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Subject: {ASSM} Pavlova's Bitches 4a
Date: Mon,  4 Dec 2000 06:10:04 -0500
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[ My grateful thanks to MT and to Denny, who have rescued me
  from several infelicities, and to all those who have written to
  encourage me. ]

===

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@nerve.com

Dramatis Personae

[Several readers have written to ask if I would provide a list of the
characters, as they find it easy to become confused. So do I.  So I
compiled
a list of my own. Here it is.]

Schoolgirls

 Miss Lucy Carter
  Good at maths, dyslexic and morbidly aware of her unusual appearance

 Miss Felicity Shipman
  Clever, cheerful and scheming

 Miss Carry Walmsley
  More properly, Lady Caroline Artemis Gloriana Walmsley
  Head Girl and head of the school battledore team
  In love with Miss Paulson

 Miss Sarah Clark
  Friend of Penrose and Shipman

 Miss Victoria Penrose
  Friend of Clark, easily manipulated by Shipman

 Miss Prudence Miller
  Bookish and poetic; scribe of the Scientific Society

 Miss Kershaw
  Prefect; member of battledore team

 Miss Charlotte Benson
  Senior Prefect

 Miss Emma Denning
  Member of battledore team

 Miss Abigail French

 Miss Margaret Smythe
  Member of battledore team

Staff

 Miss Georgina Anne Paulson
  Teaches French, Politics, Philosophy and Science. Loves Carry.

 Mrs Cunningham
  Head Mistress

 Miss Hanson
  Secretary to Head Mistress

 Mrs Probert
  Maths Teacher

 Mrs Bateson
  English Teacher

 Miss Gurney
  Sports

 Dr Straker
  School Doctor

 Matron

 Caretaker
  Has a wizened assistant named Ben.

 Ostler

Others

 Mr Jepson
  Clockmaker

 Philip Jepson
  Son of the above

 Alfred Augustus George Walmsley, Fourth Duke of Grantshire
  Father of Carry; always short of money; school governor

 Aurelia Margaret Lysistrata Walmsley
  Wife of the above and mother of Carry; school governor

 Mrs Amelia Crichton
  Governess to Carry, and now secretary to the Duchess

 Harry and Sam
  Delivery men

 Rory
  One of Harry's horses

===

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@nerve.com

Part IVa


There is a knock at the Head Mistress's door.

"Come in!"

"Ah, good morning, Mrs Cunningham."

"Doctor Straker! Pray sit down."

"Thank you. I trust you are in excellent health?"

"Never better, I thank you, and I wish you the same. So this would
be... the half-termly report?"

"The very same."

"How time flies! I must be getting old..."

"Oh, indeed."

The eagerness of the doctor's reply confuses Mrs Cunningham for a
moment, but she soon recovers herself.

"And so - how are our girls?"

"Well, Head Mistress, I am glad to say that the surgery has been
unusually quiet.  I cannot recall having had fewer patients. We have
had the occasional bump and scrape and sprain, of course - the normal
minor incidents of youth, and soon mended. But of the more
troublesome things - ladies' problems, you know - rather fewer - in
fact, far fewer."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"At first I thought it might be the unusually clement weather we have
been having, and of course the steady progress we are making in the
matter of hygiene.  But on reflection I am inclined to attribute this
happy state of affairs to the dietary improvements we have managed to
negotiate."

"Ah. Good. I shall make a point of that at the next governors'
meeting. It was extremely difficult to persuade them to increase the
catering allowance."

"I am sure. And I take it that there has been no evidence to
substantiate that ridiculous supposition?"

"I don't follow you, Doctor."

"I thought we mentioned it before. Some governors feared that a more
generous level of nutrition might encourage... a certain waywardness,
mm?  Harmful secret practices?"

Mrs Cunningham blushes, despite the tactful delicacy with which the
Doctor has expressed himself. "Ah yes, I remember. No, I am glad to
say that there has been no evidence of such a thing. Carry Walmsley
is an excellent Head Girl, and she and her team of prefects have been
particularly vigilant. I have had no such reports."

"I am glad to hear it. Such injurious habits would, I know, swiftly
undermine this happy improvement - which, I might add, is
particularly noticeable among the more senior girls this year. 
Really, from the sixth form, I think I have seen scarcely one pupil.
There is still little Parkinson of the fifth, who is bleeding far too
much.  Between ourselves, we are worried about her. But for example:
Felicity Shipman was in and out of surgery almost weekly last year.
This term, we have simply not seen her. And there was another... yes,
Miss Penrose..."

"Ah, Victoria Penrose."

"Yes. Just the same. Well, it is most satisfactory. I don't know what
lies behind it, but as a man of medicine, I can only hope that this
blessing continues."

"Most gratifying, doctor." Mrs Cunningham places her hands flat upon
the desk and leans forward.  "And are you aware that we beat Thomas
More at battledore for the first time in our history a few weeks
ago?"

"I was not. That is remarkable evidence indeed. Yes, I feel sure that
we may attribute this happy state of affairs to the improved quality
of the diet."

"But have you heard about the electricity treatment?"

"Electricity?" The Doctor leans forward. "That is interesting: tell me
more."

"One of our more talented... to be frank, Doctor, our most talented
teacher has studied some form of electricity at the Sorbonne. She has
been subjecting the girls to electrical currents. They seem somewhat
painful, but the girls are benefiting tremendously."

"I should like to learn more of this."

"You must address yourself to our Miss Paulson. She has made a
particular study of the electrical force. Her father is a doctor
also, I believe... Very good, then, Doctor Straker."

