing deeply, her eyes closed, her fists clenched as if summoning strength. But when she looks up at Lucy once more, her eye is clear, brilliant. She beckons. "Come, Lucy. Just a short way."
"Why? Where?"
"Just over here. Come." Shipman leads her to a great beech tree, no great distance off. "Turn," she says, pressing Lucy's back to the smooth trunk. "Lucy, I love you."
And then Lucy finds herself showered with passionate kisses, a most gentle, loving hand upon her breast. "Oh no, oh no," she protests after a while, "Ship, you're making me want you. I don't... O Lord! I don't want..."
"You shall be a teacher, Lucy," murmurs Shipman between kisses, "and you shall have your job. I shall come too. I shall be with you. I shall help you."
"O Ship, Ship!" Lucy cannot help laughing through her tears. "Stop those naughty hands!" She slaps them away. Then, becoming more serious, she turns aside. "Why should you leave everything? Here, I have nothing. When we are gone, there will be no one in England who cares for me — save you. But you: you have your family. You are surrounded by those who love you. You cannot give all this up, just for me. If you came away, you would soon be miserable. I know it."
Shipman embraces Lucy from behind. "Lucy, you don't understand. I love you. You are all I want. And now I've got you, I shall never let you go. Let me show you, Lucy."
Feeling Shipman's hand teasing her breast, Lucy begins to struggle. "No Ship! No! Aha!"
"Let me show you, dear Lucy, how much I love you."
"Ship..." Lucy breaks away, and turns to face her. "Ship, if I were to let you, and you ever, ever left me, you know you would break my heart."
"Dear, I will never leave you. Never!" Shipman is all eagerness; but slowly, sadly, Lucy shakes her head.
"O Ship! Dear Ship! I don't believe you know what you are saying."
"And I don't believe you know how much I love you, Lucy. Let me show you."
"Not now! Not here! No!" Laughing, Lucy jumps away from Shipman's marauding fingers.
"When? Where?" Shipman chases her, catching her by the shoulders.
"O Ship, stop it! Haha! Stop it, you crazy thing!" Shipman's lips are on her neck, nibbling at her ears – and Lucy's desire is beginning to overwhelm her judgment.
"Let me, darling Lucy! Just tell me when I may show you..."
"No... Stop it... No!" Lucy squeals the last word, and again jumps away, laughing. But then she is solemn once more. "I am afraid, Ship. I'm afraid you'll drop me, or toy with me, just as you toy with all the other girls."
Shipman presents a picture of outraged innocence. "The other girls? Why Lucy, you make it sound as if there were hundreds. I've only toyed with... well..."
"O Ship, be serious! – I need to think." Lucy shakes her head slowly, as if to clear it. "I need more time, Ship. And so, I think, do you."
"Very well. I shall consider. But really, Lucy, you are scarcely fair to me."
"Why? How so?"
"I do not even know where you are going. To Paris? Rome? Timbuctoo? I have no idea. You have told me nothing."
"Why, then I shall tell you." Lucy takes both Shipman's hands in hers. "But it is to be a secret, Ship. I do not want my parents ever to find out."
"Very well. But you can tell me, surely?"
"I am going to Russia, Ship. To Saint Petersburg. I shall be teaching mechanics and mathematics. And I am to receive two hundred roubles – in silver."
"In silver?" Shipman's eyes are wide in astonishment. "That sounds as if it might be a very great deal of money. Why – two hundred a year!"
"Oh no, Ship. Two hundred per month."
Shipman's mouth falls open in amazement. "Per month?"
Lucy looks away, afraid to see the beauty in Shipman's startled eyes. "It is a professor's salary, Ship. I'm going to be a professor."
Shipman beams at her. "Lucy... You are not only clever and rich: you are also beautiful, and I want to kiss you."
"No!" Lucy begins to run, but Shipman is upon her in an instant.
It is perhaps an hour later that Miss Paulson looks up from her work at the sound of voices, raised in altercation. At first it is difficult to catch the words, but terms such as "governor" and "escapement" seem to feature large in the debate. It is with a half-smile that Miss Paulson hears the scuffle on the doorstep, and sees the door judder open.
"No of course not, you idiot — Oh. Hello, Miss Paulson."
"Hello, Lucy." Lucy turns away. "Till later, then, Miss Shipman."
"Thank you for your company, Miss Carter."
Lucy closes the door, and stands leaning against it, as if to hold it closed. She is panting slightly.
