Sunday, May 16th, 1869
As "Rock of Ages" thundered out from the church organ, Prunella Drew took a deep breath and fainted, her limp body collapsing onto the hard church pew. A few seconds later, Irene went white and passed out, closely followed by Sarah and Amelia.
On the other side of the aisle, Jane Clayton only realised what was happening when she heard the thump of Sarah's hip hitting the edge of the pew and a distinct yelp of pain above the lusty singing around her. She tightened her lips, hitched up her skirts and crossed over to the senior girls' pew.
She advanced laboriously, tripping over the prayer stools and crushing the hoops of her crinoline past the hysterically weeping girls, but at last she managed to shake Amelia back to her feet and wave a bottle of smelling salts under Prunella's nose. By the time the majestic chords of "Rock of Ages" had died down, all the girls were standing again.
Jane made her way back to her place as discretely as her crinoline would let her. She glanced apologetically at Colonel Fetherington, the school governor, and caught the scornful movement of his eyebrows as he turned his gaze back towards the altar. Mrs Harmsworth, the headmistress, just glared.
Jane's heart sank. There would be hell to pay.
"Enter!"
Jane pushed open the heavy oak door, her heart pounding. The headmistress was not alone in her study, there was a gentleman whom Jane vaguely remembered seeing at church, a man in his sixties with a generous belly, ruddy cheeks and an enormous handlebar moustache.
"Miss Clayton. Dr Wilbert-Brown."
"Delighted, Miss Clayton." the doctor said, getting up with a little bow.
"Sir." curtsied Jane.
Mrs Harmsworth did not invite her to sit down.
"Miss Clayton, would you be so kind as to explain the appalling spectacle at church this morning?"
"The girls are going through a difficult time, headmistress. I think they have romantic fantasies in their heads, they imagine themselves as ... swooning heroines." The headmistress raised her eyes in exasperation and Jane hastily added "Irene doesn't eat enough, and Prunella will tie her corset too tight."
"Miss Clayton," Mrs Harmsworth cut in irritably, "do you really believe the mass hysteria I witnessed this morning is simply a question of diets and corsets?"
"That's not what ..." Jane started, then bit her tongue. After five months of teaching at St Mary's boarding school, she'd learned that it was not at all wise to contradict the headmistress.
"Well, speak up woman. As their housemistress, you are responsible for their conduct."
" If you will pardon my interrupting" smiled the elder gentleman "I am not certain that Miss Clayton could have avoided what happened this morning, even if she had wanted to."
Mrs Harmsworth looked away and said nothing. Jane felt a surge of gratitude to the man.
"I think the cause is elsewhere." he added gently.
The headmistress looked back at Jane, aiming her gaze a few inches above the young teacher's head, her usual and remarkably efficient technique for intimidating staff and students alike.
"Dr Wilbert-Brown" said Mrs Harmsworth "believes that the matter is more serious than you seem to think. He believes that our girls touch themselves ..." the headmistress continued with visible distaste "... down there."
There was a heavy pause. Jane blushed deeply, the headmistress let her gaze travel across the oak panelling of the study to the portrait of one of her grim predecessors. The doctor gently broke the silence.
"It is a question I have been studying for years now, Miss Clayton. Hysteria is all too often caused by improper sexual stimulation. And we now know that repeated masturbation ... when a girl caresses her vulva ..." the Doctor added, as the word was obviously new to Jane.
"Quite, Doctor, I don't think we need too much detail." The headmistress cut in, clearly annoyed that such matters should be spoken of at all.
"My apologies, Madam, it is a delicate subject, but I'm sure an intelligent woman like Miss Clayton will have no difficulty in understanding."
Jane warmed to him. It was rare a man took her seriously, and even more flattering that an eminent doctor should do so.
"I'll do my best, doctor" she smiled.
"Excellent. Now masturbation, as I was saying, is now known to produce all sorts of diseases, from anaemia and migraines, to diminished sight and even jaundice. It is essential to diagnose and prevent it as early as possible. I hope I am wrong about the girls, but it is in their own interest to clear this matter up quickly."
"I understand, Doctor." Jane replied, blushing with a quick flutter of guilt. Of course the girls masturbated, at least she assumed they did. She had at their age, and still did.
"Dr Wilbert-Brown will be checking your girls tomorrow morning." Mrs Harmsworth added dryly. "I have arranged for Nurse Wilson to assist him, and I count on your discretion not to say a word about this to anyone beforehand. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Madam." Jane replied, curious to know what this "checking" actually involved. "What exactly will ..."