"Very good, Head Mistress. I wish you a very good morning."

"Good morning to you. Please the Lord your next report will be as
cheerful."

"Amen!"

Polite smiles, a bow and an inclination of the head conclude the
interview.

Once the door is closed, Mrs Cunningham clicks her tongue
contemptuously.  "Harmful secret practices, indeed! Pah!"

The next knock is less self-assured.

"Ah: Carter."

"Good morning, Mrs Cunningham."

"Good morning, child. What a pretty curtsey. Pray sit here."

Carter advances to the straight-backed chair before the desk, and
sits stiffly.

"Not too tired, I hope?"

"A little, Ma'am."

"Then you shall have the rest of the morning off lessons. After this,
go and rest. I have seen Walmsley, and I have spoken with some of
your teachers."

Carter is pale, but attentive.

"I will be honest with you, Carter... Lucy. I feel we at Hepplewhite
have failed you. I wish that you had come to speak to one of us... to
me...  sooner. You know, I am sure, how very much I hate bullying and
gossip. Such things should not be allowed to blight the happiness of
anyone's childhood years.

"Now I will be honest with you, Lucy. You are a very unusual girl.
You have... shall we say... your little blind spots, hm? I don't mean
to be rude. For in other ways, you show signs of real brilliance.
Schools like this should make it possible for girls like you to reach
your true potential in a world which is very much controlled by men.
Girls like you, Lucy, are not one in a thousand, nor even one in a
million. Perhaps one in a hundred million.  Mrs Probert has been
talking to me about your mathematics."

"Please, Ma'am, Mrs Probert is a wonderful teacher..."

"I am well aware of it, and it does you credit that you say so, Lucy
dear.  Mrs Probert tells me quite openly that some of your recent
work she can scarcely even understand. You know that Professor
Anderton..."

"...Will be visiting next Thursday?"

"Quite so. Good. He is very interested in you. I think he would like
you to work in his department, my dear."

Carter blushes deeply and kicks her feet to and fro.

Mrs Cunningham adopts a more sombre, portentous tone.

"Lucy, indeed we have failed you. I am so sorry that you have endured
such treatment for so long - without complaint. I know we're taught
not to complain. But to suffer so much, for so long, in silence...
Why, Walmsley was almost in tears when she spoke of it..."

"Mrs Cunningham, may I interrupt to say something?"

"Yes, Lucy?"

"Ma'am, Walmsley is good."

Mrs Cunningham waits for a moment, as if the sentence is incomplete.
"Good what?"

"There is no vice in her, Ma'am. Her heart is open. I don't know
anything else, but her heart is open. No one has ever known her do an
unkind thing."

"Yes, Lucy, that is well said. We are proud of her... She even
suggested that it might be better if you were to share her quarters,
which was very generous of her. However, of course that is quite
impossible. Nonetheless, you cannot remain in your dormitory. Things
have clearly gone too far."

"I should be so grateful, Ma'am."

"Walmsley tells me that your bed was found to be excessively damp."

"Oh yes. I thought that was well known. People like to say that I wet
the bed."

"This is intolerable!"

"It is one of the jokes, Ma'am. Sometimes it is merely water upon the
pillow."

"How it pains me to hear this, Lucy! I am ashamed of our prefects for
not preventing such disgraceful bullying. I apologize to you, and I
shall do my utmost to ensure that such a thing never happens again at
Hepplewhite. As for you, I think it best that henceforth you stay in
the home of one of our members of staff, as a member of the family. I
have spoken both to Mrs Probert and to Miss Paulson..."

"Miss Paulson!"

"...And both are very willing to accommodate you. You would prefer to
stay with Miss Paulson?"

Lucy blushes and nods, biting her lip.

"Then it shall be arranged. Now go and rest, dear."

* * *

"Why, Benson, what's the matter?"

Benson has just burst into Carry's study without knocking. "Walmsley!
Have you heard what they're saying about you?"

Carry's surprise is genuine. Having learned that it is Denning's time
of the month, she has had to transfer the anonymous letter
surreptitiously to Shipman's pigeon-hole: only three hours have
elapsed since.  Truly, the word has travelled quickly.

She affects ignorance: "Will you tell me, then?"

"It is a scandal, Walmsley. They say that you have taken Carter into
your bed. Of course I said that was absurd. But we must do something,
Walmsley.  Things are getting out of hand!"

"I shall tell you an interesting story in a moment, Benson. But
first, please just look quietly into my bedroom. Try not to make too
much noise."

When Benson returns, she is pale and staring.

"So it is true! And she is quite obviously naked! Walmsley, you must
be mad!  Are you trying to get expelled? And what about her?"

Carry stretches back in her chair, reaching into the air with her
fists. She smooths her long blonde tresses.

"Her bed was wetted last night, Benson. It was a practical joke. I
decided to let her sleep here with me. I informed Mrs Cunningham
first thing this morning - and I might say that she commended me for
my kindness. It appears that Carter's parents are exceedingly rich,
Benson. Mrs Cunningham was very unhappy to learn that we prefects had
been unable to protect Carter from bullying. She is very much afraid
that unless we take extreme care of Miss Carter from now on, her
parents might take exception and whisk their very gifted daughter
away from Hepplewhite. I need hardly say that Mrs Cunningham does not
relish that prospect."

Benson sits down heavily in the armchair beside the revolving
bookcase. She swivels it aimlessly to and fro with one finger.

