"Let me give my understanding," says Carry after Georgie has finished reading. "This letter says, first, that we may not make any more oscillators."
"Nor generators," adds Shipman.
"Nor generators. And, in second place, that any design we – the Scientific Society – may conceive, must be yielded up to my father's company."
"That is, any electrical design," Shipman corrects her. "I believe that may be important."
"But why? Why should we do this?" Lucy is utterly bewildered.
"It seems that now it is a matter of law, Lucy." Georgie turns the letter over in her hand. "They have obtained letters patent, which by law prevents anyone but themselves from making such devices."
"But it was our idea!" Lucy is indignant.
Georgie nods in sympathy. "But you see, Lucy, the company is repaying the school. In return, they will provide all necessary equipment, and will also endow the study of science at Hepplewhite in perpetuity."
"Well! I still think that is most unfair," pronounces Shipman.
"I know what my father would say," says Lucy grimly. "I have heard of this before, when he was talking with his colleagues. I think we have been fucked, good and proper."
Shipman is entranced. "Oh! That's a nice word. I don't believe I've heard that before. It sounds so... so violent."
Georgie is blushing. "Ah — I don't think that is quite right, Lucy."
"Why, what does it mean?" asks Shipman, ever curious.
"I think the word refers to something that a man does to a woman – something indelicate, that puts her into, ah, difficulty."
"Well, that is precisely what has happened to us," says Carry.
"And I, for one," adds Lucy, "do not like it one little bit."
"I'll say this for Jepson," says the Duke, striding up and down in his study, "the man is quick and efficient. How long did it take him?"
"Four days, I believe," says Matson, crossing his legs negligently in the armchair. "And I understand that our... little offer was enough to persuade him to move to Askerley."
"Excellent. And he has made how many in all?"
"Twenty, your grace. We judged that twenty should suffice for durability tests."
"Durability?"
"Why yes. The original machines were stoutly made, but by using a lower grade of steel, machined to a lighter, more ethereal design, we can save some thirty per cent of manufacturing costs. If the machines prove popular, this could have a significant effect on our profits."
"Good thinking, Matson!" The Duke is impressed. "And so: to whom do we send them?"
"A half-dozen to the school, in the first place —"
"Quite so. Quite so."
"And then, to the wives of those board members – ahem – fortunate enough to be married. Her grace was kind enough to intimate that Mrs Fearnley had a particularly wide acquaintance, and had even been kind enough to consider a quite novel method for drumming up customers."
"What, advertising?"
"No, your grace. Private parties for women."
"Parties?"
"Just so. Parties in which the women, tête-à-tête, as it were, would demonstrate the prototypes and recommend a purchase to their friends by word of mouth, d'you see?"
The Duke shakes his head doubtfully. "Damn strange ideas these women have, Matson."
"But I think it might work, your grace. As a matter of fact, it was her grace who was kind enough to write and explain it to me. If each woman has, say, twenty friends in her female circle, and each of those has, say, another five, not in the original circle..."
"Ah, yes, I see..." The Duke stops his pacing, purses his lips and looks at the ceiling. Considering, he untwines his fingers, which have been interlocked behind his back, and rubs his chin. Matson can hear the rasping sound as he does so. "That's quite good. Could be some interesting developments, Matson, having women involved."
"Indeed, your grace. So, if we send one to Mrs Carter – who I am given to understand does not have a very wide acquaintance – and then, say, two to her grace, then we could send half a dozen to Mrs Fearnley, and retain three for patterns."
"Excellent."
"Speaking of wives, your grace – and I do not wish to speak out of turn – it occurred to me that perhaps I..."
"Ah, yes..." The Duke gathers his eyebrows into a frown, clasps his hands behind his back once more and resumes his pacing. "Unfortunately, Matson, our Carry is a dashed independent sort of filly, don't you know." He shakes his head. "Gals like that are a headache, I don't mind telling you. And if that weren't bad enough, the gal is in league with her mother. Take it from one man to another, Matson, a man doesn't want a wife like that. Too dashed spirited, I don't mind telling you. A hard-working man needs someone complaisant, someone who —"
"Ah, actually, your grace, I was not dreaming of making so impudent a suggestion."
"Oh?" The Duke's bushy eyebrow forms a caterpillar-like arch.
"No, I was thinking... the other night at dinner... there was this dashed pretty young thing waiting on us, and I thought..."
"Ah," murmurs the Duke, holding up his hand and shaking his head, "again I must disappoint you, Matson. When you have a wife of your own, you will know what it is to interfere with domestic arrangements. Take it from me... to interfere with her grace's staff would bring her wrath down upon my shoulders like a ton of bricks. No... but I tell you what, Matson."
"Yes?"
"There are some dashed pretty young fillies in Askerley. And dashed complaisant, some of 'em." His grace's eyes focus for a moment on a point somewhere in the middle distance. "Dashed complaisant. We could even employ a few in the manufactory. Why, good God man, you could walk up and down the lines and take your pick!"
Matson finds it necessary to adjust his trousers. "That is an exceedingly pleasant prospect, your grace. I thank you for suggesting it."
"Humph. Don't mention it. And now, I think we should turn to the important business. I mean, of course, where the real money awaits."
"Ah yes, your grace. The armaments. Well, I have excellent news to give you."
Shipman, who has been poring over an imposing foolscap document, jumps in her seat when she feels two hands descend upon her shoulders. But the little sigh behind her tells her at once whose hands they are.
"Look here, Lucy! Look at this!"
"What is it?" Lucy struggles with her pince-nez.
"I can scarcely believe it." She tries to turn, but Lucy is so close behind her that Shipman finds her head nestled in Lucy's delightfully warm, vibrant bosom.
But Lucy is all curiosity. "Explain!"
Reluctantly, Shipman looks down again. "This letter is from the Walmsley Company. It says that because I contributed to the design of one of the company's products, I am to receive ten thousand shares, in trust until I am twenty-one."
"Ten thousand!"
Shipman laughs ironically. "Of course there is a little catch."
"A catch?"
Shipman sighs. "Is there not always? It says I must sign this declaration, to say that all my ideas belong to the company. But of course I shall sign. After all, the letter says that those shares currently have a value of approximately sixteen thousand pounds —"
Lucy claps her hands in delight. "Sixteen thousand? Why, you're rich, Ship! Incredibly rich! Oh, how wonderful!"
"— But there's more, Lucy... It says that in a few years, if the company is successful, they may be worth ten times as much. The letter is from a Mr Fearnley. I wonder who he is."
"O Ship, I'm so delighted!" Lucy is almost jumping up and down in her exhilaration. Shipman rises from her desk, and they stand, laughing in shared delight at this incredible stroke of good fortune.
"But Lucy," says Shipman at length, "It was really your idea, not mine. Surely you must have had a letter, too."
"I haven't looked. Wait a moment." In a frenzy of excitement, Lucy hurries to her pigeon-hole to see if she, too, has received a letter; but soon returns, her face clouded. "No, I have nothing yet. Perhaps it will come in the lunch-time post."
"Of course it will, Lucy. Of course it will."
"Perhaps. — Ship, I am to go into town with Miss Paulson this afternoon. Would you care to accompany me?"
"Why, Lucy, you wouldn't leave me behind, would you?"
But when the friends meet in the courtyard that afternoon, still Lucy has received no letter.
"Perhaps it will come tomorrow, Lucy," says Georgie encouragingly.
But Lucy is tight-lipped. "Perhaps," she says in a small voice.
It is a pleasant journey for Georgie, since all around her are the first signs of spring; and when, at length, they alight outside Mr Jepson's establishment, Georgie cannot resist laughing at the two pink-cheeked, bright-eyed youngsters. "You must be careful! If you two keep staring at one another like that, everyone will jump to conclusions. Remember decorum!"
Shipman and Lucy turn apart, noses in the air, suddenly the picture of maidenly innocence. Miss Paulson gives a grunt of approval.
Mr Jepson greets them with a conspiratorial air. "I have the machine for you, Miss Carter. I've not put my mark on it, and I trust that no word of this will ever get about."