"That will be all, Miss Clayton."
"Yes, Madam." She moved to the door.
"Miss Clayton?" Jane turned back. The headmistress was gazing at her with a faintly contemptuous smile.
"You will also be checked."
Jane blushed scarlet and left.
That night Jane lay wide-eyed on the narrow bed in her tiny attic room, her stomach knotted with worry. What would the doctor look for? How could he check such a thing? More importantly, would he find her out? Almost every night her fingers slid down between her legs and stroked away the tensions of the day with erotic dreams of pirates and Viking marauders. It was rare she went to sleep without a sweet, swift climax, usually at about the stage when she was pinned down by handsome thugs, her thighs held open for a tall warrior who slowly unbuckled his belt ... Would the doctor see all that at the examination? Jane suddenly felt horribly naked and vulnerable, as if her most intimate secrets were about to be put on public display. "Pull yourself together, Jane," she said to herself "the doctor is kind and intelligent, I'm fit as a fiddle and I've never ever had even mild hysterics. It'll be fine, just fine."
In the far distance the church clock struck two and Jane concentrated her thoughts elsewhere ... a knife ripping open her tent, the dark hand of an Arab clamped over her mouth, her nightdress torn open and black eyes in the flicker of torch-light ... For a second, she touched the thick curls of her pussy, then drew her hand back. Not tonight, she decided, just in case.
Monday, May 17th, 1869
Jane woke up to a magnificent sunny day and quickly forgot her anguish as she prepared for her French class at the local military academy. She taught a class of twenty-six young officers there twice a week and thoroughly enjoyed it. Not that they were especially good at the subject or assiduous in their work but it was a healthy break from the feminine hothouse at St Mary's boarding school, and the men were extremely pleased to see her. Female company was scarce in this backwood of the Scottish highlands, and the officers went out of their way to be charming. She knew perfectly well that their eyes spent more time on her breasts and hips than on the words she wrote on the blackboard, but there was never a hint of a leer or a displaced remark.
So her morning preparation was not so much a question of grammar and translations, as a good hour and a half spent on making herself as ravishing as possible. Not an easy task at St Mary's where make-up was banned and all dresses were buttoned up to the neck, but a discrete touch of blush and a light trace of kohl on her eyelashes could pass as natural.
Jane fixed her black curls up into an elegant mass high on the back of her head leaving a couple of unruly ringlets to frame her cheeks and looked at herself in the mirror. Her blue skirt blossomed out like a bell from her corseted waist with a slight hint of petticoat showing just above her dainty shoes. The curve of her bosom was modest but it wasn't that difficult to notice that her breasts were set high and firm. "That'll do" she thought, smiling. Her dark eyes sparkled and she daringly added a touch of red to her lips before grabbing her bonnet and heading for the waiting carriage.
The morning went perfectly. Sunlight poured through the windows of the classroom, specks of dust dancing in the beams, as she walked slowly along the aisles between the desks dictating a passage of French. The officers were only a couple of years younger than her, between 19 and 22, but she considered them all as her boys. She watched tenderly as Mathew, a dark, stocky soldier from Leeds scratched laboriously at his paper, lent over to point at a mistake James was making, tapped warningly on Simon's shoulder when she saw him looking at his neighbour's work. The young men followed her sensual figure with their eyes while she walked, blushed and returned to their papers when she caught them looking.
She had lunch in the officer's mess and chatted for longer than usual, totally forgetting she was expected back at St Mary's for the check-up. It was already almost two in the afternoon when a small troupe of admirers gallantly helped her up into the carriage. Jane hitched the edge of her skirt up a few inches as she put her foot onto the iron step and the eyes around her all flicked down instantly to get a glimpse of her dainty ankle and a flash of petticoat. She settled back on her seat with a laugh, smoothed her blue satin skirt around her and waved back as the coachman cracked his whip.
When the carriage pulled up on the gravel outside St Mary's, Nurse Wilson was waiting for her.
"You're late, Miss Clayton" the woman snapped, looking more dour than ever, "you were expected three quarters of an hour ago."
"I do apologise, Mrs Wilson, I was retained."
"That may be, Miss, but the Doctor has better things to do than twiddle his thumbs. You are to go to the summer room straight away."
Jane got down and was surprised to see Nurse Wilson hoist herself up into the carriage in her place.
