Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  After what seemed an eternity he allowed her to slide to the floor, offered her a hand and pulled, so that Abigail found herself lying flat on her back on the bed, bright-eyed, red-faced and out of breath. That was not like Lord Danverson's birching, but bad enough, thank you! What is it with men lately? What's wrong with good old-fashioned fucking? Abigail tried to sit up but found she was being pushed down again.

  Sir Anthony leaned his sleek silver head close to hers.

  "Now, are you warmer? Good, in that case it is time to do this."

  He sat by her side, and gently stripped off the lilac silk, letting it fall to the floor, touching the silk-soft breasts, admiring the plucked pubis with an eyebrow-raising smile, of pleasure? Abigail allowed his fingers to wander until finally he let them slide inside the moist waiting hot body. His thumb found her clit, rubbed and teased, his other hand staying firmly on a breast, as if trapping a warm small animal in his palm.

  "Oh yes, oh yes." Abigail writhed and moaned against the fingers, aware of the burning, aware of the contradictions, loving it. "Please, please ..."

  But he did not do what she expected, strip off his clothes and enter her to send her to the heights only a real and all-encompassing orgasm could reach; instead he moved around and slipped his thumb firmly between her cheeks. One finger closed on the sensitive button of her clit, and Abigail came in a series of violent gasping orgasms that swept through her. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sheer magic, the sheer love of it.

  And opened her eyes to find Sir Anthony still neatly dressed, sitting smiling at her.

  "Now you can pleasure me." He helped her sit up and opened his fly. He was erect but not very firm. Abigail leaned forward, took him in her mouth, tasted the salt, licked, teased and worked on him, but nothing happened. He sighed a few times, stroked her head, and finally tugged at her curls.

  "Don't worry, my dear, you gave me much pleasure."

  "But I failed you."

  "No, you did everything I expected. Shall we go?"

  She dressed in the whispering silk, and slipped an arm through his.

  "Did I really please you, Sir Anthony?"

  "Oh yes, my dear, you pleased me, but it is a point of principle with me that I do not bed wanton women. I do not know what disease you might have that I would unknowingly carry to my dear wife, whom I love despite all appearances to the contrary. Here." He threw a couple of gold coins on the bed and stood up. He repeated: "You gave me a lot of pleasure."

  Abigail silently scorned his efforts to make impotence seem like a virtue, and edged closer to the magic mirror, her passport to freedom and her future, as if she needed to check the black rich curls. But she hesitated.

  She had to ask.

  "Why did you spank me? What did I do wrong?"

  Sir Anthony paused in the act of buttoning up his broadcloth jacket and smoothing it over his ample girth.

  "Why, nothing my dear, why do I need a reason to do what I like best? And you know, some women do like it, actually ask for it! Come, we must go. My wife will wonder where I am."

  And I wonder where I've heard that before!

  "First let me check my hair."

  Abigail glanced into the mirror...

  NOW

  There was a single violet petal crushed in her corset. Somehow, when hurrying back into her clothes, the better to make her escape, Abigail had managed to catch one petal in the folds. It lay in her hand, dried black, almost powdery. It was the first time she had brought something back, something that she could hold in her hand and look at.

  She prayed it couldn't do anything to the laws which governed her travelling!

  Her Bible lay in her bedside cabinet drawer, carrying its message of love from her grandmother, and the year: 1955. Never read, but treasured all the same. Abbey slipped the tiny crumbly petal into the pages and put it away. What laws of time travel stopped her going back to see her much loved grandmother once again? What stopped her doing so many things she would like to do: not throw away much-loved toys and books, or store things in the loft so they would be capable of being sold for a lot of money today?

  She didn't know, and didn't think she would ever find out, either.

  Standing under the shower, letting the hot water trickle down over her body, watching bubbles slide towards her thighs, Abbey wondered why she felt good. Sir Anthony had been a disappointment, he had looked strong, he could have gone on for ages, just what she wanted, instead he chose to finger-fuck her and allow her to do a blow job on him, to use crude terms for what had just happened in the club bedroom.

  She remembered the odd feeling of helplessness and submission when lying over his knees, awaiting what she knew would be a painful spanking, remembering the glow, the burning, the sensation which somehow transcended the pain and became pure pleasure.

  A new experience, one she had, in retrospect, enjoyed.

  She grinned suddenly, showing even white teeth at the steamy bathroom mirror.

  What would Lord Danverson think of that?

  NOW

  "Open a new file, please, Abigail. Mrs Lucinda Dawson-Page, matrimonial. And a letter: Mrs L. Dawson-Page, The Pines, Danverson Lane, Corham, Nr. Walchurch - "

  Abbey took the earphones out of her ears and laid them on the desk, hearing Mr Wilkins still murmuring on, his tiny tinny voice coming from a great distance. She felt as if she was going to faint, blamed the heat, snatched her foot from the pedal and pressed both hands to her eyes.

  Danverson Lane.

  Why had it never occurred to her that the Danversons might have been a big enough family to be remembered around here?

