Abigail kept very quiet, felt her usual apprehension and anticipation creeping over her, knowing she would possibly regret this particular trip, but at the same time sexily aware of how much she anticipated it, even as she feared a new, probably brainstorming, experience.
A long moment of silence, of stillness, of waiting ...
"Right, young woman." And the whip came down, half across her back, half across her cheeks, bringing a shriek of pain such as she had never experienced before. She screamed out loud.
"Silence!" he shouted at her, whipping her again and again, but Abigail couldn't be silent, it hurt far too much. She fought the bonds, shouted and screamed as the whip descended time and again cutting her back, her thighs, her bottom.
"I said silence!" he shouted, pushing her head down into the covers. Abigail bit the silk, let tears flow and sobbed as silently as she could while he vented his apparent anger on her, the whip slashing down anywhere, with no sense, no timing, no rhythm.
Finally it appeared to be over. The bonds were taken off, she was allowed to roll over, to cry properly.
Abigail lay very still, smarting everywhere, crying, tears coursing down her neck onto the silk, staining it a dark rose colour.
Lord Albert Fitzpaine stood staring at her, his cock harder than ever, at least half as thick again as it had been first time around.
Abigail held out her arms, feeling nothing but pain everywhere, not an apparent trace of eroticism left. But still she felt she needed him, needed that cock, that release. He fell onto the bed, climbed over to her, parted her legs with rough hands, gaped at the naked mound, and sighed as she reached for him. This time he did stop to kiss her, whisky breath and strong white teeth, tongue with a taste of spirit and a spirit which sent him thrusting deep into her waiting body.
"Damn me if you didn't enjoy it," he whispered, muffled, his lips pressed against her thick black curls.
Then they thrust and rolled against one another, Abigail raising her hips clear off the bed, giving herself over to the release, the pain dying back, the sheer afterglow taking every part of her. She caught at his body with her nails, bit his neck and shoulder, cried out in passion.
The silk let them slide. They moved up the bed, against the headboard. Abigail found herself again impaled on his cock, legs around his waist, being lifted clear off the bed, his face in her breasts, loving every moment of it, flowing to let him push against her.
When it was over, an eternity later, he lay on one side, propped up on an elbow, looking at her with a puzzled frown.
"You enjoyed it," he said again.
"Not the whipping, Sir, no. But the afterwards, well, that was-"
"I know. I need to hurt someone to get like it, and the damn women around here won't let me, bunch of milksops! But you -"
This was not the time or the place to discuss it.
"I'll need to get back to my duties, Sir."
"Of course. Cook will be wondering where you've gone, not to mention Mrs Mathers."
"If you don't mind, Sir, I'll just get dressed -"
She struggled into the underclothes and the long black dress as he lay still and watched her, afternoon sun lighting up his white body, his long muscled legs, his magnificent manhood. For a fleeting moment she wondered if the current Alfred Fitzpaine was that well hung and how she could find out.
Then she picked up her apron and cap and walked over to the mirror.
The schooldays one was fun, in a strange sort of way. By "one" I mean one of my travels, of course. I'd read so much in the magazines about the school scenes, the cane, the gymslips, the headmaster, the school desk, I had to do something, I had to try it! Couldn't call myself an s/m person without trying the basic scene.
Did I like it?
No.
The school outfit felt wrong, out of place on an adult, I didn't like the bossing about in the school, didn't like being told what to do any more. Too independent, too proud? (What would Lord Danverson say about that?)
I didn't mind the caning, although it was a good deal harder than anything I'd had before, but then, I say that about a lot of things.
Anyway, I borrowed a school outfit from the theatre, looked in my mirror, went back to the school I attended. And I never remembered it being so... lonely. The long empty corridors, the awful school smell, toilets, chalk, bodies. Mr Lloyd was as awful as I remembered, the instant way he assumed I was being sent for punishment, his complete taking over.
I waited outside a class, feeling stupid and helpless, wondering why I just didn't walk off, but there was always the problem of the mirror, finding the damn mirror. It wasn't in the school, I could sense that. So I had no choice but to stay, to take whatever was coming and then come back.
He'd had time to think about me, and took me to his home, the better to avoid detection. I had a sneaking suspicion which proved to be true. He used contact magazines and advertised his services, and - heaven help me - people came for his cane.
I slipped up, though, thinking I'd get the traditional six of the best. I got 12. And boy did they hurt! He made every one tell, every one a distinct line of pure pain that cut like nothing else. I knew I'd had them.
I wish there'd been a way to see his face when I never came back down the stairs! There he was with car outside, goodness-knows-what hiding in his trousers, and me, disappeared off the face of the earth!
