Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  Not as much as I am.

  The bill was settled with the flash of a piece of plastic. (What would Lord Danverson think of that, and come to that, what was Lord Danverson's name? Bedded by someone whose name she didn't know!) The journey back to the office was conducted in high spirits and a promise of more financial work. Mr Wilkins'll be pleased, thought Abbey, going back to her desk, pretending not to see Jane's envious look and Sue's wink as she passed.

  "It's called keeping the clients happy," she told herself, as the pile of files continued to glare at her. At least they hadn't been added to while she was out, although the pile of telephone messages had. Sighing, she pulled the phone over and began to call the clients.

  More clients to keep happy.

  What about me?

  I like the book idea. I'm going to write it. Soon as I get home I'll do what I told Kenneth I'd already done, and perhaps...

  Make some money as well as having adventures.

  Why can't I write about what I experience?

  Wow! What a thought! Truth on paper and no one but no one would know it was real!

  "Hello, Johnson Bailey? This is Mr Wilkins" secretary at Brooks Wilkins & Co."

  NOW

  "Listen, people, we have a problem." Alfred Fitzpaine, accountant by day, stage manager at night. Abbey smiled to herself. How strange it was that when people got into a theatre, they threw off inhibitions and became totally different. She knew Alfred very well from work, and knew he was normally a quiet man whose voice barely rose above a whisper. But here, in the echoing auditorium of the King's Theatre/Community Centre he boomed and directed, ordered and at times even stormed about. Will the real Alfred Fitzpaine please step forward?

  He started on about set designs, props needed urgently to complete the scenario, and Abbey let her mind wander.

  "... and then there's the question of costume. I want each of you to take your costume away with you and get it fitted properly, make sure you feel at home in it, walk around in it. You can't be at home in it until everything comes naturally, climbing steps, sitting, standing, moving, without catching everything on the tables! Particularly you men, you're not used to having a heavy sword hanging by your side, and it's a tall order for you to move around the stage."

  The realisation struck Abbey like the thunderbolt she was sure had struck Mrs Dawson-Page that afternoon.

  The red-and-black dress. It was still in Lord Danverson's room, along with a heap of petticoats and a chemise, stockings and even her slippers! All there, all - Machine-stitched and made of materials not found in that time.

  Damn and blast and damn again! I have to get back there, I have to rescue the clothes!

  "Abbey, I've decided I'd rather you wore a more sober dress than originally planned. I think the red and black is too startling for a goodwife, so would you mind wearing a purple?"

  "Of course not."

  "You can bring the red-and-black one back next rehearsal. Stevie, darling, if Abbey brings the red-and-black one, would you like it? I think with your blonde hair it will look quite striking."

  First I have to get it.

  Rehearsals seemed to last forever. Stevie was in one of her petulant moods and refused to speak above a normal voice, no matter that Alfred was sitting halfway back from the stage and couldn't hear a thing. Abbey felt oddly out of place in jeans and shirt. She knew Alfred was right, you needed to wear the costumes to get it right. After all, she had put on a superb performance for Castle Danverson and its guests yesterday.

  Yesterday? Was that all it was? It felt like months ago! The red lines had faded, leaving just a few marks here and there for the mirror to show her that morning, leaving just the sense of loss and a touch of melancholy.

  At last the rehearsal was called to a halt, Stevie pouted off the stage, Abbey swept up the purple dress, stroked the thick lace collar and huge sleeves and smiled.

  Now she had something to go back in.

  THEN

  The castle stood dreaming under the crescent-shaped midsummer moon, which was lying on its back in the blue-purple sky. Somewhere an owl hooted, a fox barked and the dogs murmured in their sleep, scratching at the fur rug and chasing rabbits in their dreams.

  Abigail slipped softly through the hall, barefoot, tiptoeing over ice-cold stones and rustling rushes. The lingering scent of ale and food seemed to hold the sound of voices and music, the castle itself hung over from the midsummer ball. A good time was had by all.

  A brindle bitch raised her head and growled deep in her throat. Abigail held out her hand. The dog reluctantly got to her feet, came over and sniffed the outstretched hand, taking the offer of friendship for what it was - a mere interruption to dreams. It went back to the warmth of the glowing embers.

  Stone stairs did not creak, and Abigail slid quietly along against the bannister, holding on to the thick oak rail with one hand to guide her. Torchlight flickered and went out; only the crescent moon, thin and unwilling, shone onto the landing.

  Four doors along.

  The pageboy sleeping at the door opened his eyes wide in shock and almost shrieked. Abigail put one hand to her lips and held the other out to touch him, but he fled in sheer terror.

  The latch clicked loud enough to rouse the dead of Wal-church, but Lord Danverson slept on.

  And there, piled neatly on the chest, lay her dress, petticoats, chemise and slippers. Abigail put the slippers on and hung the clothes over her arm. Lord Danverson twisted and turned on the bed but showed no signs of waking. It was possible the ale would keep him sleeping for some time. In the morning, no doubt with a sore head and bad temper, perhaps he would not remember the clothes.