"I see. I must apologize. I fear I leapt to the wrong conclusion."

"Yes. You were meant to. Carter has been the victim of malicious
rumours before, you know, Benson. I decided to try to discover the
source of those rumours. That is why I myself started this particular
one at ten o'clock this morning."

"You started it?"

"Yes. Since I had my suspicions about her, I left an anonymous note
in Shipman's pigeon hole. And within a few short hours the story is
all over the school."

"Shipman!"

"Felicity Shipman."

"Then she must be punished! We must make an example of her! We must go
to Mrs Cunningham!"

"I fear the situation is not quite that simple, Benson. Consider: the
anonymous letter was a deliberate trap. I do not think Mrs Cunningham
would be pleased to know that I wrote it - nor should I like her to.
And in any case, Carter is quite adamant that she does not wish
Shipman to be punished.  Rather, she wishes her to be taught a
lesson."

"I see. But how?"

"I think this is something we may be able to deal with ourselves,
don't you agree?"

"I suppose so. What had you in mind?"

Musing, Carry takes a shuttlecock from her desk. "We have the away
match at the end of the week. I wouldn't like this to be damaged."
She turns it to and fro.  "Shipman is not really a bad person,
Benson. No worse than all the other people who spread rumours. But
have you not noticed, during the Scientific Society meetings, that
friend Shipman has quite a sense of humour?  She likes to make people
laugh, does she not?"

Eyeing the goose quills in the shuttlecock, Benson grasps Carry's
meaning.

"You mean... as your mother likes to chastise the maids?"

"Precisely so."

"We cannot do it here. She would make too much noise."

"Shortly, Carter will have a room in Miss Paulson's cottage. She will
be able to come and go as she pleases. She will admit us."

"But what about Miss Paulson?"

"There are the staff meetings on Friday afternoons. They never last
less than an hour. That should be quite long enough."

Benson's eyes gleam like the sword of justice. "I should love to
help."

"I was hoping you would offer. Perhaps you could obtain some rope from
the groundsman. Four three-foot lengths should suffice, don't you
think?"

"It will be a very great pleasure."

"Thank you, Benson. And perhaps you could inform Mrs Cunningham about
the rumour. No doubt she will wish to call an Assembly."

"Certainly. And if I were you, Walmsley, I'd get young Miss Carter out
of here as soon as you can."

* * *

It is midnight. The atmosphere in the dormitory has been solemn,
chastened by Mrs Cunningham's severe words at the evening Assembly.
One thoughtful spirit, however, is very much awake.

"Psst! Vicky!"

"Wha... What? Oh, Shipman!"

"Let me in, I'm getting cold!"

"Bohhh..." Penrose turns over languidly. "Come on, then..."

Shipman chuckles, and holds her fingers to Penrose's nose.

"Pooh! Lord, Shipman, what have you been doing? As if I couldn't
guess..." Giggling, Penrose pushes Shipman's hand away. "Anyway, what
do you want?"

"Well, I've been thinking about that note."

"Oh, yeah... The note."

"Well... Who could have written it?"

"I don't know."

"And why put it in my pigeon-hole? ...You didn't write it, did you?"

"No, of course not. Why would I do something like that?" Penrose
yawns.  She is very tired; but Shipman's wakefulness banishes sleep.

"Well I don't know. Why would anybody? - Unless... Wait a minute. What
was it you told Carter? Someone had a crush on her, yes? And that if
she pretended to have an affair with you, she'd make that someone
jealous. Isn't that right?"

Penrose stiffens, and is silent.

"Well, isn't it?" Shipman persists.

"Yes, more or less..."

"That is what we agreed, was it not?"

"It was not quite as simple as that. You see, she didn't believe that
anyone could have a crush on her. I had to persuade her that it was
true."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said that her mystery admirer was so afraid of the ridicule if
anyone so much as suspected, that she never missed the opportunity to
speak ill of her."

"Oh! You didn't!"

"Yes, I did. Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Shipman is silent.

"Well, isn't it?" Penrose feels a flush of righteous anger on
Carter's behalf.

Shipman sighs into the pillow. Penrose senses her friend's contrition.
Her anger melts; she extends a comforting arm.

"You should tell her you're sorry."

"Yes." Shipman rolls on to her back and stares at the high dormitory
ceiling.

"You were too upset to notice the harm you did."

"Perhaps."

"She will forgive you."

"Perhaps."

There is a long silence. When Vicky Penrose yawns, Shipman speaks
again.

"Vicky: that changes everything, don't you see? Of course she wants to
know who it is that has a crush on her. Who wouldn't?"

"You mean...?"

"I mean she suspected me. That was why that note was put into my
pigeon-hole. To see if it was I!"

"You mean that the note was from Carter? But who would wish to create
such a scandal about herself - and implicate Walmsley, of all
people?"

"Carter is not stupid, you know, Vicky. She made sure there was a
perfectly innocent explanation.  She couldn't have written the note
herself, don't forget.  She must have prevailed upon someone else to
write it for her."

"Then who did write it?"

"Walmsley, of course. Lucy could never have allowed a rumour like that
to spread without Walmsley's consent." Shipman yawns too, now.

"You really think she could get Walmsley to do that?"

Shipman wriggles out of the bed. For a moment she stands, a pale,
ghostly figure, the white night-shirt streaked by her long black
tresses.

"Lucy really is not stupid, you know."

Penrose reflects. It seems improbable; but perhaps Shipman is right.
She looks up to reply: but Shipman has gone.