Abbey suddenly became impatient with her commentary, covered her typewriter, shrugged into a coat and set off for the church.
Something was calling her; something that could not be ignored.
The church door creaked, protested at being asked to open, swung back on the huge iron hinges and allowed Abbey to enter. A cold north light filtered through the windows, grey, depressing.
The altar was draped in purple, flowers had disappeared from the ornate pedestal stands. Everything had an air of waiting or mourning or something. Abbey flicked through the pages of the parish magazine idly, catching sight of the Advent services.
Advent. Waiting. Of course - no flowers, deep purple, the white would replace it for Christmas when the whole church would be a blaze of light, flowers, joyful anticipation of the birth of Christ.
Advent.
Waiting.
That's what I'm doing.
But not anymore.
Ahead of her, the Danverson Chapel. No covers any more, no bricks, no tarpaulin. Walls had been repainted, water stains had vanished, everything looked new and fresh and clean.
She approached slowly, almost as if it were Josiah Danverson himself lying so still, awaiting burial. Where is he buried? she asked herself. Where is the actual skeleton, where is - ?
Beneath the tomb, of course. Deep beneath the tomb, safe, where no one can reach him.
She searched for and found the light switch, the figures springing to life in the cold gold light.
Gentle fingers traced the outline of Lord Danverson's face, felt the curl of the beard, touched his strong hands, lingered the length of his body, smart in doublet and hose.
My man. My chosen man. Better than all the rest, better than anyone I've met, here or in the past. Now I can - for the first time - look at your wife.
The chairs had gone from the back of the monument. There was nothing between the table tomb and the wall, which held a glass case protecting brass effigies of other Danversons, more notable figures. Abbey couldn't at that moment think who they were, her whole attention was being drawn to the figure alongside Josiah Danverson.
It was her.
The oval face, the cluster of curls, although ivory cream now, could just as easily be black, her rosebud mouth, her long fingers clasped lightly on her breast in the classic pose of the sleeping dead.
With legs that threatened to betray her, that wanted to buckle somewhere around the knees, she moved closer, looked down at her sleeping self, touched the chill stone, traced the folds of her robe, the gold pendant at the waist, the thick choker round her neck.
Me.
> That's me.
Then her knees did give way as a coldness swept over her, drowning all emotions, blinding her eyes with unshed tears. She slumped to the floor alongside the tomb, where the inscription stared at her, defying her to ignore the message.
ABIGAIL GUINEVERE DANVERSON Beloved wife of Josiah Thomas Danverson Lord of the Manor Died 20th May 1673 Mourned by her children and all who knew her For Love and for Glory
Abbey sat on the cold tiles, shivering with more than cold. There was her name, her date of death, just three days after her husband. Fever? Broken heart? Why didn't she survive him?
It is me.
The thought would not go away.
Coincidence.
No way.
Abigail Guinevere Danverson, lying there alongside Josiah Thomas Danverson, the man who occupied almost all her waking thoughts and most of her dreams.
The man she now knew and recognised that she loved beyond all reason and sense, beyond herself and her life.
Did the mirror only operate for me? Was I the only one who could go back in time through its silver face? Others said it didn't reflect what they wanted, but it didn't transfer them as it did me.
Because I was being prepared for this moment.
Because if I don't go back, the circle will be broken, and goodness knows what will happen to the pattern of life!
I'm in a time loop.
I have been guided here through the mirror. I have learned to appreciate the pleasure-pain syndrome so that Josiah can beat me and I will love it and please him.
I have been led towards feeling right in the dress of the period, towards knowing the outline of the castle which will be my home. I have been guided towards this moment, this revelation.
"Are you all right, my dear?" The vicar's kindly face peered over the figures, concerned, worried. "I saw someone come in. I couldn't see you at first, then I realised the Danverson Chapel light was on."
"Yes." She struggled to stand up, held on to her own effigy's feet. "I was reading the inscription down here. It was the only way to see it."
She came around the tomb, looked back just once with longing at her own face, and his, and then looked defiantly towards the purple-clad altar.
"An odd inscription, I think." He clasped his hands, rubbed them together, the chill of the ancient stones reaching out to encompass them both. "A reversal of the Danverson motto."
"You know we did a play at the King's Theatre recently, called For Glory and for Love." He nodded, and she went on: "While we were doing it - I was in it, by the way, playing a small part - I wondered if the motto could be reversed, to be "For Love and for Glory", because being a woman I would put the love first. And then I found it here."
"Must have been an odd feeling for you."
"It was." More than you'll ever know.
He looked towards the figure, then back at her.
"And Lady Danverson looks -"
"Just like me. I know, I just saw that. Gave me a shock."
"What a coincidence!"