"I can assure you of my complete discretion," replies Lucy with an air of pious incorruptibility.
"Since you are here, ladies, I wonder if I might ask a favour."
"Certainly, sir, you may ask," replies Miss Paulson. "What is it?"
"You will see over there a number of devices which I have made for the company I spoke of."
"The Walmsley Manufacturing Company?"
"The same. I have been asked to send half a dozen to the school. Could I prevail upon you to take them for me?"
"That will be perfectly convenient," responds Miss Paulson. "But I see you have made a considerable number."
"I have had to work late four evenings this last week," Mr Jepson replies. "You see there twenty in all."
"And the other fourteen?"
"They are to go to the members of the board. Or rather, to their wives, as I have been told. These things are of interest to women, seemingly. I don't see the point of 'em myself."
"Ah, quite," agrees Miss Paulson.
"Excuse me, sir," Lucy interrupts timidly, holding up the box containing her new device. "I fear that I made one tiny omission in the design. I wonder if I could ask you to drill and fix a heavy brass screw in the rotor periphery – just here."
"A brass screw? But that would upset the balance, miss. Are you sure about this?"
"The bearings are jewelled, are they not?"
"Well, yes, but —"
"Then do it, please."
"Very well." Mr Jepson disappears into his workshop.
While Miss Paulson is preoccupied with the examination of a particularly handsome clock, Shipman leans over the glass counter, examining the array of new devices that Mr Jepson has made. "The Walmsley Invigorator," she reads out loud, bemused. "Why, there is a name and address beside each box. — And, dear me, that's curious... Lucy... would you happen to know a Mr Henry Carter?"
"That is my father's name," says Lucy, astonished. "What does this mean?"
"Never mind that now. Have you any paper in your bag? I did not bring mine."
"Yes, I have some, why?"
"I'm going to write a note. Quick! Quick!"
"What are you proposing to do? I don't understand," says Lucy, tearing a sheet from her notebook.
"I'll explain later. There's no time!"
Hurriedly, Shipman scribbles a note and slips it into the box earmarked for Mrs Carter.
"What did you put?" asks Lucy; but at that moment, Mr Jepson reappears, scratching his head and carrying Lucy's device, the mysterious alteration completed.
Only when they have carefully stowed the six oscillators, with their generators, in the trap, and are trotting schoolward once more, does Lucy press Shipman into explaining the note.
"Well, dear, after everything you told me about your parents and your sister, I thought that it would be fitting to remedy your mother's ignorance."
"Why – what did you write?"
"I just wrote, 'Directions for use: for maximum invigoration, hold the cylindrical part firmly between the upper legs and turn handle briskly.'"
Lucy howls with laughter, her eyes, like Shipman's, alight with mischief. "Ship, you bad, bad girl!"
Shipman is gloating. "I am sure that after a few little sessions, she will never wish to be parted from it! She will be as bad as Matron!"
"Ship, you are a monster!"
Seeing that a play-fight is about to break out, Miss Paulson reprimands them. "Lucy! Shipman! For shame, you two!" And then, in a quieter tone, "We are not out of the town yet."
Shipman casts a saucy look over her shoulder. "And when we are, Miss Carter, look out for yourself," she says in a coolly menacing tone.
"No, Ship, no!" Lucy shudders, her spine tingling. But after a few moments, she half-turns to Georgie. "There is one thing I do not understand. Why should one of those new oscillators be sent to my mother? What connexion can she possibly have with the Walmsley Manufacturing Company?"
"Surely it is obvious," Georgie observes. "Mr Jepson said that the devices were to be sent to the wives of the directors, did he not?"
"Then that would mean... that my father is a director." Lucy broods on the implications of this. "But if he is a director, why have I not received any shares? O Ship – Georgie – you do not think that he would do such a thing out of spite, do you? – Reward you, Ship, and not me?"
"Who can say?" Shipman shrugs. "Perhaps he holds shares which you are to inherit, Lucy."
"Perhaps he means to make me jealous. Perhaps he wants to wound me, because he knows that I hate him. But I don't care about his money! I shall have money of my own, that I have earned through my own work."
"And there is something else, Lucy," says Shipman thoughtfully. "You have not signed a document, as I have, granting all your rights to the Company. Surely that means that you are free to do whatever you wish with your ideas."
"Why yes, that is so." Lucy ponders, and gradually her face relaxes into a thoughtful smile.
"And when I'm twenty-one, Lucy," murmurs Shipman quietly, so that only Lucy can hear, "and my shares come to me — why, they will be yours, too."
"Why do you say that, Ship?"
"Because we're going to be together, Lucy. We will have been together for more than three years. And we will share everything."
Lucy's eyes are violet pools of tenderness. Fortunately, they are out of the town now, and none to see their embrace. Lucy's bag tumbles unheeded from her grasp.
"Do you think it is damaged?" Shipman asks a few minutes later.
"What?" breathes Lucy.
"Your new generator. It fell."
"I don't care, Ship. Kiss me again."
Soon, Shipman's hand is doing wonderful things at Lucy's breast.
"O Ship... O don't, I beg you..." Lucy closes her eyes and gulps involuntarily. Something strange is happening down below. She wriggles her hips in anguish. "Ship, I don't think I can bear this any more." She crosses her legs.
Shipman watches her fondly.
Lucy's face is wrinkled in anguish. "Ship, I want you to... O Ship, I can't... Hold me, Ship. Hold me." The trap passes over a patch of rough road; and Lucy holds Shipman very, very tight.
Shipman's smile radiates tenderness. "O my darling Lucy," she murmurs. "O my darling."
"Ahem!" coughs Georgie; and soon they are rattling into the school courtyard. Georgie smiles at the solicitude with which Shipman helps Lucy down from the trap.
After they have carried the new oscillators to the laboratory, Shipman draws Lucy aside. "Can you leave the front door unfastened tonight?"
Lucy blushes. "Why, Ship?"
"Benson is in charge of our dorm tonight. She will not make trouble for me, I think. I shall try to slip out."
"O Ship, be careful! I'd be mortified if you should get into trouble."
"Don't worry about me, Lucy," comes the airy reply.
In the cottage after dinner, Lucy clears her throat and makes a timid request. "Georgie? Would it inconvenience you if... I were to take a bath?"
Georgie can scarcely conceal her amusement. "But it's Thursday!"
"Yes, I know," Lucy admits shyly, "but all the same..."
"Why no, child, it would not inconvenience me at all. There's plenty enough in the copper, I think. Let me help you with the tub."
And when, a quarter of an hour later, Lucy is finally huddled in the tub before the fire, Georgie can hardly contain her delight – for there is little doubt in her mind what this sudden desire for cleanliness might portend. "Like a child bride on her wedding night," she thinks, blinking back sentimental tears. "Lucy, dear," she says, "let me help you, just this once." And when, with a thankful little sigh, Lucy relinquishes the sponge, "Lord! What a little vixen!" Georgie thinks, her eyes momentarily arrested by the state of Lucy's nipples. "Come, darling. Stand up. Let me do you properly." Georgie is a little rough, like a tigress licking her cub. "Bend over, dear. Right over. That's it."
"O Georgie!"
"You have to be properly clean everywhere, dear. We don't talk about it, we just do it." And Georgie makes sure that Lucy is quite, quite clean.
Later, distracted from her papers, Georgie looks up to see Lucy in her night-gown, dusting, arranging things neatly on the mantel-piece, straightening the covers of the chairs – and humming a tune as she does so. "Why Lucy, what are you doing?" she laughs.
"Oh — just tidying..."
"How thoughtful." Georgie yawns and stretches. "I do believe I shall retire early. I'm feeling remarkably tired." She stands and pushes her chair neatly against the table. "I'll leave you to fasten the door, Lucy."
Despite her efforts to stay awake, Georgie is half asleep when her door begins to open; but at once she raises herself, suddenly alert.
"Carry! What on earth are you doing here?"
"Aren't you pleased to see me?"