* * *

The caretaker answers the knock at his window in the stable yard. It
is Shipman. "Good afternoon, Miss, and what may I do for you?"

Shipman is all wide-eyed supplication.  "Miss Walmsley sent me, Sir,
to ask if you would be so good as to oil the hinges of her doors -
for the wretched things are creaking so!"

"Ben!" The caretaker turns to his wizened assistant. "Take the oilcan
up to the Head Girl's rooms directly, if you please, and oil the
locks and hinges."

"Miss Walmsley will be so grateful!" Shipman flashes him a winning
smile and trips away gaily. Everything is going so well!

* * *

"Shipman! What in heaven's name..."

It is the afternoon recreation period, and Shipman is at Walmsley's
door.  She is carrying a battery, and wearing a look of triumph.

"This thing is killing me, Walmsley. Do you have a bedside table?"

"Yes, but..."

"Please let me just put it down."

Mystified, Carry guides Shipman to her bedroom, where Shipman
carefully disposes of her burden and casts herself, exhausted, upon
the bed with an explosive sigh.

"How on earth did you get that battery?"

"Simple. I went to Miss Paulson and explained that since there was to
be an away match soon, you decided it would be helpful if the entire
team could be given a comprehensive dose of the electrical
treatment."

"You said that I..."

"Yes." Shipman sounds very pleased with herself. "Rather than take up
too much of her time, you thought it would be more convenient if you
were to borrow a battery and keep it here. It worked like magic.
Actually, Walmsley, I think I saw her blush a little when I mentioned
your name. Do you think perhaps she feels a little tenderness in your
direction?"

"My goodness!" Carry turns to the window for fear that Shipman will
notice her flaming cheeks.

Shipman does. "I thought you'd be pleased. Think of the fun we can
have!"

"Yes, yes of course..." Carry murmurs vaguely.

"You could get the team to come and have a treatment each evening...
and you've got it all to yourself for the night." Shipman raises
herself on one elbow. "Aren't you pleased, Walmsley?"

There is a long pause; and then, suddenly, Carry begins to laugh. She
sits on the edge of the bed, laughing. "Shipman... You are
astonishing. You really are."

"So do I get my reward?"

"Reward?"

"Yes. There's an hour of recreation left, and I think I'd rather like
a proper dose of electricity without stupid people grabbing my ankles
and shouting out my pulse rate every fifteen seconds. Not to mention
the outrage of busybodies jumping like frightened chickens and
whipping the contacts away when I'm just about to come!"

"Yes, I see what you mean."

"So, is that all right, Walmsley? I've done well, haven't I?
Remember, you've got this thing all night."

"Yes, I suppose so, Shipman. You're the limit, you truly are the
limit."

"Thank you." Shipman preens herself. "So... Do you wish to stay and
watch, Walmsley, or will you perhaps dance naked before me? Or am I
to have a little peace and quiet, now?"

"Oh, yes, of course..." Walmsley mumbles, rising and going out,
shutting the door. She shakes her head. "Why on earth did I not think
of that before?" Walmsley returns to her study, still shaking her
head slowly. In truth, there are times when she does feel rather
slow-witted, particularly when she has not had very much sleep the
night before. She settles into an armchair and falls into a light
doze.

* * *

"Hey Walmsley! Where were you? What, asleep?"

"Oh... Kershaw... what time is it?"

"It's half past four. I thought something was amiss when I didn't see
you at tea."

"Yes, I must have slept. I didn't get much sleep last night.  Er...
talking to Carter, you know."

"Yes, yes I heard about that. The Head's called an Assembly for this
evening, of course. How is Carter?"

"She's quite a tough little lady, as a matter of fact, Kershaw. Oh! I
feel giddy!"

There is a muffled moaning sound from the bedroom.

"Good Lord! What on earth was that?" Kershaw is aghast.

"Oh my goodness. That was Shipman. You won't believe this. She went to
Miss Paulson and said that I wanted to borrow one of the batteries
from the laboratory, to give the battledore team a good dose of
electricity before the match on Saturday. And what does Miss Paulson
do? She agrees without hesitation!"

"You mean to say..."

"Heavens, Kershaw... She's been in there for an hour and a half! We
have to stop her at once, or we will have a case of total exhaustion
on our hands!"

"Will she not more probably be filled with a prodigious surfeit of
energy?"

Walmsley looks at Kershaw through narrowed eyes.  "Kershaw, dear, I
think you will find that when carried a little too far, the
electrical treatment becomes... shall we say, profoundly, although
temporarily, enervating."

It is swiftly apparent that Walmsley has the better grasp of the
situation:  despite her manifest reluctance to be separated from the
electrical apparatus, Shipman is by now incapable of any significant
resistance of a non-electrical kind. By a combination of tugging,
threatening and poking, Walmsley and Kershaw propel Shipman into the
study, where she collapses into the armchair like a marionette.

"Shipman, you idiot!" Walmsley seethes. "We have a match the day
after to-morrow, and just look at you!"

"More..." croaks Shipman with a dreamy smile. "I want mo-ore..."

"Shipman, you're a disgrace! Honestly, Kershaw, what depravity!"

"How are we going to get her into class?"

"Mmmmm..." purrs Shipman, closing her eyes and snuggling her cheek
against the wing of the armchair.

"Look at her!" Walmsley kneels beside the chair. Shipman is absurdly,
infuriatingly pretty, her cheeks ruddy with health, her warm body limp
yet elegant, her smile at once satisfied, mysterious and deeply
annoying.