"Well! It is nice to see you with some colour in your cheeks, Lucy. Whatever have you been doing?"
"Oh," Lucy blushes and studies the toe of her boot. "We were just discussing the means of regulating clockwork."
"Clockwork?"
"Yes."
"Is that... quite all you have been doing, Lucy?"
Lucy blushes and waggles her toe. Miss Paulson fancies that she can just see the outline of a nipple pointing the blue cloth at Lucy's breast. "No," she admits huskily.
"Look at yourself in the glass, child."
"I... I don't like to."
Miss Paulson uses her classroom voice. "Lucy, do as I say."
Obediently, Lucy goes to the mantel and tilts the looking-glass in its stand. "Is that really me?"
Miss Paulson rises and stands behind her. "Yes, child."
Lucy makes an ugly grimace at herself. Then she smiles, turning a little to left and right. "Oh!" she says, and blushes.
"You see?"
Lucy turns to her, her palms pressed to her flaming cheeks. "Miss Paulson?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I do not know if I may allow myself to hope." She shakes her head. "I think I dare not. But there might... possibly... be one more coming with us to Russia."
Miss Paulson's face is a picture of delighted shock. Holding out her arms, "O Lucy, I am so overjoyed, truly, so overjoyed..." she cries, and soon finds herself enfolding a weeping Lucy in her arms yet again. But this time, the tears are tears of joy.
"Look! See what I have written!" Shipman greets Lucy Carter in the study-room.
"What is it? – Oh! 'Tis in French!"
"You must address it and send it to your uncle. I have written of Miss Paulson's work with electricity, do you see?"
"Yes, but why?"
"Dear, of course Miss Paulson may find a situation as a teacher of English. Why, so might I. But just think of what great interest her expertise with electricity might be to a foreign power. Who knows what advantages might spring from it? Here in England, or in France, there might be a hundred or more with Miss Paulson's knowledge; but not there, surely."
"I suppose you are right."
"Would not their academies vie with one another to attract a scientist of her experience? This is what I have written, and this you must send at once."
"Then... Miss Paulson might be a professor, too?"
"Of course!"
"Why did I not think of it?"
Shipman straightens up and looks fondly on her friend. "Lucy... Your imagination works in certain very special spheres. I, on the other hand, am an all-round genius."
Lucy laughs. "Ship, I must go. Miss Paulson wishes me to pay a visit to Mr Jepson."
"Oh?"
"It seems that very many of the oscillators are not working properly, and in consequence, have, ah..."
"Mysteriously disappeared?"
Lucy nods. "So Miss Paulson intimates. We are to see if Mr Jepson can make one or two more, with certain improvements."
"And what of... what of your other idea? I mean the clockwork generator?"
"Ah yes! I should have forgotten the drawings! Look here!" Lucy hurries to her desk, and withdraws a sheaf of papers on which numerous diagrams have been painstakingly executed. "Don't you see, Ship? The faster it turns, the greater the current in the rotor. But if we time it correctly, then as the current grows, the magnetic field will repel against these magnets, here and here."
"But that will slow the movement of the rotor."
"It will. And thus it will regulate the speed, do you not see? And it will be without friction, and so entirely silent, and without heat!"
"Why, Lucy, that is most ingenious. But what will you do with it?"
"Aha!" Lucy's eyes are shining, and she clasps the sheaf of papers to her breast. "I wish to see, first, if my suspicions are correct."
"What suspicions?"
"Ship, I really must go."
"Lucy..."
"Mm?"
"May I come too, do you think?"
"I do not see why Miss Paulson would object."
Shipman looks into Lucy's eyes. "And what of you, Lucy? Would you object?"
"Will you be good, Ship?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Do you promise not to keep touching me, and making me want you?"
Shipman feigns indignation. "I? Would I ever do such a thing?"
Lucy looks at the clock. "Heavens! She will be waiting. We must hurry!"
Miss Paulson can scarcely conceal her amusement as she accedes to Carter's blushing request, and moments later, the trap makes its way out of the school yard with two very prim, but bright-eyed, young ladies upon the seat. It is a pleasant day, almost warm: spring is not far off, and the trees are loud with birds. Once she is out upon the road, Miss Paulson turns briefly to look at her two passengers, who are deep in conversation about generators. Both have their hands upon the seat, their fingers almost touching. Miss Paulson smiles as she drives. When Lucy returns from her afternoon walks with Shipman – every afternoon these past few days – her hair often seems somewhat dishevelled, and though the pair seem to talk of nothing but mechanical and electrical design, she suspects that in the woods, a certain amount of kissing may be going on. This suspicion seems well-founded, for Lucy's nightly exercises have lately become remarkably vigorous and protracted. "Ah!" thinks Miss Paulson to herself, "the sweet exuberance of youth!" And with a self-indulgent sigh, she gives herself up to thoughts of Carry.