  She could but hope.

  One glance in the ornate mirror and she was ...

  NOW

  Back in her room.

  The mirror reflected ancient light from long-gone torches, the white nightmare look of the pageboy's terror, the crescent moon and all the silvered countryside beyond the smoky windows.

  The temptation to stand in front of the mirror again was overwhelming, but Abbey turned away, touched with melancholy she could not define. She undressed and dropped the purple gown on the couch, determined not to travel again tonight, but bothered by her longing to go back immediately to that time.

  She hung the red dress behind the door, safely away from the mirror's grasp. Tomorrow would be time enough to return it to the King's Theatre wardrobe department, and tomorrow would be soon enough to plan another adventure.

  Where to this time?

  THEN

  The gathering was High Society, honourables and ladies, fluffed silk and feather outfits, the men straining against waistcoats controlled by large gold chains which, encircled them. The talk was of money and Society even higher than that gathered in the elegant drawing room.

  Abigail moved slowly around the perimeters of the crowd, seeking out a worthwhile prey. Women smiled over fans or dainty handkerchiefs, men eyed her openly. She knew the lilac silk fitted to perfection, her dark hair curled elegantly in all the right places and her lips pouted enough to attract attention. But then, any woman alone would attract attention.

  "Haven't I seen you before?" The lady's look travelled over the outfit, from buttoned boots to kid gloves, the parasol fringed and ruffled hanging nonchalantly at her side. Abigail smiled and nodded, said nothing, moved on. The woman turned back to her friends, chattering earnestly behind a gloved hand ringed with heavy jewels.

  "And the Prince of Wales said - " The man broke off and peered at Abigail through a monocle attached to his body by black silk. "By Jove, madam, you're a fine sight to behold!"

  "Why, thank you, kind sir." Abigail did a mock curtsey and edged past, heading through clouds of delicate perfume and richness of sherry in Waterford crystal, making for the tall, distinguished white-haired man she saw standing alone by the bay window. He looked oddly sad - convention dictated that you should wear a smile even if you were dying, inside or out.

  "A fine gathering."
He spoke looking out of the window, not looking in her direction.

  "I thought so."

  He turned suddenly, took in her alluring look and had the grace to blush.

  "My apologies, madam, I thought you were our hostess."

  "I think she is somewhere..." Abigail gestured toward a large group, hoping against hope that the hostess, whoever that might be, was prominently on display.

  The man nodded, the silver-white hair hardly moving. Abigail took in the expensive cut of the suit, diamond stickpin in the tie, thickness of the gold chain, and gambled.

  "You are here alone, sir?"

  "I am, for my wife is at home suffering from some ague or other."

  "I am right sorry to hear that."

  He took her hand, looked into her eyes.

  "Something about you tells me ..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing." He shook his head. "Are you alone, madam?"

  "I am." No explanation. Abigail hoped he wouldn't ask for one.

  "I admire your dress."

  "Thank you. I admire your suit." She looked around, seemingly impatient with the party while he laughed with genuine humour. "Is there somewhere we can... talk?"

  "We could go to my club."

  "A wonderful idea." Abigail accepted the proffered arm, walked past scandalised ladies who stood with mouths and eyes agape at her effrontery. Men smirked and hid their thoughts behind their hands. One of the ladies bustled over, a migraine vision of screaming cerise silk and outrageous makeup.

  "Sir Anthony, you're not leaving us already?" Abigail was blatantly ignored.

  "This lady feels a little faint, my dear Myrtle. I am taking her for a little air. And then perhaps I should be going, for you know my dear lady wife is not at all well at the moment."

  "Certainly, of course, I understand." Her look swept Abigail from head to foot, while the curl of the lip said volumes. But she was also bursting with curiosity. Surely she hadn't been invited - no one knew who she was - what was she doing here, in this gathering of London's most famous?

  "Please do give Lady Caroline my sincere condolences on her poor state of health and tell her I hope to see her at bridge next Tuesday." Gushing with insincerity. A silence had fallen over the party, a silence profound enough to be cut with a silver cake knife. Abigail stifled a giggle, turned it into a small cough. She put on a severe face, hoping she looked paler than she felt.

  "Thank you, I must go. Coming, my dear?" Sir Anthony had reacted to the slight pressure she put on his arm with consummate skill.

  The bubble of voices - "Who is that woman, how did she get here, who brought her? My dear, you must tell all!" -almost trapped them before the door closed on the train of Abigail's dress. She tugged at it and felt it tear. What the hell, it didn't matter, it was just a costume.

  The street was busy with hansom cabs and boys running messages, pedlars with their wares on trays, bells and loud voices assaulting her on all sides.

  "Violets, violets for the lady?" The tattered clothes could scarcely have kept the old woman warm. Sir Anthony tossed a few coins into the basket and chose the choicest flowers for Abigail. She accepted them with a smile and tucked them into her neckline, noting how well they went with the lilac silk.