"Shipman darling," croons Walmsley in a musical voice, stroking
Shipman's cheek with one finger, "You've got to get up and go to
cla-ass..."

Shipman affects a babyish voice. "Mmmh... Iyum tiyud..."

"Shipman..." Walmsley's voice becomes a little threatening, "If you
don't get up this very moment, dear, and go into class, I'm going to
have to make you..."

"Na-o-wwww," croaks Shipman grumpily.

Walmsley positions her hands at Shipman's rib cage, her fingers like
talons.

"Shipman..." she sings; but Shipman is blissfully unaware of her
imminent peril.

Her scream, when she is finally compelled to bound from the chair,
might have reduced a chandelier to dust: seconds later, Walmsley
collapses laughing over the arm of her chair at the clatter of
Shipman's precipitate departure.

Kershaw shakes her head slowly. "That girl is extraordinary... exactly
like a cat!"

"A cat who has had far, far too much of a good thing."

"Yes..." Kershaw muses. "You'd think she actually enjoyed that
extraordinary electrical feeling."

"Oh I do assure you, Kershaw, Miss Shipman has a most stoical
temperament.  There is no inconvenience, no discomfort she would not
subject herself to for the greater good of the school team."

Kershaw shakes her head in feigned disbelief.

"Kershaw, we'll let the other members of the team come up for some
electricity after the evening Assembly. But we will make it a rule:
five minutes each, at a maximum. But for you, Kershaw, perhaps ten.
For the good of your soul, don't you know."

"If you think so, Walmsley."

"I like a girl with true courage, Kershaw. It will improve your game
no end, I know it will."

* * *

After dinner, Miss Paulson introduces Carter to her new
accommodation.  Having helped her to put her clothes away in the
spare bedroom, they return downstairs to what serves Miss Paulson as
both sitting room and study.

"See, we have an extra chair for you, and for now you may work at this
end of the table while I work at that. Are these your papers?"

"Yes, Miss Paulson."

"Why, what is this? May I look?"

Carter nods anxiously.

It is a sheaf of papers containing various diagrams and complex
mathematical formulae. The few words are written in a large, round,
childish hand; and several are most comically misspelt. Yet it is
quite apparent that the whole is the product of an astonishingly
acute and rarified mind.

"Why Carter... this is most extraordinary..." Miss Paulson puzzles for
a moment over the misspellings. "It is a monograph upon... the
resonance of springs - is that so?"

Again Carter nods, biting her lower lip as if in fear of harsh
correction:  for despite Mrs Probert's kind assurances, and the
encouraging letter from the Professor, she cannot forget the
horrified disapproval her work customarily arouses.

"That is most astonishing. I begin to understand why Mrs Probert
speaks so highly of you. Perhaps, when it is finished, you would like
me to set it down fairly for you."

"That would be a great kindness, Miss. And..." Carter looks down for
a moment, as if searching for the appropriate words.

"Yes, Carter?" Miss Paulson prompts kindly.

"I was wondering if you could help me to set it down in French, you
know."

"In French? Why, certainly, if I can. But why?"

"I wished to send a copy to my uncle."

"Is he French?"

"He is at the university in Saint Petersburg. See, these are his
letters. He has been most encouraging."

Miss Paulson sees the sheaf of letters, neatly tied with a ribbon.

"I had assumed that those were from your parents."

"Oh no." Carter says it dismissively, as if she would as soon receive
a letter from the Emperor of China. "Were I to attempt a reply, I
should only remind them of their disappointment."

Miss Paulson sighs, remembering her own parents. "I take it, then,
that like me you have no brothers?"

"No, I have not; but that is not the only reason. Elsie, my elder
sister, wrote beautiful letters; but alas she died."

"Oh no!"

"It was long ago. I think they love me. They say they want me to
progress in my mathematics. But I do not think they can have any
other hopes for me."

Miss Paulson is touched by Carter's wistfulness.

"Come, Carter: I have some camomile tea. We will brew it upon the
fire, and have a warming cup together before bed."

Delighted by the prospect of this unexpected treat, Carter can only
hunch her shoulders and beam a grateful, crooked smile. The light in
her eye radiates such surprised eagerness that Miss Paulson finds it
impossible to suppress a chuckle.

* * *

After lights-out, Shipman composes herself, forcing her mind to be
still.  Unusually, she holds her arms rigidly by her sides.
Gradually, she becomes serene. "This usually works," she thinks to
herself, as she raises her head and bangs it down upon the pillow
five times. It always works, though nobody knows why. Within seconds,
she is asleep.

And, as if by magic, she is suddenly awake as the bell high on the
roof chimes its mechanical five. In the dark, Shipman raises herself
suddenly.  There is nothing but quiet breathing. Quietly, hastily,
she dresses herself, breathing sharply in the cold morning air. Then,
carrying her shoes, she pads noiselessly to Walmsley's rooms.

* * *

It was so easy! So easy! Time and again, Shipman has had to pause,
panting, at every creak of the floorboards; but nothing stirs.

Walmsley's bedroom is still warm, the coals upon the fire now but a
dull glow.  And what a sight is here! The esteemed Head Girl, all
uncovered, prone now, her night-gown gathered up above her waist. Her
hands are upon the pillow, submerged in a sea of golden tresses. And
if reason were sought for such an abandoned, shameless pose, the
battery wires are fallen untidily upon the floor.