"Why, yes, but —"
Carry turns away and begins shedding her clothing. "I want you, Georgie. I need you."
"Hush! Be quiet, my darling! Be especially quiet!" Georgie draws back the bedclothes.
"I shall be especially quiet in just a few minutes. But first..." Carry pounces on to the bed with a determined thump. "First, I want to..."
"O Carry, my darling, my poor darling..."
And, perhaps fortunately, it is ten minutes later – ten very full minutes, in which tongues and teeth and fingers have known no law – when both are lying still, heads spinning, that they hear the cautious click of the downstairs latch.
"Hush!" whispers Georgie.
"Who is it?" breathes Carry.
"I think this is Shipman."
"Ship!" Lucy sits upright in bed, utterly astonished. "For one moment, I thought you were a boy."
"Ha!" Shipman sets down the candle she had lit downstairs; and then, by its light, she twirls round, holding out her hands at shoulder height.
"You do look like a boy! O my goodness, Ship, where did you get them?"
"I made them. I made them at home at Christmas. And while I was making them, I was dreaming of this moment."
"But they're... they're trousers!"
Shipman looks down in mock incredulity. "Why, so they are. Who would have thought it?"
Carter swings her legs out of the bed and puts her feet on the floor. "They're so... so beautifully tight! What fabric is that? I cannot see."
"I made them of velvet, Lucy. Black velvet. Feel them."
Cautiously, Lucy reaches out her hand and gives them an experimental stroke. "O Ship, that's lovely!" She strokes more. "Why, I don't believe you are like a boy – not quite."
"Do you like them, Lucy?"
"They're lovely! And beautifully warm!" Lucy's hands roam freely, much to Shipman's delight; but suddenly she draws back. "Ship... Does this mean — ?"
"Yes, Lucy. My mind is quite made up. I have already written to my parents, and will post it just before we sail."
"What explanation did you give?"
"I told them that I was devoting myself to a worthy charitable endeavour in the east, for the betterment of the daughters of impoverished gentlewomen."
Lucy splutters into laughter. "And whom did you have in mind?"
"The lovely daughter who is currently touching my... Lucy, Lucy, I must take them off at once."
"But why?"
"They will get into a terrible mess if I do not. The velvet will be ruined! Help me! Quick!"
Lucy unpicks the buttons at the front, and parts the flaps to reveal Shipman's lower belly, smooth, flawless, the lustrous skin reflecting the dull glow of the embers in the grate. And there, sure enough, the dark tangle, the topmost part of the enchanted forest. Lucy bends to kiss, and fills her nostrils with the heady fragrance. "O Ship, Ship, so lovely..." Lucy claws the magnificent trousers over Shipman's hips and down her legs, until Shipman can step out of them. "Turn away. Let me just look," she says, her eyes never leaving the delectable curves of Shipman's posterior, of which she has dreamed for so many nights past. Obediently, Shipman turns to face the wall. Lucy stands and tugs her night-gown over her head.
"Lucy... What are you doing?"
"Do you... do you want to be naked with me, Ship?" The bed creaks.
Shipman's breath catches. For a moment, she can only nod. "More than anything."
Sweetly, Lucy lets out a sigh. "Come, then."
With an answering sigh, Shipman unbuttons her blouse, shrugs it from her shoulders and sets it down on the table. Then she unlaces the fleeced under-vest and discards it in turn.
"Oh..." gasps Lucy. For a long time, Shipman stands immobile, feeling Lucy's entranced gaze like a thousand fingers upon her nakedness. "O Ship, you're lovely."
Shipman turns, her eyes pools of soft darkness, her long raven-black tresses doing little to conceal the jaunty, shocking tenderness of her sweetly jutting breasts.
"Do you like me, then?" Shipman asks it modestly, but the hunger in Lucy's deep violet eyes is answer enough.
"O Ship... please..." whimpers Lucy, drawing back the bedclothes. And now it is Shipman's turn to be entranced.
"O my sweet love! Lucy, Lucy, let me look at you..." Shipman tears back the covers, and is amazed at the jewels that are revealed. "Why, they're beautiful!" She springs on to the bed with such cat-like poise that it scarcely creaks. "There..." she grunts as she captures one of Lucy's legs between her own, "Now I'm going to show you... just how much... I love you."
"O you feel so nice! O Ship, darling!" Lucy's fingers explore the smoothness of Shipman's cheek, her neck, her shoulder, her back. "I don't want to lie in bed alone ever again!"
"Hush! Just tell me again how much money you will be paid when we go to Russia."
Lucy inhales sharply, surprised. "Why do you ask that?"
Shipman gives a low, soft laugh and kisses her. She places her finger between Lucy's breasts and draws it slowly downwards. "Just tell me... how much?" Her voice is warm with suppressed amusement.
Sensing that Shipman is joking, Lucy gives a timid smile. "Two hundred roubles."
"In silver?"
Lucy nods, squirming at the delicious sensation of Shipman's slowly descending finger.
"Every month?"
"Mmh." Lucy nods again.
"I shall get more, Lucy." Shipman's voice is teasingly mysterious; her finger begins to circle Lucy's navel.
"Uh... O Ship, you're..." Lucy grasps Shipman's naughty hand and holds it still. "You will get more? What do you mean?"
"My roubles will not be silver. They will be... pink." Shipman's finger wriggles in Lucy's grasp.
Lucy giggles. "Pink? What do you mean?"
"I shall receive two pink roubles every day — at least once a day. Perhaps twice or three times, or even —"
Lucy laughs again. "Ship, you're crazy. There's no such thing."
"Oh yes there are, my sweet darling Lucy, and they're right before my eyes: two pink roubles – my advance payment."
"Where?"
"Here..."
"O Ship! O Lor!" And with many such high-pitched exclamations, Lucy softly proclaims her surprise as Shipman's very proficient suckling fills her entire body with a host of wholly unexpected pleasures.
"Just listen to her, Carry," whispers Georgie next door. "Poor lamb. I don't think she has ever been loved before. Not truly."
"What do you think Shipman is doing to her?"
"Whatever it is, Carry... O darling... Do it to me!"
Shipman has quietened her lover by slipping a finger into her mouth, which Lucy has been sucking instinctively with all the fervour that Shipman has lavished upon her breast. But now, Shipman begins to explore Lucy's mouth, until the surfeit of pleasure obliges Lucy to squeal in her throat, and struggle to agitate her hips. In her desperation, Lucy reaches down to pacify Elsie, who for want of attention has begun to clamour as importunately as Lucy herself from its abundance. Shipman anticipates her move, however, and imprisons her arm:
"No, darling, no."
"Ship, I want to..."
"I know, love. You want to come. And now you shall. Just close your eyes and feel how much I love you... Dear Lord in heaven, you're wet!"
Lucy whips her head from side to side, maddened by the gentle sliding of Shipman's fingers.
"Hey, hey!" Shipman stills her hand for a moment. "Calm down, love. I'm being gentle. Just feel how gentle I am."
"O Ship!" Lucy is beginning to shudder.
Shipman stills her hand once more. "You're so beautiful down there, Lucy. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it." She shakes her head. "I don't know how many quims I've felt – it must be thousands and thousands – but none, not one as luscious as yours." She moves her hand again, and Lucy lets out a tortured gasp. She needs more, much more of this wonderful pleasure, but Shipman has her so firmly that she can scarcely move her hips. "We're going to go now, Lucy," Shipman whispers. "Smoothly, just like this..."
Lucy becomes rigid now; her tremor tells Shipman that, no matter how gentle she is, the end is near. Unhurried, and with infinite tenderness, Shipman smooths the slippery wetness on to Lucy's wonderfully engorged prominence, delighting in its cushiony resilience. Lucy's breath grates; she struggles not to cry out in joyous exhilaration as wave after wave of intoxicating delight vibrates throughout her body, each more tantalizingly beautiful than the last. Just a momentary increase in pressure, and Lucy's face crumples into the agonized frown that betokens the very extremity, the almost-pain of intolerable pleasure. Shipman begins to shower her with kisses. "O yes, my sweet darling, my lovely darling," she croons, beside herself with delight; and then, when Lucy lets out a great gust of breath, and a shudder that arouses a storm of protest from the bed-frame, "O, my beautiful, beautiful darling."