"Not helped by the fact that my name is the same as hers, too. I'm Abigail." She left off the Guinevere; that would be too much to take. She decided to change the subject. "The church looks very empty right now."
"I always think Advent is such an exciting time; the preparation, the waiting." He moved away from the Danverson Chapel. "Then we have the joy of Christmas. I think Lady Danverson must have felt that too. Here." He switched on another light, and charity boards flared into view. "Lady Danverson endowed £5 a year to be given to the church for decoration at Christmas and £20 for the poor of the parish to be clothed and fed in the cold weather. She must have been a very kind-hearted lady. Twenty pounds was a terrific amount of money then."
I have so much to remember, she told herself. So much to take back with me. Was that me donating that money? I have to find out.
"I'll leave you to read the board. It goes on a bit. There are a lot of other benefactors mentioned here. Later Danversons endowed money. It all sort of disappeared over the years, unfortunately, but still, it was a good thought and must have helped a lot of people at the time. Will you be coming to the Christmas services?"
"I don't know if I'll be here," she said in all honesty. "If I am, I will."
"Good, good. I must go, lots to do, you know, pastoral visits at this time of year..."
"Thank you."
Abbey turned back to the boards, read the ancient wording in its fine script which was also familiar to her. The Danversons had donated money through the years, her descendants had done well by the parish.
But only if I go back and start it all off, or none of this will exist.
She was alone in the church with her thoughts and her decisions. No one to see her. She went back to the Danverson tomb and touched Lord Danverson's hand.
"Hold on, I'm coming." To her own image she whispered "I won't let you down, I'm coming."
With a determined set to her chin, Abbey left the church, letting the door swing shut behind her, shutting out the cold but not the memories of seeing her face carved in stone, of seeing her motto and her name carved in flowing script on the base of the tomb. Must have been a broken heart, she decided. If I love him as much as I think I'm going to, then I would die without him.
Well, get going, girl, there's one hell of a lot to do. Job to quit, flat to tidy and pack away, notice to give, people to notify.
Why should I? Why don't I just go?
Pack the belongings, label them for parents. They'll never understand. If I was to go and say goodbye they'd never understand. They'd turn their cold faces to me, cold as the stone I just left.
What do I do about Des?
I'll work on that. She hurried down the flagstoned path, determined to get going on the thousand-and-one things to do before she looked in the mirror for the very last time.
"Abbey, there's something I want to say, to ask." Des shifted uncomfortably on her settee, pushed a cushion behind him, leaned forward and began to fiddle with the magazines on the coffee table.
"Go on." She sipped coffee, looked at him over the rim of the mug, wondering what was coming next. Somehow she had to distance herself from Des, and hoped this was the opportunity.
"I've... been offered a chance to go to Canada with the firm."
"Congratulations! I'm sure you'll love it."
"I was afraid you'd say that. You'd not think of coming with me, then."
"No." She said it very gently, hoping he wouldn't mind too much. "I don't think I'd like to leave England right now." And isn't that the truth?"
"I thought you'd say that. I accepted the job, knowing I'd probably go alone." He looked sad yet at ease with himself. "Well, I had a feeling it was all one-sided here anyway."
"It was, Des, and I'm truly sorry. I like you an awful lot, but-"
"Not love. Well, there it is. I might find myself some nice little Canadian girl!"
"I hope you do."
"No point in asking if I might write, is there?"
"Listen." She put down her coffee, leaned forward and took his hand. "You've been great, a wonderful lover. I've enjoyed being with you, in and out of bed! It was fun going to classes with you, having dinner, and everything, but don't hang on to me, Des. If you write you'll be hanging on to see if I change my mind, and that won't do. Let go, start a new life out there, see what happens, who comes along. Someone out there will love you more than I can."
"You're right, of course you are. Well, thanks, Abbey, it's been good. I think I'll go now, if that's all right?"
"Sure. Anything you want. Do take care. I'll never forget you."
"Good. That's something to hold on to." He kissed her lightly and then gathered her in his arms, kissing her long and hard. "God, I wish you were coming!"
Gently she disengaged herself.
"I can't, Des, truly I can't. It wouldn't work. And it would be far worse to have a relationship break up in another country! For both of us! But I'm really flattered you asked me."
"All right. Well, take care, Abbey, whatever you do."
The door closed behind him.
Abbey walked around the room, straightening cushions, putting her magazines in the rack, sipping cold coffee, feeling very sad. It was a shame; it might have worked, in another time and in another place, if only she hadn't been so sure her destiny lay somewhere else, with another man.
This clinched her decision, one she had been approaching for some time, one that had been inexorably drawing her towards it.
Time of Her Life Page 14