  "I can understand Myrtle's confusion, for you are not one of her usual guests." A small dog ran past, yapping madly. A ragged boy chased after it, screaming and waving a stick. Abigail smiled and looked up into the man's deep blue eyes.

  "I am not one of Myrtle's guests. I just... appeared there."

  "Of course you did, like an angel from heaven. I won't ask any more. I do not need to ask, I just know you are a special person."

  Sir Anthony hailed a hansom cab, handed Abigail in and climbed in beside her. A smell of mould and leather musty with age, along with the strong smells from the street, horse manure, rotting vegetables and too many people.

  "Savile Row, and be quick about it."

  "Sir." The driver touched his hat with his whip, flicked the reins and the horse set off at a fast pace, weaving in and out of the traffic.

  "Damn trams shouldn't be allowed, blocking up the road, and as for the peddlars ..."

  "You'd have them all removed from the street."

  "Of course I would!" Sir Anthony fairly bristled with righteous indignation, and then softened as he saw her smile.

  "It is not every day I get to take a beautiful lady to my club. What will they make of you?"

  "I thought ladies were not allowed in clubs, Sir Anthony."

  "Oh, I just plan to stand at reception until a room becomes available. Everyone can have a look before we go up." He patted her hand. "That is what you want?"

  Abigail blushed and looked down, as flirtatiously as she could. Was it that obvious? And seriously, what did she want, the standing on view to everyone to be admired, or the going up?

  Or both?

  It seemed no distance at all to Savile Row where she was helped from the cab, her silks rustling around her silk-clad legs, silk on silk, susurrating as she moved. She was aware of the sensuous quality of her dress, and knew Sir Anthony was too.

  The club was elegant, sombre with oak panelling and discreet glass light fittings, with guests who lowered copies of The Times and looked incredulously at the woman clutching Sir Anthony's arm. Abigail could almost hear the startled murmur which ran round the members like a plague of Chinese whispers.

  "Sir Anthony." The man behind the reception desk bowed slightly and waited for a command of some kind. He didn't bat an eyelid at Abigail's appearance on Sir Anthony's arm. No doubt he had seen it all before.

  "Is there a vacant room, Thomas?"

  "There is, Sir Anthony." He reached for a key hanging from the row of hooks on the black wood pigeonholes behind the desk. "You know the way, I think," which told Abigail Sir Anthony had done this before. Perhaps not taken someone out of a Society lunch though! Well, it had given Myrtle something to talk about for the next few ... years?

  The stairs were silent, not a creak of ageing wood gave away their presence. Abigail felt herself going wet with anticipation. Oh make him good, make him strong, make him last!

  And for the sake of my peace of mind, make this the room where the mirror hangs!

  A room as dark panelled as the rest of the club, thick with long-pile carpet, rich with beautifully carved furniture and a very large bed. It had the emptiness only hotel rooms can have, no personal belongings, nothing that was not strictly useful and cold. A faint hint of lavender and beeswax polish hung in the dust motes. But what mattered was the ornate mirror over the empty hearth. Abigail shivered, as much with relief as with the chill which pervaded the room.

  "You seem cold, my dear." Sir Anthony walked over, put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. "You temptress, you! Did you believe I did not notice you there and was hoping you would approach me?"

  "I had... an idea," Abigail lied softly, fingering the diamond stickpin in the cravat and the thickness of the broadcloth jacket. Money spoke to her as much as breeding. If only there was a way of taking money back with her, all her financial problems would be at an end. I wouldn't have to write the book to make money, she thought, smiling softly.

  They sat on the end of the bed, arms around each other, Sir Anthony gently exploring the full softness of her cleavage, his fingers touching the nipples which came erect, then sliding between the two mounds. Abigail ran her fingers round his face, traced his jawline, teased and tantalised with her tongue.

  "Are you cold?" he looked at her with a quiet, almost loving smile. Abigail took it as an opportunity to get him moving further and faster.

  "Well, yes, I am."

  "There is one way of making you warm." Before Abigail could blink he had somehow slipped an arm around her waist, lifted and put her across his knees. Her silks were being dragged back, her silk briefs pulled down. In a flash she had a vision of Lord Danverson, realised this was another man who took pleasure in hurting women. And he held her so tight there
was no escape. She lay staring at the turkey-red carpet still marked by their footprints, wondering if he would hurt as much as Lord Danverson, and what she had written across her; along with the "I want sex" message she knew she radiated, was there also an invitation to subdue her?

  The pampered soft white hand slapped down again and again on her cheeks. It stung in a different way to her birching, and she screeched, struggled and fought but to no avail. Sir Anthony knew what he was doing. Eventually she gave up fighting, just absorbed the rain of smacks, heard his grunts of pleasure, fought her tears and felt the burning turn to a fiery pain. I will not cry! she told herself, feeling her face go red in perfect unison with her bottom.