  And why oh why hadn't she thought about the castle existing somewhere, somehow, even in memory?

  August pressed against the windows, sultry hot, threatening thunder and brooding midges to swarm and dance in thermals no one but they could feel. The spider plant hung lifeless in its pot. Abbey made a mental note to get some water for it when she went to the Ladies later, in Danverson Lane.

  The Danversons were remembered.

  Someone might know where and how and who.

  If nothing else, I'd like to know the name of the man I bedded! Lord is nice, but not a first name, surely!

  Come on, she told herself briskly, heat or no heat, August or no August, you have work to do!

  She opened a new file and put the notes into it that Mr Wilkins had taken during his interview. Abbey lingered over the name of the man involved, Jefferson Nathaniel Stewart. Damn it, was he tall and blond? She couldn't ask outright. Mrs Dawson-Page had enough mysteries to cope with as it was!

  The real problem was that Abbey couldn't just meet Mrs Dawson-Page in reception and say: "You think you know me because we talked together at a midsummer ball in Castle Danverson in June 1625; we talked of Lord Danverson's prowess with the falcon and in bed. Or at least you said he wasn't for you because he was a cruel man with a taste for hurting women. You were right. And you went off with a tall blonde man in green doublet encrusted with gold."

  And the dress you wore was a gorgeous thing in blue and gold.

  And if your today smile is like the one you turned on me when you met me at the window, no wonder Mr Jefferson Nathaniel Stewart is taken, smitten - nay dying - with love for you!

  Mrs Dawson-Page would not believe it.

  Abbey had difficulty believing it herself.

  The tiny Ladies" room encompassed just enough room for three people provided one didn't mind being crushed against the wall where the sanitary-towel dispenser lived. Sue lit a cigarette and puffed smoke towards her reflection, pulling all sorts of sultry faces. Linda laughed and Abbey grinned more in companionship than any genuine amusement. She had her fill of smoke in the Hall at Danverson Castle; it had seemed to cling to her hair for ages.

  "Heard about that Private Shop opening up in town?" Linda pulled a few strands of mousy brown hair down around her ears and studied her image carefully.

  "What Private Shop?" Sue dispensed more
smoke efficiently, the only seasoned smoker among them. Everyone hated it but Sue had been there so long she was part of the furniture, she came along with the fixtures and fittings.

  And she was the only one who could cope with Mr Brooks' erratic dictation and filing habits.

  "Down King's Road, back of the theatre. You know, way out of the main centre. Private Shop, you know, blacked out windows, the whole bit."

  "Sounds interesting." Abbey made an effort to join in the conversation, but her thoughts were flying wildly in all directions. Ever since she came back from Lady Myrtle's soiree her thoughts had been going like a hamster in a cage on a wheel - round and round the subject of the pleasure she had felt (afterwards) and Sir Anthony's admission that some men just like to hurt women - and that some women seem to like it. Apparently she was one of them. Now there was the new twist, the Danverson family, adding to the treadmill of thoughts that refused to go away. Evening classes. Bound to be some evening classes in archaeology, or local history or something! I can find out more! It's August, they start in September, so they might be enrolling any time now!

  "Ah, Sister Abigail, the Private Shop is not for you!" Sue winked and made a lewd gesture. "It's for us ladies who know what to do with what God gave us!"

  "That's not fair," protested Abbey, laughing against her will. "I do know what I've got!"

  "But has anyone got close? What about the handsome and tempting Kenneth Thompson then? Him of the Granada and flash lunches? Hasn't he tried to get past the petticoat line?"

  "As it happens, no." Abbey knew she had a reputation for virtue among the other girls, and also knew they weren't quite at ease with her.

  If only they knew what I really do at night, when they all lie sleeping in their beds! If only they knew what adventures a girl can have with a mirror and a micro-second time lapse!

  "Anyway, you ought to go along, Abbey." Linda dabbed mascara at the overloaded lashes which were already threatening to pull her eyelids shut with their weight. "You might find out what it's really like!"

  "Might just do that."

  "Bet you don't!" Sue stubbed out the cigarette, looked at her watch and pushed herself away from the wall. "Oh, let's go, time to get back to the grindstone. Muddy Waters is loading me down with urgent stuff today. Why does everyone want to move at the same time, that's what I want to know!"

  A Private Shop will have magazines.

  The thought came unbidden as Abbey climbed back up the ancient stairs, holding on to the wooden handrail.

  A Private Shop will have magazines that will tell me why men like giving pain.

  Sir Anthony liked it, he said so. He didn't need a reason. He said so.

  The 1625 version of Mrs Dawson-Page said much the same thing. And he did too. Like it - and hurt.

  Her phone rang as she reached her office. She picked it up more or less on automatic pilot.

  "Abigail, could you bring me the file on the accident at the sawmills? It's not here so you must have it. And ask Jane to make some tea for Mr Donaldson and myself, could you?"