"Oh!" moans Lucy, transported, "Oh!" as her womb heaves its rapturous, ever-slowing sarabande of deep-departing ecstasy. And then, with a little hiss, she casts herself on to her side and curls against Shipman, holding her as tight as her strength allows. Shipman caresses Lucy's hair, her ears, her neck, as she baptizes Shipman's breasts with hot tears.
"Why, darling, you are wet at both ends! What's the matter?"
"Don't leave me, Ship," Lucy quavers in a tiny voice. "Don't leave me."
At first light, Carry knocks on Lucy's door. "Shipman?" she calls softly. There is no response. "Shipman, are you asleep?" She opens the door. The candle has burned out; by the dull glow of the fire she can just discern the two heads, face to face upon the pillow.
"Wake up! Wake up, Shipman, you ass!"
"She's awake, and she's not an ass. She's lovely," comes Lucy's soft reply. Her tone is so reproachful that Carry feels herself blushing.
Shipman whimpers.
"Do you want to go, Ship?" Lucy's voice is almost inaudible. "Mmm?"
Shipman writhes. Her voice is high and quieter still, and Carry cannot make out the words.
"Just five minutes, Carry, please."
"All right, but hurry! She'll get us both into trouble!" hisses Carry, closing the door. Downstairs, she paces up and down fretfully. After a few minutes, she hears a sequence of quiet, high-pitched moans from upstairs. She shivers.
Eventually, Shipman emerges and stumbles downstairs, bleary-eyed.
"Merciful heaven, Ship – what on earth are those?"
"What?"
"They're trousers! What on earth are you thinking of?"
"What's the matter? Don't you like them?"
Carry is wide-eyed with astonishment. "I've never..." she gulps. "My goodness."
Shipman stares at her in silence.
But Carry recovers her presence of mind. "Come on – we must hurry." She hastens Shipman out of the cottage. A short distance down the path, she feels the tug of Shipman's hand, as if Shipman would turn and go back. "We can't, Ship, we've got to get on."
But she turns and sees why Shipman has stopped: a pale face at Lucy's window, waving sadly. Shipman waves back, then turns with a sigh. Carry puts her arm round her shoulder.
"There will be another time, Ship," she says consolingly.
Shipman remains silent until, at length, they come in sight of the main school building. Only then, she speaks. "Rules! Stupid rules! Why should we creep around like criminals, Carry? I long to be free of them!"
"Good evening, ladies," Miss Paulson addresses her eager scientists. "As you will see, we have six new devices, courtesy of the Walmsley Manufacturing Company. This company has agreed to provide funds in perpetuity for the study of science here at Hepplewhite, and also to supply all necessary equipment. In return, we are to test the new devices and make suggestions for their improvement."
There is a murmur of excitement. The new oscillators look very smart in their mahogany boxes. With a flourish, Miss Paulson opens the lid of one of them. "Ladies, gather round and see," she says grandly. "Here is the generator, and here the oscillator, in this long cylinder."
Fascinated, the young ladies point and murmur in astonishment. The generator is very small, its handle slender. And although more than one of the young ladies comment on how graceful it looks, the majority are more interested in the oscillator, with its extraordinary cylindrical shape. There are a number of nervous titters. Eventually, French plucks up the courage to ask a question.
"Please, miss, why is the oscillator made in that funny shape?"
"To be honest, French, I do not know."
There are more titters.
"It's not very... discreet, is it, miss?" asks Smythe.
"Discreet? Why, whatever do you mean?"
"Oh — only that..." Smythe pauses to marshal her thoughts. "Something like that would be very... conspicuous about one's person."
"It would not fit neatly into a ladies' bag," adds French.
"Perhaps not," concedes Miss Paulson. "Nevertheless, we shall test it. We are asked to test both its efficacy and its durability."
"Durability, miss?" asks Carry.
"Yes, Miss Walmsley. We have found that Shipman and Carter's original designs, although effective, did have the fault that certain components worked themselves loose after a time."
"Yes, miss, please miss," says Shipman, "but only, I think, after a very considerable amount of use." She puts great stress on the words "very considerable".
"Perhaps so, Shipman," concedes Miss Paulson, struggling to suppress a smile.
"But miss, excuse me, miss, I thought that Carter's oscillators were coming back from the infirmary for adjustment after only one or two days." Clark's observation elicits general chuckling, and Miss Paulson is swift to restore order.
"I do not know where you heard that, Clark, and I do not see what business it would be of yours, even if it were true."
"I'm sorry, miss," says Clark, abashed.
"And now I think we should test the new device," says Miss Paulson briskly. "And since Miller demonstrated the effectiveness of the Carter model so beautifully for us at the meeting before last, perhaps she would be the best person to evaluate the new model."
Accordingly, Miller is positioned in a chair, holding the unwieldy cylinder to her most sensitive place. Kershaw holds her steady from behind and Benson from in front; and while Clark monitors her pulse, French takes charge of the generator. She begins to turn the handle gently, and almost at once the cylinder begins to emit its curious buzz, rather quieter and more high-pitched than the Carter model. Everyone notices the difference at once, and none more than Miller.
"Hee hee hee! Tee hee hee hee!" she giggles, writhing in her seat. "O hee hee hee! It's tickling my... ah... ha-ha-ha..."
"Try turning the handle a little faster, French," suggests Miss Paulson.
This seems effective: Miller's hilarity subsides and soon she begins to assume the look of glazed concentration that portends the onset of the anatriptic paroxysm. However, complications ensue.
"Oh..." murmurs French anxiously. "The handle... it's bending."
"Keep going, French," Carry urges quietly.
"Oh dear," says French lamely. "It came off in my hand." She holds the broken handle up for all to see.
"Unlike Miller, it would seem," says Shipman from the rear.
Above the sound of lubricious chuckling, "I beg your pardon, Shipman. I don't believe I heard that," says Miss Paulson in an ominous tone.
"I'm sorry, miss, it was nothing," says Shipman shamefacedly.
"I should think not, indeed! Why now, French, that is curious, is it not? Had the machine been already much used, I might almost have expected it to break. But since it is quite new, I can only imagine that the handle must have been faulty. You did not seem to be using excessive force. Perhaps we should try another."
While Miss Paulson arranges to replace the oscillator, Shipman notices Benson's crimson blush. "Aha, Benson," she thinks to herself.
Fortunately, the replacement proves more durable, to the great relief of Miss Paulson and the still greater relief of Miller, whose enthusiastic whoops unmistakably proclaim the first success of the Walmsley Invigorator.
Meanwhile, working at her little desk at the back, Lucy has been testing her clockwork generator. Eventually, she sidles up to Shipman, who is watching the final stages of Miller's invigoration.
"Psst... Shipman?"
"Hello? Yes, Lucy?"
"I've tested my generator, and it's exactly what I suspected."
"What's that? Why, you're panting, Lucy. Is something the matter?"
"Not exactly. You see, it generates only a very tiny amount of current. I think that the stabilizing effect somehow drains away the power." Shipman nods. "But... there is some good news, too, Ship. I don't think it even needed that extra brass screw I had fitted."
"No?"
"Just try it, Ship. It's wonderful. Wind it up and try it."
Without drawing attention to herself, Shipman glides away with the generator and seats herself at Lucy's desk. Carefully, she winds the mechanism until she encounters the resistance. Then she moves the brake lever; and at once the little box begins to quiver. It is almost perfectly silent – there is a barely perceptible whirr – and yet it quivers and shivers in Shipman's hand. "Oh Lucy," breathes Shipman, "how delightful!" And with a cautious glance behind her, to confirm that only Lucy is observing her, she tucks the little device into her lap. "Oh... Oh Lucy! That is just beautiful!" she gasps. "It's not too quick, it's not too slow... It's... ah..."
"It's just right, isn't it, Ship?"
