Teena Thyme

by Pope, Jennifer Jane

  Wrong, as it happened. On both counts.

  Slowly, Angelina began to recover her senses, but what she saw and what she felt did little to ease her sorely tried spirits. Her breathing now seemed to be easier, if still very shallow and rapid, but her body still felt as if it had been cut in two and, to make matters worse, a strange numbness seemed to have set in, so that both her legs and her arms felt curiously heavy.

  With a great effort she managed to sit, although not completely upright, for the corset made it impossible for her to bend sufficiently at the waist for that. However, by persistent effort and by using her hands and heels to push against the bedcovers, she finally was able to lay back against the head of the bed, where the piled up pillows offered support for her back that she now realised it no longer required.

  For a few moments she considered trying to divest herself of the imprisoning outfit, but quickly decided against the futility of this course. For one thing, she knew, the maids would return before too much longer and the consequences of such a rebellious act could be nothing but unpleasant for her and for another, she now saw, that particular option was probably not open to her in the first place.

  With the laces of the corset behind her and now securely knotted, there was no way she could reach them and until they were eased there was not the slightest hope that anyone, let alone herself, would be able to unfasten the front basque hooks. Boots and gloves almost certainly required a hook in order to free them and whilst, under normal circumstances, both might just have yielded to a determined assault by sufficiently dexterous fingers, the gloves themselves had been cunningly designed to reduce the wearer's dexterity considerably.

  Angelina raised her right hand and peered closely at it. The stitching had been effected in such a way that its presence - and thus its effect - was well hidden from the casual observer, but there it most certainly was and its effectiveness could not be questioned, especially not by anyone wearing these gloves. Each finger had been neatly and surreptitiously stitched to its neighbour and the thumb likewise attached to the forefinger, so that not a single digit could move or flex individually and the hand was therefore neatly reduced to the status of a cumbersome mitt. In these gloves, she reflected grimly, she had been rendered as helpless as a child and even the most basic tasks would now be beyond her capabilities.

  Grimly, Angelina eased her booted feet off the edge of the bed and swung her legs down to the floor. Panting for breath at even this limited exertion, she paused for a few seconds and then, using her otherwise useless hands for leverage, she pushed herself up, swayed forward for one precarious moment and then, with a truncated sigh of relief, managed to balance herself in a standing position.

  Placing her hands at her sides, she closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer and then, her eyelids fluttering open again, she took her first step forward. The feeling was completely alien. Perched on the ridiculously high heels, the corset seemingly pushing her body upwards, Angelina felt almost as if she were floating, as if some power other than her own was both holding her upright and propelling her across the room, and she was only too well aware of the way in which her hips and buttocks now swayed and rotated with every mincing step.

  Long before she reached the mirror, the sight that greeted her in the glass stopped her dead in her tracks. For long seconds she remained there, motionless as a statue, but a statue the like of which she had never seen before. The effect of her new ensemble and the semi-dishabille nature of it were together quite remarkable and, but for the reflection of her face, Angelina would never have believed that the bizarre figure could have been her.

  The tiny waist, the long legs now made to appear even longer by the steepling heels of the boots, her hips and breasts made to seem impossibly more prominent and even her rump, when she turned sideways to view herself in profile, jutted out in a way that was grossly provocative. There was, she decided, only one word to describe her new appearance and it was not a word she would willingly let pass her lips.

  'My God!' she whispered, eyes wide. 'Oh my, what am I reduced to? What is to become of me now?'

  4.

  I stood in front of the long wardrobe mirror and turned slowly around, admiring my new self and trying not to pay any attention to what was still the old me, from the neck upwards. The feathered blonde hair and slightly over-the-top eye make-up really didn't fit in with the early Victorian period, but then, I mused, it wasn't that much removed from what had been fashionable just a generation at most earlier.

  'Maybe a wig,' I muttered, nodding to my other age self. 'Why not, eh? I mean, we can afford to waste a few quid on our whims now, can't we? But what to do with the face, I wonder?' I moved closer, squinting slightly, which did nothing to improve the effect.