It is perhaps fortunate that, as they approach the town, Miss Paulson notices that the conversation behind her has dwindled into silence. "Ahem!" she coughs unnecessarily loud, "I see we are approaching the town at last." She turns just in time to see Shipman and Carter spring apart. Shipman is ramrod-straight, all innocence. But Lucy is blushing, flustered and quite obviously a young lady who has been kissed.
At the clockmaker's, as Miss Paulson explains what is needed, Mr Jepson has an almost disobliging air. He says "Well, hum..." and "Maybe," until Miss Paulson is forced to ask, "Are you able to undertake this work for us, Mr Jepson? Or are you trying to tell me something?"
"Well, miss, as a matter of fact... You see, I have been approached."
"Approached?"
"By a company, miss. They want me to do some work for them – something to do with a manufactory. It's a lot of money, miss. It seems I'm a made man. But... they said as I would not be doing more work for the school, miss – not directly. That was what they said. Not directly."
"But this is terrible! What are we to do?"
"They said the work would have to be done by the company from now on."
Miss Paulson turns away. "I see. Then you must tell me how I am to proceed."
"Just a moment, Miss Paulson," Shipman interrupts. "Mr Jepson, would there be any obstacle to your undertaking other private work?"
"Well... I'm not sure."
Carter opens her bag. "If I were able to pay directly, in advance, this very moment?"
"Very well... Put like that, miss... I suppose, if we were to keep it confidential..."
Carter looks up. "If you won't tell anyone, Mr Jepson, we shall not."
He nods. "Very well."
"I have a new design. Kindly take a look at it."
Mr Jepson takes the sheaf of papers with their neat diagrams and lays them out upon the counter. "I see. And... that goes there. I see. And this would be — ?"
"You will see that I have written the gauges here," replies Carter, pointing with a finger. "You must remember that this should run for at least ten minutes between windings."
"Interesting. Interesting. Yes, I believe I could do this for you," says Mr Jepson, looking up.
"How much?" asks Shipman.
"Five pounds," comes the response.
"Five pounds?" Shipman looks at him imploringly, working her eyelashes in such a way that the stoniest of hearts would surely melt.
"Well... maybe four pounds ten," Mr Jepson growls, looking away.
"O thank you! Thank you!" Shipman jumps and claps her hands. "Do you have that much, Lucy?"
"I have it... here," and she puts down four bright sovereigns upon the counter, and four silver half-crowns.
"Now perhaps you could write down for me the address of this company with which it seems we must do business," Miss Paulson reminds him; and when this is done, she reads it again and again, seemingly at a loss for words. And even as they leave the shop, and return to their trap, she looks at it continually, as if in disbelief.
"What does it say, miss?" asks Shipman, goaded by curiosity.
"The Walmsley Manufacturing Company, of Clerkenwell."
"Did you say 'Walmsley,' miss?"
"Yes, Shipman."
"Why, what skullduggery is this?"
"I should like to know myself. I wonder if Carry knows anything about it."
"It would be interesting to find out, miss."
Little more is said on the return journey, until Miss Paulson finds herself obliged to cough, and to make the quite unnecessary comment, "We appear to be approaching the school now – Shipman." She is gratified to see that this time, even Shipman is blushing.
When, next afternoon, Shipman pays her customary visit to Miss Paulson's cottage, Miss Paulson greets her with every appearance of uncontainable anger.
"Why, Miss Paulson – what is the matter?" Shipman pales, remembering that her feelings had perhaps carried her a little too far the previous afternoon. "Oh – is it about — ?"
Miss Paulson's expression is grim. "You'd better come in, Shipman."
Miss Paulson seats herself at the table, and takes up the letter again. Shipman stands, waiting respectfully. When Miss Paulson does not speak, Shipman feels obliged to.
"Is Miss Carter — ?" she falters.
Miss Paulson looks up at her, and removes her pince-nez. She sighs. "I am sorry, Shipman. I am somewhat distracted at the moment. Miss Carter is in her room, and she is almost as angry as I am, though I suspect for a different reason."