"Lucy, hold my hand! I think I'm going to..." And she does: once, and then almost immediately again.
"What a shame," murmurs Lucy once Shipman has recovered, "I seem to have mislaid all my drawings."
"And Mr Jepson has absolutely no recollection of making such a device."
"And the only prototype, which sadly doesn't work at all, was given by the inventor to her friend, Miss Felicity Shipman."
"With all her love?"
"Hush! — But yes, of course."
"Very well, ladies," says Miss Paulson eventually, calling the meeting to order. "Three of you have now had the opportunity to test the new device. I have been asked to report to the Walmsley Manufacturing Company, and so now I need to take note of your reactions. You first, Miller: how would you describe the Walmsley Invigorator, and how would you compare it with Carter's design?"
"Well, miss..." Miller seems to introspect for several moments, her eyes wide and unfocused. "I don't know whether it was quicker, but —"
"It was quicker, miss," interjects Carry, consulting her notes. "Only four minutes the first time – allowing for the machine breaking – and then only about... a minute between the other eight... or was it..."
"Thank you, Walmsley," says Miss Paulson, smoothly. "Do continue, Miller."
"Well... The new oscillator... I don't know... It tickled more, but somehow it didn't let me settle down," says Miller vaguely. "If you hadn't said 'enough,' I think I could have gone on all night. I just kept wanting more. And afterwards..."
"Yes?"
"Well, I just think Carter's one finished me off better."
"Thank you, Miller, I quite understand. Are you writing this down, Walmsley?"
"Ah... Yes, miss," says Carry, hurriedly making notes.
"And what about you, Kershaw?
"I think the same. It's not so good as Carter's, miss."
"Smythe?"
"I agree."
"And the handle is too flimsy, and it's a stupid shape, miss," adds French, to general laughter.
"O Lucy," whispers Shipman, "I think I want to try it. Just imagine: coming again and again and again, and always wanting more. Isn't that a lovely thought?"
"I don't need a machine to do that to me, Ship." Lucy's face is burning, but her eye is bold. "I'll never stop wanting you, you know."
"Lucy, when can we — ?"
"Tomorrow. There's a staff meeting during recreation. We will be all by ourselves."
"O Lucy, I won't be able to sleep tonight, for longing..."
"Nor I," Lucy breathes.
"Morning, m'dear," says Henry Carter, handing Joanna a package. He coughs into his handkerchief. "Little present for you — just arrived in the post." He coughs again. "It's supposed to relieve aches and pains. Don't know if it works. Try it, and see."
"Henry, I'm worried about that cough," protests Joanna. "You ought to see the doctor, dear."
Henry nods and coughs again. He folds his handkerchief so that Joanna will not see the blood. "I have an appointment this morning."
"I am so afraid that it may be the consumption."
Henry shakes his head. "It's nothing. Only a cough." He coughs again. "I must go, or I shall be late. Don't worry, dear." He blows her a kiss and strides out.
Soon, however, Joanna's fears are forgotten as she unpacks the Walmsley Invigorator from its handsome, baize-lined mahogany box. And then, with a little cry, she finds Shipman's note. She reads it. "Ooh," she says, wonderingly. She has been feeling listless recently. Perhaps this is what she needs. But if she is to hold it between her upper legs, then...
"Simpson, I shall retire to my room," she announces.
"Very good, ma'am."
Once inside, the door fast closed, Joanna seats herself in the easy-chair and draws her skirts up to her waist. The cylinder is almost as long as her thigh. Clearly, it will be best if the end with the wires should be by her knee, and then the rounded end will go up and rest against her... place. Gingerly, she takes the generator and turns the handle. At first, nothing happens. She turns the handle a little faster, and the device begins to make its high-pitched buzz. "Ooh!" At once she stops, momentarily terrified. It has caused a quite extraordinary tingling sensation. She closes her eyes and waits for it to pass. Then she opens her eyes again.
"How do I feel?" she asks herself. She turns her head, looking around her. Everything seems normal. "Am I reinvigorated?" she wonders. But that would be ridiculous: she operated it for only a split second. It could not possibly work so quickly.
She turns the handle again. It is such an extraordinary feeling: it is like nothing she has ever experienced before. After a second or two, she stops again, and removes the cylindrical object, looking at it suspiciously. She rises, and lays it on the bed. She can feel something different inside, now. It is a sort of weakness. Is this relaxation? She walks to and fro. She does not feel any pain, but rather a kind of lightness. She gazes at the machine for some moments. "I'm just scared, that's what I am," she thinks. "I should try it properly." Carefully, she seats herself as before and nestles the cylinder comfortably between her thighs. This time, it feels less strange, and the extraordinary tingling seems to flood throughout her thighs and belly, radiating a kind of warmth as it does so. "Mmm," she thinks, closing her eyes, continuing to turn the handle. It is curious: the warmth seems to grow and grow, now pervading her entire body. Again, she stops turning the handle. She can feel it everywhere, even in her toes. "It seems to work," she murmurs wonderingly. "I do feel invigorated. Most definitely."
She goes to her door and opens it. "Simpson!" she calls. "Simpson?"
"Yes, ma'am?" Simpson emerges from her own room and curtseys, attentive to madam's wish.
"I have received an invigorating machine. It is for invigorating ladies. I want you to see what you think of it." She shivers. She can still feel the tingling. Really, it is not unpleasant.
"Very good, ma'am."
"Come into my room and sit yourself down."
"What is it now?" The Duchess turns from her accounts with an expression of annoyance.
"'Tis young Jemmy, your grace," Mrs Crichton says in an ominous tone. "Jemmy, tell her grace what you have done."
"I'm really, really sorry, your grace," protests Jemmy, crimson with shame. "I didn't mean to, honestly. It just came away in my hand."
"It came away?" The Duchess's voice is sweet, low and dangerous. "You've broken it already? Why, the handle has snapped off completely. What on earth were you doing?"
"Please, your grace, I was just trying it on Hilda, like you said, an'..."
"Hilda's the new one, your grace," explains Mrs Crichton helpfully. "The one that's roomed with her."
"...An' she kept saying 'more, more, faster, faster', an' —"
"So," coos the Duchess. "Do you think Hilda liked it, Jemmy?"
"Oh yes, your grace. She couldn't get enough of it, Hilda couldn't."
"So are you saying that it was her fault?"
"Well... not really, your grace. I wasn't being rough with it, or anything..."
The Duchess sighs. "I am sorry, Jemmy, but you know that we do have rules about breakages in my house. I am sure you didn't mean it. People very seldom do. But the rules must be upheld."
Jemmy gulps. "Yes, your grace," she quavers.
"Bend over the table, Jemmy. Hold her down, Clarice."
Mrs Crichton obliges.
"Skirts up!"
Mrs Crichton reaches and hitches Jemmy's skirts up to her waist, revealing a charming, naked posterior. Gently, the Duchess strokes it with her hand.
"If you had done it on purpose, Jemmy," she says, in a tone almost of commiseration, "I would of course have to spank you." Jemmy quivers in fear. "But since it was an accident..." Her voice lingers on the last word, savouring Jemmy's consternation. "Clarice, the feather duster is behind you, I think. Thank you."
"O hee hee hee! No no no! Your grace, no! Hee hee hee!"
"Hush, dear. You must try to be brave. — Just look, Clarice. What a pretty little rump! How charmingly she shivers it! — Now, Jemmy, try to be quiet and keep those lovely legs straight."
"Mmmmmhh! Ggggah!" Jemmy struggles to contain her reaction to the torture, but it is well nigh impossible. "Oooh! Eeek! Oooh!"
"Hold her, Clarice! What a lively little chick!"
Jemmy squeals again.
"Why, look at those fingers! They're scurrying like little rabbits!" murmurs her grace. "Get her hands, Clarice! That's right... There, Jemmy, shiver that pretty little rump for me... O what a little sweetheart!"
"O your grace! Oh oh oh... Hahaha... Eeeek!"
And, a minute or so later, "My goodness, Clarice, I do believe she's... No, I must be mistaken. Take a look for yourself."