  'White foundation,' I decided at last. 'Very pale look and then bright red lips. I'll need to check my books to be sure.' But for the moment, I decided, I had come as far as I could and the dress itself was truly something to behold.

  It was again all silk and lace, royal blue, with white and black trimmings, the bodice tailored so that it clung to even my nipped waist and the skirts billowing out to form a contrast as complete as any imaginable. Every step, every move, even a sudden breath, was accompanied by a soft symphony of whispering and rustling and, as I turned towards the door, it was as though a gentle wind was stirring in hidden trees.

  'A glass of wine, my Lady Thyme?' I said aloud, my voice pitched half an octave above normal. 'And perhaps we could take a turn on the terrace before dinner?' I giggled stupidly, but I really did feel completely different dressed as I now was.

  'Thank you, duchess,' I replied to myself, in something nearer my normal tone, although with every vowel and consonant enunciated with unaccustomed care. 'You are so very kind.' I pronounced that last as 'kaned' and once again could not suppress a snigger. Ah well, I thought as I turned the door handle, the worn brass slippery in my gloved hand, little things please empty minds.

  What I would be like after a whole bottle of wine I didn't even want to think about. So, maybe only half a bottle. After all, I reasoned with unaccustomed caution, I still had to get myself out of this little lot before bedtime. I couldn't imagine even thinking about sleeping in this corset, let alone actually attempting it!

  'You look most fetching in your new corset, my dear.' Gregory Hacklebury stood in the bedroom doorway, leering at Angelina with undisguised lust. In one hand he held a half empty brandy goblet, in the other a slim cigar smouldered away unheeded. Angelina, perched back on the edge of the bed, recoiled from him in horror, but he made no move towards her, preferring to savour her discomfiture from a distance.

  'Yes, indeed,' he continued, his languid drawl plainly brought on partially by the alcohol he had consumed, 'a very attractive sight indeed. I shall take great pleasure in taking my conjugal rights, when the time comes.'

  'Except that I shall never marry you!' Angelina hissed. 'No matter what you may do to me, I shall never consent.'

  'I expected as much from you,' Hacklebury nodded, apparently unconcerned by this assertion. 'However, it matters not. As far as the outside world is concerned, you and I are to be married in two days' time. Your presence at the ceremony will not be necessary and neither will you ever be in the position to deny that it was you that plighted your troth to me.' He laughed and hiccoughed at the same time and a trickle of spittle ran down his chin. Angelina stared at him in horror.

  'What do you mean?' she demanded. 'You cannot marry a person unless they give their consent in person.'

  'Of course not,' he agreed, recovering some of his composure and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'But then, it will be a private ceremony in the family chapel, here on the estate. The bride will be demure and veiled, as is the new custom, the witnesses will be trusted servants. As for the priest, well, it is surprising what the promise of a hundred guineas can persuade a stipendiary parson to turn a blind eye to.'

  'You fiend!' Angelina gasped, as the full import of what he was
proposing sank in. 'You would use an impostor and bribe a man of God! Are there no depths to which you will not sink?' A crooked smile spread across his flushed features.

  'Frankly, my dear,' he replied easily, 'I don't think there can be. If there are, be assured I have yet to find them, at least. No, my dear, you and I will be married as far as the law is concerned, and your inheritance will pass to me as per the law, too.'

  'And what will you do with me?' Angelina asked querulously. 'Will I perhaps meet with an unfortunate accident and leave you as the grieving widower?'

  'The idea has merit, I must admit,' Hacklebury sniggered, 'but I see little point in killing such a pretty little bird. No, I have no intention of killing you, but you will have no further contact outside of these grounds. Perhaps we shall tell the world that you have fallen very ill and are convalescing.'

  'It will be a long convalescence, then,' Angelina snapped. 'People will ask questions, my guardian for one.'

  'Your guardian is a drunken old sot, Angelina,' Hacklebury said, pushing away from the doorpost and standing upright. 'When I repay him his dues from your estate, he will need little persuasion to take himself off to warmer climes and probably drink himself into the grave before the year is out. No one else will be at all interested in you after that. Save myself, of course.'