"Why? What is it?" Shipman has been expecting to receive a reproach, but none seems forthcoming.
"She has found a mistake in her design, Shipman. Something that means that the machine Mr Jepson is making will be quite useless. Unfortunately, we cannot have the trap this afternoon, and so it will not be until tomorrow that we can attempt to put things right. We will call her down in a moment. There is a matter that I suppose I must discuss with you both. However, I wanted to speak to you alone."
"Yes, miss."
Miss Paulson's voice sinks to an undertone. "I... have become aware, Shipman, of a certain... tenderness between you and Miss Carter."
"Yes, miss."
"I suppose I may as well call her Lucy, may I not?"
Shipman nods.
"Shipman... I care about Lucy. I cannot bear to see her trifled with."
Shipman nods once more.
"You know, I believe, that she is to leave England at the end of term?"
"Yes, miss. She told me so."
"This emotional attachment is making things very difficult for her."
Shipman's eyes are downcast. "And also for me, miss."
"I wonder if you know how much you seem to mean to her. What do you intend to do?"
Shipman looks up, suddenly determined. "I have a letter already written, miss. I have not sent it yet. It is not very easy..." – she swallows painfully – "to say goodbye to those you love. My little brothers... mamma... papa..." she begins to weep. "I have told them that I shall be devoting my life to good works among the poor." She smiles through her tears. "I know that it will console them to believe that."
Despite herself, Miss Paulson cannot suppress her laugh. "Shipman, Shipman..." She shakes her head.
"I cannot bear to lose her, Miss Paulson. My mind is quite made up. When you sail for Russia, I will be on board."
"Have you told her this?"
"Yes, of course. But I do not think she believes me."
Miss Paulson looks anxiously toward the door. "Walmsley will be here in a moment. And when she comes, there is another matter which we must discuss. But first: Lucy is a very brave young woman." Shipman nods. "You will have to be very brave too, Ship."
"I know."
"I confess that I myself am frightened. I do not know what the future holds for me — for all of us. There are some in this world who do not approve of women like me." She looks into Shipman's eyes. Shipman does not look away. "— Of women like us, Ship. I shall be going with Walmsley — with Carry. There may be scandal, which is why we, like Lucy, are resolved to leave in secrecy. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Miss Paulson."
"No, Ship – I'm Georgie, now. And Walmsley is Carry. We are all saying goodbye to our old families." Georgie shrugs, holding out her open palms. "We must all be brave. Together, it will be easier. We must be a new family to one another. A family of sisters." She opens her arms, and Shipman embraces her.
"Georgie."
"I will go up and see her. I will tell her you're here. And Ship — ?"
"Yes?"
"She needs you, Ship. Without being indelicate, I... The walls are thin. Ours is not an easy life, you know. There are not very many joys. Perhaps we should take them while we can."
"You mean..."
"Sometimes, Carry visits me here. Being Head Girl, she can do things most cannot."
"Of course."
"She may be able to help. We shall see."
"That would be very kind. If... If Lucy should wish it. But I do not see how..."
"Sometimes you just have to be brave, Ship. You just have to do it, and risk rejection. Somehow I doubt that she will reject you."
Shipman nods soberly.
"I will go up to her now."
Georgie finds Lucy working on the floor, diagrams scattered about her.
"How does it go?"
"Huh! I think I've seen a way. I think so."
"Perhaps Ship can help."
"Ship?" Lucy scrambles to her feet, brushing off her dress.
"She is downstairs. She has come to see you. But first..."
"Yes, Miss Pau... — ah, Georgie?"
"I've spoken to her. She has said yes, and I believe she means it. She is coming with us, Lucy."
"Oh!"
Georgie steps aside so that Lucy may fly past, and descends the stairs at a very much more leisurely pace.
But when, a few moments later, Carry makes her breathless entry, she scarcely notices that Shipman and Carter are hand-in-hand.
"You wished to see me, Georgie — er, Miss..." she glances anxiously in Shipman's direction.
"Georgie," says Georgie firmly, taking the letter from the table. "We are among friends. Now Carry, I have had some strange and rather unpleasant news, and I regret to say that it appears to be connected with the name of Walmsley."
"Why? What has happened?" Carry is wide-eyed.
"I take it, then, you are not aware of this?"
"Why no."
"I received this letter today from the Walmsley Manufacturing Company. It is of interest to all our scientists, but particularly, I fear, to Lucy and to Ship. Let me tell you what it says."