As quietly as she can, Shipman strips for action, ready for Walmsley's
least untoward movement; but the Head Girl is lost in deepest
slumber.  Gently, gently Shipman places one knee upon the bed, then
hauls herself up, straddles Walmsley's waist. Lightly, carefully,
Shipman begins to touch.  After an initial groan, Walmsley parts her
legs a little more. Clearly she is having happy dreams. But all too
soon,

"Uh... Georgie?" Walmsley is awake.

Shipman manages to maintain her gentle stimulation despite her gale of
quiet laughter. "I might have guessed! Not tonight, Walmsley!"

"Hey... what?" Carry tries to move, but Shipman has her too well
pinned, and her knowing touches are irresistible. "O Lord... 
Shipman...  It has to be you..."

"Hush, Walmsley. Just relax."

Walmsley groans again. After a couple of ineffectual heaves, Shipman
feels her victim succumb to the delicious movement of her expert
fingers. "O my Lord... Stop it... O God... O stop it, Shipman, ha
ha..."

"You awake now, Walmsley?"

"O God... what are you doing to me, Shipman? Aahh..."

"What's the matter? Don't you like spiders?"

"Haha... O God..."

Shipman's movements slow and gradually still. Walmsley's hips begin to
buck in passionate frustration.

"I want to talk to you, Walmsley." Shipman's fingers begin their slow,
exotic dance once more.

"Ooohhh... Ohhh..." Walmsley is incoherent, her intimate tumescence
awash with the slick evidence of her helpless delight. "O Shipman...
O Shipman, that's incredible..."

"The trouble with you aristocrats, Walmsley," says Shipman smoothly,
"is that you have no imagination. In a hundred years' time, you will
all be pushing handcarts. It will be those with intelligence -
doctors, lawyers, scientists - who will have the power... You
duchesses and countesses will all be eating out of our hands... won't
you?" Shipman abruptly ceases her movements, well aware that upon
their resumption, Walmsley's pleasure - and her gratitude - will be
more than doubled.

"O Shipman... oh what... O please! Don't stop now!" Walmsley is
desperate.

"You like spiders, do you, Walmsley?" Shipman knows very well:
Walmsley's copious leakage speaks for itself.

"O please!"

"Do you? Hm?"

"Yes, Shipman, yes I like spiders... Aaah!"

Shipman gives a musical little laugh as she gently, exquisitely
brings Walmsley to the very brink; then pauses once more.

"Agh Shipman!" quivering, Walmsley pounds her fists into her pillow in
an agony of frustration. "For heaven's sake... Oooohh..."

Shipman resumes with the very slowest, gentlest of touches, so that
Walmsley cannot at first be sure that she feels anything.  "There,
Walmsley, just float, dear... Just relax and float... You're in my
web now, aren't you?"

Walmsley gives a self-indulgent sigh. It is a lovely web. Why try to
resist?  She drools into her pillow. Shipman is so wonderfully
clever.

"I know you wrote that note, Walmsley. The note about Carter."

Walmsley tries to gather enough resolve to counter this statement, but
the delicious agony eats away her strength. "Uhhh..." she gasps in
acquiescence.

"You did, didn't you?"

"Ahh... yes, yes..."

"Good." After rewarding her victim with a few more delectable strokes,
Shipman withdraws her hand, allowing Walmsley enough time to register
the import of her confession. When she groans, Shipman continues, "It
would not reflect well on the Walmsley honour were Mrs Cunningham to
know who wrote that note - now would it?"

Walmsley shudders.

Smoothly, Shipman resumes: "I hold all the cards, Walmsley. Don't you
think it would be most sensible if we worked together, hm?"

"Yes, all right Shipman, all right, if only..."

"There, there, Walmsley, I knew you'd be sensible." Shipman gently
resumes her delicious movements. "Here's something lovely you can
teach to Georgie," she murmurs sweetly to the accompaniment of
Walmsley's increasingly impassioned gasps. "After you've done this to
her, she won't be able to resist you, Walmsley. She will never be
able to say 'no' to you again - h'm?  Will she now?"

It is one of the privileges of the Head Girl at Hepplewhite that she
sleeps a little apart from the rest, and is thus able to surrender to
the final onslaught of pleasure without regard to the sensitivities
of light sleepers.  In the event, Miss Walmsley signals its arrival
with something of a bellow; and in the tremulous, shuddering
aftermath, she is most receptive to Shipman's patient explanation of
what she is to do.

"...So you see, Walmsley," Shipman concludes, "I could threaten you
with exposure, but I don't need to, do I? You see that I have the
right of it.  And when all is said and done, it is much more sensible
to work with me than against, now isn't it? I've been a good friend,
haven't I? I brought you the battery. And I have a wonderful plan for
the away match, Walmsley. Yes, my dear, you shall see: we shall be
invincible.  Just think what we can accomplish together, working as
friends?  Hmm?"

Walmsley nods. "Very well, Shipman. I'm sure you're right."

Shipman snuggles closer. "Say, Walmsley... do you think you could
manage another, hmm?"

"O Shipman, I don't think I could... Oh... perhaps I could... O
Shipman!"

"Hush, Walmsley! Hush, dear... Just think what this will do to
Georgie...  Remember now... just float..."

"Ohh..."

"That's it... just float..."

It is a tribute to Miss Shipman's skill that Walmsley is as unaware of
her departure, some fifty minutes before the waking bell, as she was
of her silent arrival.

* * *

The Matron is surprised to see Miss Shipman in the infirmary: everyone
has been remarking on how she has blossomed into the picture of
health this term.

"What is the trouble, Miss Shipman?" she asks sympathetically.

"Miss Gurney sent me to ask if we might have two rolls of bandage -
for the away match tomorrow, don't you know. In case of any sprains.
Of course we'll return them immediately after."

"Well, that is an unusual request... But really, I don't see why not.
Let me see..." Matron pulls open a drawer. "Yes, here we are. We have
plenty. Take three: better to be safe than sorry!"

"You are so very kind, I'm sure, Matron," murmurs Shipman, gratefully
fluttering her eyelashes.

"Aah... such beautiful manners," muses Matron, staring after Shipman
as she skips away in glee. "- And such a lovely, graceful curtsey."

* * *

"Of course I can drive!" It is with some hauteur that Miss Paulson
declines the ostler's repeated offer to take the reins. "I have
driven in Paris, you know!"

Unsure what sort of a qualification this might be, the ostler merely
tugs his forelock and wishes the ladies a good afternoon.

Miss Paulson looks splendid in one of her finest frocks, grey with
dazzling, effervescent white lace. It is perhaps fortunate that the
impressionable Carry is not here to see her: instead, Shipman and
Carter in their plain but elegant dark blue dresses, trimmed with
red.

Miss Paulson eyes the duo with quiet amusement: they seem to be acting
so unnaturally.

Carter is particularly awkward in Shipman's presence - constantly
blushing, turning away, twitching her shoulders, one minute aloof,
the next sneaking glances at her companion. As for Shipman - she
seems relatively at ease; but there is something almost coquettish in
her manner. If one did not know that such things were quite
impossible, one would imagine that she might be making eyes at her
companion; but at other times her manner could not be more aloof.
Friends sometimes have their little disagreements; and Miss Paulson
guesses this may be at the root of this pair's odd behaviour.
Tactfully, she says nothing, but assists the young ladies into the
trap.

At opposite ends of the bench, pressed into the corners, Shipman and
Carter affect to admire the view. After a little while, Carter
adjusts her skirts with a cross little motion. She senses Shipman's
gaze. After a moment, she half-turns. Did Shipman suddenly turn her
head? She thinks so. She crosses her legs; then uncrosses them once
more and turns away irritably.  She readjusts her skirts; and, for
good measure, straightens her back, thrusting out her breast to its
best advantage.

After a while, Shipman slowly turns to look at Carter, whose attention
is resolutely fixed on the glories of the countryside. But her light
brown hair is tied back so neatly, so strictly, and oh! - Shipman's
hands tighten in her lap.  When at length Carter straightens in her
seat, Shipman avoids her eye, trying to breathe normally. Over and
over in her mind, she rehearses the words she needs to say. But she
cannot both look, and say them. She closes her eyes and tries to
summon her strength.

"Carter... I'm truly sorry about the rumours... the bullying... I beg
your pardon for my part in it. I am so very ashamed..." She extends
her hand a little towards Carter, then rests it upon the seat between
them. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us... to
forgive me."

Carter has not moved. She is still looking away; but perhaps she is
breathing a little faster than before.

Shipman looks down at the floor of the trap. She blinks her tears
away. But then her heart leaps; for though Carter has not turned, she
has rested her own small hand upon Shipman's, lightly, reassuringly.
Shipman blinks away more tears; she interlaces her fingers with
Carter's and gives a little squeeze of gratitude. She thinks, she
thinks there is an answering pressure; and then, with a little sigh,
Carter withdraws her hand.

After a while, Carter senses Shipman's gaze: she can feel it.  She
thrusts her shoulders back. She turns very slightly and a quick
glance confirms it:  mystery lover or not, Shipman is most certainly
looking at her. She bites her lip. She crosses her legs: she has to.
To be admired is very charming, after all, even by someone as
unprincipled as Shipman.

* * *

It is not long before they arrive at the clockmaker's. Mr Jepson
greets them respectfully and leads them into the large workshop at
the back.

"Here is the mechanism you asked for, ladies," he says, taking them to
the end of a long oaken work-bench. There, amid a profusion of tools
and tiny components, is the mechanism, carefully made to Shipman's
and Carter's design.

"Oh, is that not rather heavy?" asks Carter.

"I can machine away a little more of the brass if you wish," he
replies.

"I think if you were to take some away from here... and here..."
Carter points.

"Very good, miss."

"Oh! May I see how it is done?" cries Shipman.

"Very well... I'll just bring it over here..."

Shipman and Miss Paulson follow Mr Jepson to watch the milling, which
is done on a machine at the far rear of the workshop. Carter remains,
suddenly interested in a coil spring which had lain unnoticed upon
the bench.

"Mmmm," she murmurs to herself, "this is just the kind of thing, just
exactly..." Supporting herself on her elbows, she stoops and takes it,
and turns it to and fro in her fingers.

Immersed in her thoughts, she does not notice when Master Philip
Jepson enters the workshop behind her, having just descended from the
store-rooms with a parcel of lead.

"Oh!" he says, startled, for the very last thing he expected to
encounter in the workshop was the elegant posterior of a smart young
gentlewoman decorously leaning over the work-bench. How prettily,
too, her light brown hair is put up into a neat bun!  He is a fine,
fresh-faced, upstanding lad of fifteen years, already becoming quite
expert in his father's trade.  Wistfully, he realizes that young
ladies of this quality are far beyond his social aspirations; but it
will surely do no harm to summon all his charm.  He affects a smile
which he hopes will be both polite and ingratiating.  "Ahem! Excuse
me, Miss."

The exquisite creature turns; and at once his smile turns to a look
of dismay: for this young woman is astonishingly plain, and wall-eyed
to boot!

Seeing his face fall, Carter completes his discomfiture by pulling a
deliberately hideous grimace. Then she turns back, as if to
contemplate her spring.  "What do I care?" she thinks angrily to
herself. "What should I care what a tradesman's son thinks of me?"
But the memory of that vanishing smile will return to mortify her
many times over the next few weeks.

But then Master Philip catches sight of a truly heavenly vision:
Felicity Shipman, who, with the others, is making her way back to her
friend's side, clutching a small piece of brass in both hands. To his
eye, her sinuous motion is the epitome of grace; her little smile
sets his heart racing.

"Is that not more faithful to our design?" she asks of Carter; but a
glance at the young man prompts her to thrust out her hip
provocatively.

Carter takes the object and probes it carefully. "Yes, I think this
will answer. But Sir, I wonder if you have a short length of spring
steel - perhaps of five gauge?"

"I believe I have some somewhere, Miss. I pray you, just one
moment..." Mr Jepson turns to his son. "Well, stow that with the
others, and then, on with thy work: don't stand there gawping!"

With a rosy-cheeked smile, Philip puts down his burden and retreats
upstairs to the store-room. Shipman's answering smile fades into a
blush as she turns back to find that Carter has been eyeing her
balefully.

In a moment, Mr Jepson is back, two short lengths of spring steel in
his hand.

"I have this in five, Miss, or this longer piece in six."

Carter looks a moment, then says, "The five is quite long enough. Now
would it be possible to affix just twenty-five sixteenths to this
spring, here, across-wise, with no more than five grains of lead? For
I have something particular in mind..."

Mr Jepson looks for an instant to Miss Paulson.  At her nod, he takes
the spring carefully from Carter. "Just where, Miss?"

"I have marked it here, do you see?"

"Very good, Miss."

Mr Jepson carries the spring to a spirit-lamp. Leaning on his elbows,
he carefully affixes the prescribed length of steel to the coil
spring, across-wise as instructed. The three women watch him at his
work.

"There, now, Miss," he says, standing back and removing his eye-glass,
"I think that may hold."

"It seems well done," says Carter, carefully taking the spring from
his huge but nimble fingers. "And now I pray, could you bite
seventeen grains' weight of shot upon the end, just here?"

Again Mr Jepson looks for confirmation to Miss Paulson, who raises an
eyebrow and inclines her head in assent.

Mr Jepson weighs some shot, bends to his lamp again, and melts the
little leaden ball on to the steel so that it is neat and round.

"There... with the resin, that should hold, I think," he says, blowing
upon it to cool it before handing it back to Carter. "But may I
enquire, Miss, why you desire so strange a contrivance?"

"I am thinking," Carter responds softly, "about the properties of
springs and their motion."

"Miss Carter is a mathematician," explains Miss Paulson.

Mr Jepson's expression stiffens into one of respect.

Shipman disguises her puzzlement with an archly raised eyebrow and a
bewitching little smile. She is about to make a slightly derisive
comment, but checks herself: Miss Paulson's countenance makes it
plain that she takes Carter's strange preoccupation very seriously.

For once, Carter is not blushing, but is regarding the spring with
intent, childish fascination.  Cautiously, she extends a finger and
flicks the end of the spring. She watches its vibration, and appears
satisfied. "Lovely," she murmurs, "just lovely." Her mouth sets in a
tiny smile.

Now Shipman is entranced. "How very pretty her mouth is - when she has
it closed," she thinks. And when, their business done, they make
their way out through the shop, she does not notice Master Jepson at
the foot of the stairs, worshipping her with his eyes.

In the trap once more, Carter holds the spring up in her left hand
and touches it exploringly with her right index finger, sometimes
flexing it one way, sometimes another.

"What are you going to do with it, Carter?" Shipman is gazing intently
at her now.

"I'm going to think about it. Just feel how it moves... and think
about it," says Carter mysteriously.

Shipman finds the motion of Carter's finger oddly hypnotic.

* * *

Miss Paulson looks up from her marking. It is nearly nine o'clock, and
the candle is getting low. Lucy Carter is seated in the armchair by
the fire. In her hands, she holds her spring, which she occasionally
stretches and flexes, absorbed in thought. Miss Paulson smiles. It is
pleasant to have company in the little cottage, and Lucy is an
agreeable, tranquil soul.

Aware of Miss Paulson's gaze, Lucy looks up and returns the smile.
Neither of them speaks.

For Miss Paulson, Lucy's presence has an additional advantage: there
is now no question of Carry repeating the rash behaviour of that
unforgettable night. At the thought of Carry, a mix of sorrow and
yearning floods her heart: but to hope is madness, this she knows.
With a sigh and a little shake of her head, she returns to her
marking.

Later, curled in her comfortable bed, Lucy marvels at Miss Paulson's
extraordinary self-discipline. What finer, more inspiring example
could a young woman aspire to emulate? She listens to the rhythmic
sounds, clearly audible through the thin wall.  Whatever Miss Paulson
is doing, it seems an astonishingly strenuous form of exercise for so
late an hour; but no doubt it promotes deep and restorative slumber. 
Half asleep, Lucy hears a sudden, grating moan.

"Goodness," she thinks, "I hope she hasn't strained herself too
badly."

But then there is a happy sigh, and within moments the two occupants
of the little gamekeeper's cottage are cosily asleep.

* * *

(To be continued in part IVb)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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