  'You are the most vile man I have ever encountered,' Angelina said, bolder now that there seemed little more to be lost. Stiffly, she rose to her feet and stood facing him, her useless hands planted firmly on her hips. 'Well, sir,' she said, tilting her chin defiantly, 'you may do your worst, for I am scarce in a position to prevent you, but you will never have more than a cold fish for your nuptial supper, that I can safely swear.'

  'We shall see,' Hacklebury replied. He took a step forward, stumbled and thrust out a hand to recover his balance, grasping the edge of the dresser, which was conveniently within arm's reach. In that same moment his eye fell upon the locket, which Angelina, to her horror, saw that she had not hidden away again.

  'Ha!' he cried. 'What have we here?' Despite his inebriated condition and the hindrance of having to retain his grasp on glass and cigar, he quickly had the thing opened and, as he peered closer in order to focus his eyes on the two miniatures within, his entire face began to change.

  'Perfect,' he said, holding the locket up by its chain, like a trophy. 'The very thing. My bride shall wear this to the chapel, so you shall at least have some representation at the wedding.' Angelina's spirits sank and she knew she was close to tears, but she steadfastly refused to let Hacklebury see this.

  'Take it,' she said. 'Take that and everything else I possess, as you surely will, but you will never have my spirit, sir. That alone, above all things, shall remain inviolate.'

  'Brave words, Angelina,' he retorted, pocketing the locket with some difficulty. 'Brave words indeed, but we shall see if you remain as brave after a few weeks of your new education. That new corset is only the start of things, my soft little butterfly. I haven't even started to show you the alternatives yet. You may gainsay me now, but in a few weeks from now you will come crawling to me, begging my forgiveness and willing to do anything I ask of you.'

  Down in the back parlour, the wine was waiting for me and so was the radio, though it took some careful navigation to descend, as the passages and stairway were very narrow and the latter quite steep. My skirts, seemingly determined to develop a life of their own, billowed all about me, so that I could not see to place my feet, so it was a case of slowly does it and cling tightly to the banister on the way down.

  However, I finally made it without mishap, poured my first glass and turned on the radio. To my delight there was a program on the classical station that was just perfect for the mood of the moment - Victorian chamber music. For the next five minutes I left my wine to one side and sought out the box of candles I had seen under the kitchen sink earlier. Amelia had managed to collect several nice decorative candlestick holders over the years and there was even a small candelabra in the cupboard, and very soon I was able to switch off the electric lights and survey my domain by a much softer and more appropriate light.

  Trying my best to be elegant, I moved slowly back and forth between the two parlours, glass now back in my hand, savouring the music, the atmosphere, the amazing feel of my costume; everything felt just so right, peaceful and detached, a million miles away from the normal hurly-burly of life. Or maybe just a century or so away.

  I can't remember what prompted me to pull open the top drawer of the dresser. Perhaps I was searching for more candles, ready to replace the ones I was now burning, perhaps I was just playing the role of lady of the house, I couldn't say now, not after all these years. However, open it I did, it stuck halfway, I tugged harder and suddenly it flew out, the weight tearing it from my grasp and the contents scattering across the floor.

  'Bugger!' I exclaimed, which was hardly Victorian and certainly not ladylike. I stared down at the mess in dismay: old bills, a spectacle case, several pens, some old keys, a penknife, several coiled up pieces of string - all the usual clutter that never quite gets sorted out in that sort of drawer. I placed my wine glass safely out of harm's way and, with some difficulty, bent down to try to clear up the debris.

  And at that point, as I turned my head slightly, I caught the glimmer of something shining, way back there in the gaping hole that the errant drawer had just vacated. Carefully I reached in and, hampered by the fact that I was still wearing the gloves, felt around until my fingers closed on something smooth and round. Gingerly, I withdrew it and found myself looking at what had obviously been the pendant part of a gold locket and chain.