"Why, your grace, she seems to be gaping."
"That is what I thought. Well I never! We had better let you go, Jemmy. Your punishment is over."
Jemmy straightens herself. Her earlier blush would be pallor compared with this.
"What do you say, Jemmy, dear?" prompts Mrs Crichton.
"Thank you, your grace. I'm sorry, your grace." Jemmy curtseys awkwardly.
"Very well, Jemmy. You are forgiven. Run along, now."
Jemmy curtseys again, hurriedly, and scurries out.
The Duchess turns her eye to her devoted personal companion. "Do you think she was truly using the machine on her little friend? Or do you suppose that she was trying it out for herself?"
"Hard to say," shrugs Clarice. "They were both in there together. That's all I know."
"I think perhaps I should take a little break from my accounts," sighs the Duchess. "I am all a-tremble. These punishment sessions are so... enervating."
"Time for a little... respite?" suggests Clarice.
"I think so. Don't you, dear?"
"Oh, I think so."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Might I speak to you for a moment just as one woman to another?"
"Certainly, ma'am."
"Sit down, Simpson."
"Thank you, ma'am."
Joanna Carter puts down the novel she has been pretending to read for the last hour. She closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her temples. "Henry has been asking me to call Lucy back from school to see him at the hospital. I believe he wishes to make his peace with her."
"You mentioned it before, ma'am."
Joanna is silent for a moment. She rocks to and fro, her eyes still closed. "Simpson, the truth is that Lucy fears and detests him."
"Oh no, ma'am – surely not!" Simpson's manner is deferential: she expresses only the shock that propriety demands. In her heart, Simpson does not see why Lucy should feel any differently towards Mr Henry Carter than she does herself.
"I am afraid it is true, Simpson. And I begin to see that, although we have had the best of intentions, we have failed both our daughters."
"Surely not, ma'am."
"I think so. We loved them, of course. But we were never close to them, Simpson. We acted like schoolteachers. We were cold and aloof, trying to be perfect examples." She laughs mirthlessly. "We were trying to be like gods. We never gave them any affection. We never patted them, nor cuddled them. We tried to pretend that we were not human. Why, I was not allowed even to suckle them as babies. They were passed immediately to the wet-nurse. I had great hopes for them, of course – great hopes – as did Henry."
"Of course, ma'am."
"I so wanted to hold them, Simpson, when they were little. But that is not our way, is it? If I had been a countrywoman, or a tradesman's wife, I could have held them in my arms, sung them to sleep." Joanna opens her eyes, staring sightlessly into an impossible past. "But if you have money, it seems you must pay someone else to do that. Instead, you must inculcate virtue. Cold, hard virtue."
"It never seemed quite right to me, ma'am."
Joanna turns her gaze to Simpson for the first time, a little surprised. "No?"
"No, ma'am. I could never see how love could be cold." Simpson blushes a little under Mrs Carter's gaze. She looks down, ashamed at having been so forthright.
But, "Neither could I," confesses Joanna, abashed herself. Simpson looks up, then, and sees her mistress's confusion. "You know," Joanna continues after a few moments, "I believe that at heart, we all desire a little warmth – a little tenderness."
"Very true."
"And yet, why is it that we may show it only in the most exceptional circumstances, or in those few ways that society deems acceptable?"
Simpson shakes her head. "I'm sure I don't know, ma'am."
"Take one example, Simpson." Joanna becomes more excited, now. "Wives are allowed to show affection to their husbands."
"Of course."
"The wife giving warmth and affection to the husband – this is perhaps the only circumstance in which society – my society – withholds its almost universal disapproval."
"It doesn't seem right, does it, really?"
"No, Simpson." Joanna stares into the fire. "Everybody desires tenderness, but only men may receive it. As women, it is our lot only to give it, no matter how much we may desire it for ourselves."
"Perhaps that's because the men are in charge, ma'am."
Joanna sighs. "I think you are right." Joanna's voice becomes husky. "But it is not considered manly to show affection, Simpson. It is manly only to receive it, and then only in secret, furtively, always with a frisson of embarrassment. But why should women not receive affection?"
Simpson thinks of her parents. "I think that among people of my class, a husband may show affection to his wife."
"Perhaps." Joanna sighs. "Money is not always a blessing, Simpson. In our class, a husband shows only the formal appearance of tenderness."
For a while, both women sit silent, reflecting. Eventually, Joanna speaks again.
"I do not mean to be impertinent, Simpson, but... You have not been with a man, I take it."
"Of course not, ma'am."
Joanna looks at Simpson. "Why do you say 'of course'?"
"I am in service, ma'am." Simpson's voice is even, colourless.
"Yes." Joanna feels momentarily uncomfortable. "Simpson... when a man is with a woman, it is for him a very pleasant thing."
Simpson blushes, but says nothing.
"For us, it is not unpleasant, but... for men, it is I think perhaps the greatest pleasure of life. For them, that is the prize, the very pearl of tenderness – to take their pleasure from a woman. Do you understand me?"
"I... I think so, ma'am."
"I am glad, because something you said made me think of it. You recall that I asked you to try the invigorator machine."
"Yes, ma'am." Simpson blushes scarlet at the memory.
"What you said has lodged in my mind, Simpson. You said 'It feels lovely.' You see, I begin to think that feeling is akin to the pleasure a man feels when he lies with a woman. It is the tenderness our bodies desire."
"Maybe so, ma'am."
"I think it is. But women do not receive it from men. We are doomed to be only the providers of tenderness." Joanna reflects. "The fact is, Simpson, that we have to find tenderness for ourselves."
"Very true."
"Do you know how old I am, Simpson?"
"No, ma'am."
"I am just forty years of age."
"And very well you look ma'am, if you don't mind me saying."
"I have had an easy life, Simpson. But I thank you for saying it. I was not fishing for compliments. I was only thinking..." she bites her lip. "I was thinking, that for forty years I did not know... It was that machine that taught me, Simpson. And now I know, I feel such peace. I do not know why I have had to wait so long. Can you understand this?"
"Why yes, ma'am. It is common knowledge in service, that a woman must find her own comfort as she can."
Joanna smiles. "And you thought that I was the more fortunate. Now that I know, why, I would rather have had that knowledge when I was a girl than all the money in the world. If I had known then what I do now, I dare say I would never have sought tenderness at a man's hands."
Simpson sits impassive, digesting the implications of this statement.
"And to think that it is common knowledge among those in service." Joanna smiles and shakes her head.
"Why, yes ma'am. 'Twould not do if maids were forever looking out for young men."
"I suppose you are right."
"And besides, when you're sharing a room, or maybe a bed... At the end of a hard day... You find these things out. They say we'd go mad if we couldn't comfort ourselves..."
Joanna laughs.
Simpson is reflective, as if reminiscing. "...And sometimes, comfort one another."
"Well, why not?" Joanna appears to find the thought surprising. "Why not, indeed? Why should not we women, the providers of comfort to men, also provide it to one another? — Why, Simpson, that might be very pleasant."
Simpson turns a solemn gaze on Joanna. "It is, ma'am. It is."
"Why, then, do people of my class make such a secret of it?" Joanna gives a snort of disgust. "Why do we pretend that it is wrong? — Why, in my ignorance, I confess I..." Her hand flies to her mouth, remembering Lucy. "Oh, God forgive me! What have I done? O God!"
Simpson is bewildered, but stammers out words of consolation. "Don't fret, ma'am! What's done is done. You weren't to know, I'm sure."
"No, Simpson," Joanna sobs, recovering herself; and as she speaks, her sorrow transforms into anger. "You are right. I did not. But he did! He knew perfectly well. That is what all men do to all women, Simpson. By depriving them of tenderness, and teaching them that it is wrong to comfort themselves – or one another – they drive us into the arms of men. They force us always to depend on them! They even make us do their work for them!"
"One might say, 'their dirty work,' ma'am."