  "Yes, Mr Wilkins." Abbey rang downstairs and asked Jane for the tea, then retrieved the sawmill accident file from the pile on her floor. She tapped gently on Mr Wilkins" door, went in - and nearly dropped the file.

  Mr Donaldson was Sir Anthony right down to the gold chain holding in the ample paunch.

  She handed over the file and hurried out, her heart hammering against her ribs as hard as it could, physically hurting. She sank down on her chair and let it spin round, crashing her knee against the desk, not noticing the sharp shard of pain that flared behind her eyes.

  Did everyone in the past have their double here today? Everyone and everyone and everyone? If so ...

  If so, what? Time travel is so complicated, so confusing and bewildering, there's so many things I don't understand.

  "Abbey, have you got the pink tape -" Linda broke off, looking at her with concern. "You all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost on the stairs!"

  Abbey laughed, a little shakily. She had seen a ghost, but not one that Linda would understand.

  "I'm all right. I spun my chair around too fast and hit my knee on the desk. It took my breath for a moment." She showed her the fast-rising bruise and red mark. Linda tutted.

  "I'm always doing that. You must be more careful."

  "Pink tape? Yes, I did. It's over there, on the filing cabinet; can't think why it's over there."

  "Thanks, Ab. Put some cold water on that knee."

  "Might just do that."

  But Abbey didn't move, just sat staring at her screen.

  Mr Donaldson was Sir Anthony. She never did find out Sir Anthony's last name, but she'd lay odds it was Donald or Donaldson or some form of it.

  Spooky.

  Spooky, because in all the times she had been travelling -she always thought of it as travelling - it hadn't happened.

  Let's think now. Abbey pulled an A4 pad toward her, picked up a ballpoint and began to make notes. This will help with the book anyway, which I am going to write!

  There was the guy in the Roundhead camp, somewhere around Dane House, the stately home on the edge of Wal-church. He'd been strong and hard and ridden her for an hour or more until she had screamed in ecstasy. She had hoped for a Cavalier and got a Roundhead instead, in every sense of the word! But it had been good and hard and satisfied her for all of a week, until the itch started, the one that would not be satisfied with an orange vibrator and a bit of KY jelly.

  Gamekeeper, real Lady Chatterley stuff that had been: tweeds, smell of heather and woodland and hint of woodsmoke and outdoors, a man with a grim face and hard hands that probed and touched and delighted until she had begged for release and found it in a long rough ride that was almost the best she'd had.

  Georgian lord in his magnificent bedroom, four-poster bed hung with muslin and lace, scent of lilac drifting through the windows, sound of hounds somewhere across the fields, wailing of the huntsman's horn while his horn grew hard and long and delicious and they played hunt all round the large bedroom until he found her hiding place and sank deep into her.

  Tudor priest, not one with a conscience, who secreted her in the secret chamber and used her secret chamber for his own communion for several hours, until she could no longer keep his spirit awake and alive, and reluctantly used the mirror in his elaborate quarters to return to the present.

  The pub! That had been an oddity. The mirror had transported her to a dark and evil-looking pub, its only shining light the mirror behind the bar. 1910, shabby workmen, but one had taken an instant liking to her, and shabby or not, had produced a roll of notes from his back pocket and offered her any amount of it she wanted if she would go in the back of his brand new van with him. She had agreed, and they had shaken the van's suspension for half an hour until his blackened teeth and foul ale-smelling breath drove her finally to say she was sore. But he seemed pleased enough with his ride, especially when she refused to take the money from him.

  But none of them had been here, in the Now that was Reality.

  It had changed, since the new element had crept into the travelling.

  And that, she decided, determinedly putting the earphones back in, is something I'm going to check out. As soon as I can.

  THEN

  A courtyard, paved and cobbled, glowing with golden gaslight. Stained-glass windows of a huge bulking church crowded one side, while the steamy windows of a restaurant kitchen - a closed and shuttered sandwich bar - created a second. On the third were the dark walls of offices closed for the night, all commerce and wheeler-dealing done for another 16 hours, shutting out the noise, clamour and people of Gracechurch Street.

  The City of London. At night, when everyone had gone, leaving only the cats, rats and City folk who could afford to stay here, the homeless ragged found doorways and shelters among the stones and porches.

  The gaslight shone on Abigail, stiletto-heeled boots in danger of being trapped in the flagstones and cobbles, fishnet st
ocking seams straight, short skirt tight, sweater even tighter. Black hair straightened and swept into a smooth face-shaping bob, large chunky plastic earrings and huge bangles, white lips and black-lined eyes.

  The fourth side of the square was part alleyway leading to offices and the outside world, part ancient inn. Through the dim windows, shaded lights lit tables enriched with rum and ale, and worn steps led to richness and seclusion, to scents of spirits strong enough to create a hangover on their own. Red lamps hung over the bar, and a mirror dull and dusty reflected half-empty bottles with unreadable labels. The timbers of the bar were encrusted with centuries of dirt and dust, sweat and fumes. Three or four men brooded over half-empty glasses, men with thoughts that weighed as heavy as the years on the inn itself.