  I straightened up and took it closer to the candelabra. Yes, no mistaking it, it was most certainly gold, for the surface was worn and scratched as only real gold can be. I wondered how many years it had lain back there hidden, trapped on a narrow ledge of batten, hidden from prying eyes by that drawer that nobody ever used for anything of real importance.

  Fumbling awkwardly I managed to slip the catch and the two halves came open in my hands. Two faces greeted me, two pairs of eyes looked up at me.

  'Well, hello there,' I said quietly. 'Nice to meet you both. I'm Teena Thyme, lady of this manor. Now, I wonder who you two are - or were, should I say?'

  I looked at the woman first. She seemed to have been quite pretty, in that slightly full-faced way peculiar to Georgian and early Victorian ladies. Her face was very pale - powder, no doubt - and her elegantly coiffeured hair would almost certainly have been a wig, but her eyes were gentle and I suspected that she must have been a very nice person.

  The man also seemed to radiate a nice aura. He was dark-haired, with quite thin features and a slightly overlong nose, but I could see that he would have been considered handsome in his day. I could just see the high collar of his jacket and the lacy cravat that seemed to have been tied just a fraction too tightly and I had a feeling, looking at the way in which his eyes seemed to twinkle, that he had not really taken his portrait sittings as seriously as the pose suggested he might.

  I closed the locket again and turned it over in my hands a few times. I could make out a definite indentation inside the loop through which the missing chain must have passed and, as I examined it closer, I saw it was an irregular oval shape, rather than the circle one might have expected. Enter Sherlock Teena.

  'Someone yanked this off the chain,' I said to myself. 'Either that, or it got caught up on something and the strain distorted the link before it finally broke.'

  The inscription on the back of the locket was so worn that I almost missed it and at first I thought maybe I was mistaken, that it was just some deeper scratches, but no, when I held it up closer I could definitely make out letters. It was an ornate and very old-fashioned script, I saw, but what did it say?

  'A.I.,' I read. 'Nope, not I,' I corrected myself. 'That's a T. So, A.T., whatever that means.' I blinked and looked closer still, my nose now nearly touching the warm metal surface. 'Eighteenth December
, MDCCCXX,' I read. Eighteen-twenty.

  'A.T., eighteenth December eighteen-twenty. A wedding date? Birthday? Well, it was certainly my birthday, though not the eighteen-twenty bit. That was more than a hundred and thirty years out.

  Perhaps, I thought, there might be further clues inside, maybe tucked away behind the two tiny portraits, but here and now wasn't the time to investigate further. It would require daylight and steady hands, unencumbered by gloves and alcohol and even then there was a risk of causing damage, which I most certainly wanted to avoid.

  'Thyme,' I whispered suddenly. 'The T stands for Thyme.' Don't ask me how I knew that, but I just did and I knew it with an overwhelming certainty that took me quite by surprise. Somebody whose first name had begun with the letter A and whose last name was Thyme. Another ancestor. A relic of a Thyme in the house of a Spigwell.

  Intriguing. But how could I find out more? The births and deaths records would be useless, thanks to Herr Goerring and his merry airmen, as I already knew, but maybe there would be other records somewhere. Maybe either the Spigwells or the Thymes had been important enough to appear in old parish documents, or even under land registry records. I resolved to make further enquiries, maybe even travel up to London and scour the main public records. After all, I could afford to go wherever I wanted now and a few days off from schoolwork wasn't going to hurt any.

  But first, though, there was the locket itself. I bent down and looked under the drawer space again, though I didn't really expect to see the chain there. Something told me that the two had parted company a good while before the locket found its last resting place. However, upstairs in my jewellery box I had the gold chain that mum and dad had bought me for my sixteenth birthday.

  Locket clutched firmly in hand, I renegotiated the steep stairs and went into the bedroom. My jewellery box lay in the top drawer of the dresser and sure enough, there on top of my various cheap bits and pieces of junk, lay the chain. Awkwardly, because of the gloves still, I threaded it through the loop in the locket, held it up to my neck and, after a couple of abortive attempts, managed to clip the fastener in place.