Joanna looks at Simpson, the trace of a bitter smile at her lips. "One might indeed. And now Henry would like Lucy to come to the hospital, and weep upon his breast, and succumb once more to his despotism. I confess, Simpson, I do not see why I should grant him this luxury. Does that seem unfair? — Lucy has cast us both aside, and he has said 'Good riddance' to me on more than one occasion. When I consider all that has happened, I think that it is better to let the bird fly free, out of the cage."
"I don't know, ma'am. That seems rather sad, to me."
"Maybe, Simpson. But Lucy has learned to despise us, and I understand why. In her position, I should have done just the same. She is free of us now. If she should ever come back to me, I suppose that I would weep upon her neck. But we were separated – not at Christmas, when she fled our house for ever – but at her birth, when she was given to the wet-nurse."
"O ma'am, that is a terrible thing."
"Yes, Simpson, but 'tis all in the past now, I fear. To Lucy, I am a malevolent, meddling stranger. I deserve nothing from her, and I do not see why I should act as Henry does, and pretend to revive a bond which, in truth, has never been allowed to form."
"He has been particularly demanding, ma'am, has he not?"
"O Simpson, yes. Every day there is some fresh urgent reason for me to visit the hospital. Messages to friends, to business associates. Never to me. I might be his secretary." Joanna's eye is bright with anger.
"Forgive me, but the same thought had occurred to me, ma'am."
Joanna nods. "And now he tries to manipulate me, even from his sick-bed. You realize, do you not, that this illness might prove fatal?" Her voice is cold.
"Oh, surely not, ma'am!" Simpson's alarm is, as before, perfunctory.
"We can never tell, Simpson." Joanna turns to her servant, now. "How old are you, Simpson?"
"Twenty-nine, ma'am."
"H'm. I have been thinking of what might happen, if I were to be widowed." She holds up her hand to forestall Simpson's objections. "It is always well to plan for every eventuality. And should I become a widow, I should have a very great deal of money."
Simpson can only nod silently.
"I had thought that it might be pleasant to travel. Rome – Florence – Venice. Of course I should need a companion. A lady must always travel with a compnanion. Do you think you would find such a thing congenial, Simpson?"
"O ma'am..." Simpson's face is aglow. "Travel! — I should love... that is..."
It is a Friday afternoon in early spring. In the little gamekeeper's cottage, in Lucy's little upstairs room, stand two young ladies, naked as Eve in the Garden of Eden, all shame forgotten in the ardour of their embrace.
"O Ship, no, no," cries Lucy, pulling back, her hips writhing, "My waist is so sensitive... Aha! Aha! No, stop it!"
Shipman laughs lazily, stilling her hands for a moment. "I just cannot help it, Lucy. You're such a lovely shape; your skin is so beautifully smooth. I love you too much, dear. You will just have to get used to it."
"Oh... O Ship..."
"Come, darling. I know what you like." Shipman takes Lucy by her shoulders and draws her closer, until their breasts touch. "Let our breasts kiss one another."
Lucy begins to pant. "I love this, Ship. Oh! Oh you are so beautiful." Shipman sways gently from side to side. "Ship, this is driving me mad..."
Shipman's breasts quiver deliciously as their nipples graze.
"Just look at them, Lucy. Like little soft animals, just gently touching. Titties... Nipples... Touching..."
"Ship... Ship... I'm going mad, Ship. O please, your leg... I need to..."
"There, dear, I'll hold you... You lovely wet thing. I can feel you."
"Oh Ship... Oh... Oh... Oh..." Helplessly, Lucy sobs her passion into Shipman's shoulder.
"There... There... Lie down and rest, dear..." Shipman helps her, still shuddering, to the bed.
And when at last Lucy opens her eyes, they encounter the infinite tenderness of Shipman's gaze. For a long while, they just look into one another's eyes, each little motion of the other's eye a whisper of love.
"It's just a week now, Ship," says Lucy at last. "And we shall be in our little cabin. Two little cots..."
"And we shall use only one, for the entire voyage."
"And a little port-hole beside our heads, so that we can look out together."
"And your arms around me."
"Darling..." They kiss, and Lucy's hands begin to rove.
"O Lucy, Uhh..." Shipman parts her thighs more widely, offering herself.
"Oh... You feel so lovely..." Lucy giggles as her fingers slide, giggles with the exhilaration of Shipman's pleasure, which she can feel as surely as if it were herself she was touching. "Slippy Shippy," she whispers teasingly.
"Lucy, O my God..." Shipman looks into those loving, deep violet eyes, and the sweet madness rushes upon her, overcomes her again and again, on and on, until she shudders in delicious exhaustion. "Come to me," she gasps, crushing Lucy to her. As the sweet contractions die away, she begins to flick her tongue at the breast which nuzzles her mouth. Shipman's voice is suddenly gruff and fierce. "What was that you called me?" She flicks her tongue again, and Lucy moans. "What was that? Slippy Shippy? Is that what you called me?"
Lucy laughs naughtily. She laughs again as Shipman's tongue tickles her nipple.
"May I remind you, sweet love," – another lick – "that your name is Lucy? If we are going to make little jokes, little rhymes..." – Lucy squeals and laughs again as Shipman nibbles her.
When, a few minutes later, Georgie returns with Carry from the staff meeting, she hears shrieks of merriment from upstairs. They stand together, looking up at the ceiling. There is a temporary lull, and then,
"Juicy Lucy!" roars Shipman, loud enough for them to hear.
Carry's eyes sparkle as she laughs, hand to mouth.
"Slippy Shippy!" comes the raucous response, and then a chorus of screams and squeals.
Helpless with laughter, Carry and Georgie clutch one another. Gradually, the tumult upstairs subsides, the giggles become fewer; and then, the deeper sounds of unmistakable passion take their place. Carry and Georgie kiss, laugh and kiss again.
"That Shipman is a naughty minx," chuckles Carry.
"Oh, they are so sweet, those two," sighs Georgie.
"I know. But all the same, I cannot quite get accustomed to her sheer effrontery. To say what she did in that letter!"
"But you know, it was very kind of her. And it does seem to have worked. She is brave, you know, Carry."
"Yes," Carry sighs, "you are right. She is brave. Annoying though she is, I really do admire her."
"And thanks to her, it seems that I might be a professor too. We shall not want for money."
Carry hugs Georgie. "No. It's wonderful."
"Just a week, now."
"O Georgie, I am so looking forward to it."
"The vessel is chartered."
"False names?"
"Yes, of course. We don't want the company to find us..."
"Nor anyone else, Georgie."
"No. We shall be free. Free at last."
"Free to be ourselves."
"Yes?" Simpson greets the stranger on the doorstep of the Carter household. There is a cab waiting.
"I've come from the hospital." The stranger's face is grave. "I'm afraid there have been ...developments. Mrs Carter should come as soon as possible."
Simpson pales. "I see."
"Better not to say anything yet. Kinder, you know."
"Quite." Simpson is shocked. "Well... Thank you. I will tell her, then."
"Have you a boy? You will need another cab. I must get back."
"Of course. I'll see to it." Having instructed the boy to call a cab, she bustles upstairs and knocks on Mrs Carter's door. "Mrs Carter? Mrs Carter?" From inside, she can hear the buzzing of the invigorator. "Mrs Carter?"
The buzzing stops. "What is it?"
"We have been called to the hospital."
"Just five more minutes, Simpson. Then I'll be ready."
"Very good, ma'am."
The buzzing starts again. Simpson can hear her mistress's moans. Minutes pass. And then, abuptly, there is silence. A few more seconds, and Simpson distinctly hears from within a word she does not often hear from female lips.
"Damn! Damn damn damn!"
And inside the room, Joanna Carter beats her fists in fury. "It just came away in my hand. The stupid thing!"
Eventually, quivering with annoyance, Mrs Carter emerges, and they make their way to the hospital in silence.
Their visitor is there to meet them, upon the front steps of the hospital.
"I'm very sorry, Mrs Carter," he says, taking her hand. "I'm really very sorry."
Jepson rises from his desk in the new manufactory. "Good morning, sir," he greets Matson.
