"Bathe and make yourself pretty, Phemie. Rush, rush!" She is half way to the door when she remembers and turns. "Oh, and put something on." In the scented warmth of the bath I forget the dungeon and the whip. I am pleasantly excited. Whatever portends now is certain to be better than what was promised. In my room I hastily garb myself in such lovely expensive trifles as my chained hands will allow me to fasten. I have just brushed my hair when Yola enters. I pose for her.
"Good!" Her eyes sparkle. "Oh, Phemie darling!" She lets the sentence die while she finds the chains for my feet, the ones that match those on my wrists: costly, gorgeous and cruel. I am still admiring them and kicking one foot tentatively to get their feel again when she unlocks my linked hands and replaces the sapphire bond with shining functional handcuffs. "I'm striving for a certain effect-" She backs away and surveys her work. I walk beautifully with chained feet. I've had lots of practice. The handcuffs give me only slightly less freedom than the metal they replaced.
"You poor darling! Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good! Lunch is ready. We have company." I clink my way beautifully. I am secure in the knowledge that nothing of my slavery can embarrass me any more. I ask no questions. I am savouring the surprise I know Yolanda has prepared me for. The surprise is James Pollard.
"You wear handcuffs with a flair, Miss Carstairs." He has risen from his seat and now takes my cuffed hands and kisses each. An old world courtliness goes along with his boyish grin. I stand, nonplussed, and look to my Mistress for help. "Mr. Pollard is an associate of Roland Bolling, Phemie dear." She breaks the news as though it explains everything. I am about to ask who he is when he's at home, when I remember: Roland Bolling is famous. He makes vast sums from vast enterprises. Yola's father had known him.
"Mr. Bolling has heard of you," says James. I am not interested in Mr. Bolling. Hunger makes me aggressive. "Do you know what you let me in for yesterday?" I demand sulkily.
"I have already told him." Yola dismisses the subject. We seat ourselves for the lunch which I attack in a most unladylike manner until I catch Yolanda's eye and slow down. Mr. Pollard keeps an interested eye on my handcuffs as though wondering how I'll manage.
"I plead ignorance of your penalty, Miss Carstairs," James says without contrition. "Had I realized… " He embraces us both with a glowing smile. "I am endeavouring to incline Miss Harding to leniency."
"Phemie will receive her punishment in full, the fault was hers." Yola is keeping well on top of things. James might have been speaking of the weather. "I was wondering if her penalty might be reduced to… shall we say… a bare fifty." He is amused by his own pun, then adds: "With me watching, of course." I cannot explain or understand why I am suddenly one huge blush. