Once the stockings were in place - beautiful spun silk of the finest quality - long gloves were produced, once again in black, this time satin, to match the corset. Jasmine drew them up the full length of each of Sarah's arms in turn, employing a small button hook to close the wrist openings and the small open darts just above each elbow, thus ensuring a perfect, unwrinkled fit.
'You look delicious, pretty,' Ellen murmured. She stepped forward and cupped both Sarah's barely supported and mostly uncovered breasts, using her thumbs to stimulate the already erect nipples. 'These are such sweet bubbies, too, not great melons like that Kitty creature has. No, these are just right, aren't they?'
Sarah had expected to be forced into more high-heeled shoes, but was surprised when Jasmine took a pair of long boots from one of the closets. They too were black and fitted right to the knee, lacing up the entire front to give a fit as tight as everything else Sarah was wearing, and the heels were every bit as drastic as those of the shoes from the night before.
'You'll find these a little easier to walk in,' Ellen said, as if anticipating Sarah's possible protestation. 'The leather supports both ankle and calf, reducing the chances of you stumbling and breaking a bone.' She said this last with the air of someone who clearly thought she was bestowing a tremendous favour, rather than the reality of the situation, which was to reduce Sarah to an almost puppet-like state in which she could walk with only the tiniest of precarious steps.
'The boots will also prevent your stockings from ripping when you are in the saddle,' she added, as Jasmine completed the lacing of the second boot. 'And you will have a pair of specially adapted stirrups, from which, once your instep has been placed in it correctly, it will be all but impossible for your foot to slip. And then,' she continued, 'there is even a special heel strap, so even the tiniest element of chance will be removed.'
Once again, a diamante decorated choker was produced and fastened about Sarah's throat like a collar, the stiffened inner lining forcing her to resume her previous posture with head held as though proudly erect, and then heavy earrings were screwed to each lobe, as they had been before.
'Excellent,' Ellen declared, walking slowly around Sarah, who stood perched almost on tiptoe, feeling like a helpless doll in her new finery. In truth, she realised, that was almost exactly what she had now been reduced to, for this new costume made what its predecessor had inflicted seem almost like total freedom in comparison.
Even the gloves were more stringent, their tightness restricting her ability to bend her arms at the elbow by more than a few degrees and the fingers holding her own fingers almost rigidly within their grip. Her arms and hands, Sarah saw, were now of little use beyond decoration and a slight aid to her balance when she attempted to walk.
'Perfect,' Ellen said, stooping and kissing each of Sarah's nipples in turn. 'Well, almost,' she added, with a crafty little smile. She turned to Jasmine.
'You can pierce her teats now, Jasmine,' she said, 'and put in those nice thick gold rings I showed you earlier. They'll be the best to use, at least until the piercings heal properly. Then, pretty,' she continued, turning back to the horror-struck Sarah, 'we shall have a new, heavier pair for you and have the goldsmith braze them shut permanently!'
The churchyard behind St Matthews seemed deserted as Jane Handiwell approached it from the narrow back lane, but she paused for a few minutes, watching from the clump of ash trees, fingering the heavy key Ellen Grayling had given her. At last, satisfied that there really was no one else about, she pushed open the narrow wicket gate and made her way quickly along the path to the ornate stone structure that dominated the rows and clusters of tombstones and crosses.
The Grayling family vault had stood here for more than two centuries now, the bodies of seven generations incarcerated in the depths below, Grayling family money ensuring not only its continuance but at least half the cost of the upkeep of the old church itself.
Pausing only to check again that no one was watching her, Jane jiggled the key into the solid looking lock and turned it, surprised at how easily the wards moved beneath her hand. The door, too, opened quietly and smoothly, testimony to regular maintenance, though inside the dust suggested that no one had been here since the death of the previous Lord Grayling, some quarter of a century earlier, though Jane knew the truth of the matter was quite different.
Slipping in, Jane closed the heavy timber structure behind her, inserted the key from that side and locked the door once again. The only light now came from four shallow window openings, set just beneath the vaulted ceiling but, as she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, she found she could see easily enough to find her first priority.
The lantern was tucked away in a small alcove, to the left of the door and with it sat a tinder box, just as she remembered from when she had come here with Ellen, four or five years ago now, she realised. She smiled, the image of the willowy young aristocrat girl, standing naked in the centre of this surface level chamber, her budding breasts pert, her rosebud nipples stiffening with a mixture of cold, anticipation and even fear, Jane suspected.
'Ah, my sweet little Ellen,' Jane whispered, checking there was oil in the lamp. 'How much you've changed in some ways - how little in others.' The wick flared into life and Jane had to adjust it before replacing the glass. Now, as she lifted it, moving towards the inner door just a few steps away, shadows danced along the walls and the scampering of small feet betrayed the sudden retreat of what was either a rat, or a very large mouse.
The steps down into the vault proper were smooth but even, so little use over the decades ensuring that they still looked as square and level as they must have done when the place was first built, when the first Grayling to be buried here, Lord Edmund, whose mummified corpse sat in the long alcove just at the foot of those same stairs, had ordered its construction.
Ignoring the rows of deceased Graylings on either side of the tunnel shaped vault, Jane moved quickly towards the far end, passing the six or seven alcoves that stood empty for future family members, until she reached another door set into the end wall. Much smaller than either of the doors through which she had passed so far, it was nonetheless heavier, for it was constructed entirely of iron.
Using the same key Jane unlocked it, placed the lamp down on the floor and, using both hands, pulled with all her strength. Slowly, with a slight murmur of complaint, it opened and Jane, first listening for any sounds of movement from beyond, finally stepped through and stood again, looking to right and left into impenetrable darkness.
It had to be at least four, if not five years since she and Ellen had last used this door and before that it was unlikely that anyone else had opened it for another twenty years. In fact, according to Ellen, it was also unlikely that anyone else now even knew of its existence, apart perhaps from Roderick and his father, for this was a way back into the crypt of the church, a quite unique feature in itself.
Once, probably, it had been used for family members, or the priest, to pass from the church into the burial chamber without having to brave whatever elements prevailed outside, but now, Ellen had assured Jane, no one ever used it for that purpose and even Wickstanner probably had no idea it existed, for it emerged into a small side passage that was now frequently flooded by the underground spring that ran close by and there was no key to it anywhere but in Grayling Hall, the key Ellen had given her this morning.
Today, however, the uneven stone floor was dry underfoot and, taking up the lantern again, Jane began to make her way stealthily in the direction of the main crypt, stopping every few paces to listen out again. At the end of the passageway stood another door, this one unlocked; turning the lantern as low as it would go without extinguishing it, Jane turned the wrought iron handle and eased it open the merest fraction, placing her eye to the crack.
The main passageway beyond stood empty, illuminated by a single lantern that hung from a bracket further down, giving just enough light to see by, but leaving pools of shadow alongside eac
h supporting pillar. Smiling to herself, Jane pulled the door further ajar and slipped through, pushing it to after her.
'Now then,' she said softly, 'let's see where they're keeping you, Matilda Pennywise - and just what it'll take to get you out of here when the time comes.'
It was not difficult to guide the little boat ashore on Bishop's Rock, for years of the swift flowing current parting around it had worn the upstream promontory so that earth, sand and rocks had crumbled into the water to form two small embankments and a narrow, flat beachhead into which the little craft drifted at Harriet's lightest guidance.
As it grounded she stood upright, jumped easily over the side and splashed ashore, grasping at the gunwale by the prow to pull the boat further in. Breathing heavily from her exertions, Harriet looked about and then down at her boots, discoloured as far as mid-calf by their immersion.
For this venture Harriet had discarded even her most practical gowns and chosen, instead, a pair of man's riding breeches, something her father had brought back from London for her several years since, before his wound and subsequent illness had reduced him to the mere shell of a man he now was. The breeches had been one of his jokes and were far too big for her then, but now they came in very useful and Harriet often wore them when working with the cows.
She raised her eyebrows slightly, sighed and wondered just what she should do now, where to start looking, or even whether she should just wait. If Toby's theory was correct the kidnappers would not be here in person, but if they had left further instructions, where in heaven's name were they?
Bishop's Rock was, in fact, several great slabs of rock, all clustered together in midstream, upon which, over the centuries, a sparse soil had somehow collected, into which had rooted a dozen or more trees and a haphazard selection of bushes and grasses. From end to end it was about sixty or seventy paces, assuming that one could actually pace a straight line along its length, which the tangled undergrowth almost certainly precluded. From side to side at its widest points it was little more than half that, at its narrowest, almost in the middle of its length, it was less than half that distance again.
In all, Harriet concluded as she stood turning slowly, despite the ground cover the little island was too small to be concealing much. So what was she supposed to do now?
And then she saw it, a small leather satchel hanging from one of the lower branches of the nearest tree, its dark colour ensuring that it would not be seen from either bank, yet here, up close, quite visible to anyone who knew they should be looking for something out of the ordinary. Her heart beating, Harriet stepped forward, pushing her way through grass that she now saw had been previously flattened by whoever had placed the bag there.
'It says to continue downstream to a place called Platt's bridge,' she said, studying the rectangular parchment that was the satchel's only content. 'No, keep your head down.' She raised her own head just far enough to see Toby's eyes peeking out over the gunwale of the boat, the rest of him hidden beneath the cape that Harriet had seemingly so casually discarded upon boarding the craft beneath the bridge by the mill.
'There's a sort of map drawn here, with a cross marking the spot,' she said, keeping her voice low so as not to carry to anyone who might be watching from either bank. 'But I don't remember any bridge down there.'
'Is it where the river loops right around on itself?' Toby hissed. Harriet nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Toby's eyes bobbed up and down as he mirrored her action.
'That's about a mile the other side of where Kings Woods ends,' he said. 'There ain't no bridge there any more, just a few piles of stones. Must have been washed away in a flood, or something, and no one ever bothered rebuilding it.'
'But why build it there in the first place?' Harriet demanded. 'There aren't any roads crossing the river anywhere near that.'
'Not now, no,' Toby agreed, 'but there used to be. I bin down there, fishin', cos the water's really shallow on the left bank, see, and you can scoop the little beggars out dead easy. There's a road all right, but no one uses it no more, not since I known it, anyway. But then that's hardly surprisin' when you thinks about it, Miss Harriet. That's part of the Grayling estates there and that road was the one that used to lead out to the north, towards where Hogarth Green used to be. The Graylings chucked everyone out of the village years ago, me dad said, and then they closed off the road completely. There is another track into the estate from that side, but it's narrow and there's usually a couple of keepers wanderin' around with dogs. Not that we'll need to worry about them today, not with Master Handiwell's soldier boys and their guns.' Toby's face shone with excitement and it was obvious he was relishing the prospect of seeing a real conflict of arms.
'I see,' Harriet said, trying to ignore the way her pulse had suddenly started racing. She studied the crude drawing again, noting how, as Toby had said, the river ran around in a wide sweep and trying to imagine the scale of the map in her mind. Yes, she saw, Toby was right. The river there ran deeply inside the boundaries of the Grayling lands as she knew them, but then, as Toby had also said, that fact should not have surprised either of them.
'Right,' she said, replacing the map inside the satchel, flipping it closed and looping the strap over her shoulder, 'as I get back in, you roll out over the other side. The little embankment there will keep you hidden from anyone watching from that side and I'll pick up my cape and pretend to shake it out and fold it again, so it'll make a screen on this side.'
'Right you are, miss,' Toby grinned, peering up at her. 'But I shouldn't worry too much about anyone watching. They won't be here, same as I said. Too risky. Probably had someone watchin' for you further upstream, somewhere from where they could ride off easily, take the news to whoever's waitin' for you at the other end.'
'Now then,' Harriet said, as she finished replacing her cape and began the task of pushing the boat back out into the water, 'you know what you've got to do, don't you?' Crouching among the reeds, waist deep in water, Toby nodded.
'Sure, miss,' he replied, raising one thumb. 'Don't you worry about me. Just you make sure you use them oars to slow you down, not the other way round. It'll take me a few minutes to swim ashore and a good ten more to run back down the road and find Master Handiwell and them soldiers, and we'll have to ride right round about three extra miles to find that track I said about.'
Jasmine spent even more time than before on making up Sarah's face and arranging her hair. Once again, Sarah was forced to sit as the Asian girl worked away in silence, painting her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, teasing her locks back and pinning them so that a small tail was left hanging down over the nape of her neck. The final touch was the addition of a neat velvet covered riding bonnet, with black ribbons trailing from the rear and a jaunty rim surrounding it. Long pins secured this in place and, when Sarah was finally permitted to see her reflection in the full-length mirror, she stood and gaped at the erotic spectacle she now presented.
Totally formal from the neck up, from the neck down she still wore only the tight underwear and gloves and the high boots, affording a contrast that was not lost upon her. The addition of the gold rings through her newly pierced nipples simply enhanced this effect, the steady, throbbing soreness reminding her of their presence with every heartbeat. Ellen, who had returned to her water pipe meanwhile, languished on the bed, smiling at her contentedly.
'You look so lovely, pretty,' she cooed, forming her own painted lips into a lascivious moue. 'I really think, if I am not very careful, that I could fall completely in love with you. Of course,' she said, sighing with mock severity, 'that would never do. After all, you are my slave and I am your mistress, is that not so?'
Sarah, realising that any hesitation on her part might well trigger almost any sort of unpleasant reaction from the drug-hazed girl, nodded quickly.
'Yes, mistress,' she replied meekly, lowering her eyes. The two gold rings, hanging from her almost impossibly engorged teats, seemed to wink back at her, mocking her apparent acceptance of her
new status.
'Never mind,' Ellen said lightly, 'I shall still love you as I would love a favourite puppy dog, or as I loved my prettiest dollies when I was small. Come here, pretty Sarah, and I shall kiss those pretty lips.'
She did not, however, mean the lips that Jasmine had not long finished painting, for before Sarah could even attempt to bend - a feat the corset rendered all but impossible - Ellen leaned forward, grasped her by both bare buttocks and drew Sarah staggering forward off balance and placed her own lips full on Sarah's cleft.
Sarah shivered and felt her stomach contract instinctively, as the fiery little fingers pitter-pattered once more up and down her spine. She closed her eyes in mortification, unable to help herself and knowing that she had grown wet immediately upon the contact and that Ellen could not fail to notice the effect of her lewd kiss.
'So sweet a little honeypot,' Ellen muttered, her words sounding slurred. 'So sweet that I think I shall have to taste it some more.' She looked up into Sarah's face, just as Sarah reopened her eyes and Sarah saw that her pupils were now hugely dilated. 'I think you would like that too, don't you?' Ellen whispered. Slowly, Sarah nodded, unable to deny the truth, no matter how shamed she felt by it.
Wickstanner found Silas Grout working beneath the tallest of the oak trees that stood in a roughly circular cluster on the eastern side of the village green. He had drawn the witchfinder's wagon up beneath a sturdy lower limb that was perhaps fifteen feet above the ground, unhitched the two horses, which now grazed idly a few yards away and was busily assembling a collection of pre-cut timbers.
'Good day, parson,' Silas said, looking up at Wickstanner's approach. 'Fine and sunny again, eh?'
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