"Morning, Jepson. How are things?"
"More breakages, sir. Really, I do not know why we do not make them stronger. I always thought they would not be strong enough for the job."
"Jepson, Jepson, you are a good craftsman. But this is business." Matson sits in the chair, taking a paper from his coat pocket. "Look at this, and perhaps you will understand."
Jepson reads. "Replacement handles... one for half a crown... ten for a guinea!" He looks up.
"Any idea how much they cost to make?"
"I don't know... fourpence?"
Matson smiles as Jepson's expression turns to one of understanding.
"Ah, you see I am new at business. Very clever, sir... very clever!"
"It just so happens that one Mrs Carter has placed an order for twenty this very morning."
"Twenty!"
"She's made of money, of course. But just imagine, when they go into full production... Well, if there's nothing else — ?"
Jepson shakes his head. "No, all is well."
Matson rises from the chair and makes to go. "I can't stay, as we have an emergency board meeting this morning. We'll need to make a new appointment, of course." He adopts a sombre expression and coughs respectfully.
"Yes, sir, very sad that was."
It is the last day of term. Bags are packed, hotel bookings made, and tomorrow they will be buying clothes in London for the voyage. Georgie, Carry and Lucy stand in the front room of the little cottage.
"...All the same, I shall be sad to say good-bye to this little place," says Georgie wistfully.
"I wish Shipman would hurry," murmurs Lucy. "I hope there's nothing wrong."
A few minutes later, Shipman stumbles in through the front door with her two heavy bags. She sets them down with a thump. She is pale and unsmiling. They can all see that something is wrong.
"What's the matter, Ship?" Carry asks.
"They received my letter," comes the answer.
"Your family?" Anxious, Lucy clasps her hands.
Shipman nods and closes her eyes. "Oh, how hard this is! Mother wrote to say how sad they all are. She and little George have been crying and crying..." A tear rolls down her cheek, and she sniffs. "Frederick has had the mumps... I had to write back, of course."
Lucy is agitated. "What did you say?"
"I shall miss them. I shall always love them. I shall write again, one day. But... it is a question of my calling. A question of duty, don't you know."
Carry half-smiles, but Lucy's brow is clouded.
"Duty, Ship? Whatever do you mean?" She seems hurt and bewildered.
"No, silly, that's what I told them. Don't you remember? – I said I was going to devote my life to good works. I didn't tell them who the beneficiary would be."
Carry laughs, but Shipman, for once, does not share in the amusement.
"The real reason, Lucy... is that although I love them very, very much... and of course I'm sad not to see them any more... I just love you more. That's all."
Lucy holds out her arms, then, and they fly, softly moaning, into an embrace at once so passionate and so desperate that Shipman's bonnet, hitherto perched at a jaunty angle, tumbles to the floor.
Carry retrieves it, for it is clear that to its owner, its existence has ceased to matter.
"O Ship, O Ship," cries Lucy, eventually. "I want you so much..."
"We do not have very long..." murmurs Georgie, looking at her watch.
"But perhaps, just one last time," murmurs Lucy, looking out through the open door. "See, it's spring. How beautiful everything is!"
Shipman turns. "Yes," she sighs.
"Do you think, for just a few minutes, we could go out, you and I, one last time, where we have so often walked together?"
"What? You want to go for a walk, Lucy?" Shipman is astonished.
"No, Ship. No." Lucy picks up her skirts. "I don't want to walk. Not any more. Come with me, Ship. I want to run."
And in a moment, Shipman has gathered up her skirts, and dashed after her.
Georgie stands by the door and watches them as they run into the woods. She hears their laughter and their cries, growing fainter: two long blue coats, two little patches of blue in a sea of spring green. Georgie's lip trembles. "Oh Carry, aren't they sweet?"
Carry embraces Georgie from behind, and looks over her shoulder.
"Do you think they will be happy together, Carry? Happiness seems such a fragile thing. Will someone – or something – come to spoil it, and turn their laughter into tears?"
They can still hear the distant laughter, still see Ship and Lucy, hand in hand now, as they nimbly leap over the green grass, the brown drifts of last year's fallen leaves. And then — "Oh!" cries Georgie. "They seem to have stumbled... They've fallen on the ground." Her voice is full of concern. "Are they all right?"
"I can't believe they stumbled by accident," murmurs Carry, brushing Georgie's ear with her lips. "You worry too much. I'm sure they are perfectly all right."
"Perhaps," quavers Georgie, her eyes full of tears. "It's all blurred. I cannot see."
And as I walk along the grassy alley, tall trees on either side, towards the blurred little patch of blue, I cannot see clearly, either. It is not until I am right up close that through my tears I see: it is only a patch of bluebells, nodding in the silent wind.
Epilogue
I have searched the shipping records of all the London companies for the year 186—, but have found no record of their voyage. It seems that they maintained their secrecy, and I suppose they reached their destination safely, for surely if their ship had been lost, some record would have been made of it.
They must have lived quietly, as women like us must always live quietly. Of their life in Russia, I have only two clues, and those at best ambiguous.
I refer, first, to the curious reference in Pavlov's memoirs to the "red professor". Many commentators have understood this to refer to a later, post-revolutionary era, when the term of course acquired a quite different significance. But perhaps Pavlov was not confused. Perhaps, long before the bloody events of 1917, the Krasnyi Professor was not a Communist sympathizer, but someone with red hair. I have also learned that in some Russian expressions, krasnyi can mean not "red", but "beautiful". Perhaps, then, this is a play on words, and the term may also mean "beautiful professor". This may be so, or it may only be my own wishful thinking.
But there is one other, stronger piece of evidence. I refer, of course, to the establishment in Saint Petersburg of the Imperial Institute of Experimental Medicine. That such an institute should have been established at just that time does seem more than coincidence. And I confess that I sometimes wonder whether, in conceiving his world-famous experiments at that same Institute some forty years later, the great Pavlov did not perhaps owe some small inspiration to a sheaf of notes found in the archives; a sheaf of notes that subsequently went missing; the careful, painstaking notes, in fading ink, on yellowing paper, of a schoolgirl from Hepplewhite.
Finis
Acknowledgments
First, I send my love, greetings and thanks to Hecate. Our correspondence was this story's cradle; together we planned Pavlova as a tremendous, gleeful joke – a rollicking yarn. Sadly, her illness prevented her from participating in the writing, and in the writing, it became something rather different.
Second, I thank my friend Vershnyk for his unstinting assistance with points of Russian language and history.
Third, I thank Denny, my proof-reader, who has uncomplainingly completed a mammoth task with tireless diligence and good humour. I would like to draw attention to the fact that his assistance is paid for only by my thanks, which I fear will be eternally inadequate. I also thank Hecate again, for it was at her suggestion that I first importuned him for his assistance.
Fourth, I thank my readers for their patience; and I thank all those who have written with comments, criticisms and (most of all) encouragement. Those who have not embarked on a project like Pavlova cannot imagine the long hours of solitary anguish and self-doubt, nor how vital that encouragement can be.
Fifth, I thank those at ASSTR who make it possible for my works to reach their audience. If you have enjoyed Pavlova, I beseech you to make a donation to this worthy (and entirely voluntary) organization. Without it, writers like myself would have no hope of publication.
Sixth, I thank Sharleen for the wonderful cover picture that now graces the title page. As well as by the wonderful words of tribute that accompanied it, I was delighted at how her lovely drawing has captured the essential irony of the story.
Seventh, I thank Harriet Taylor and the Mill family, and all those brave souls who did so much to make life more tolerable for women in our own time.
Eighth and last, I thank MT. Not only has she read my drafts with great attention, and saved me (as has Denny) from numerous idiocies. By her constant encouragement and praise, she has saved me from the doubts and torments that have assailed me continually as I worked on Pavlova. Without her, my despair would have choked me at last into silence, and this work would never have been completed.
Finally, I condemn with all my heart that nameless corruption within our human kind, which saddles us with fears, the fears that surround us all, and lying, names them guilt.
O.
16 May 2001
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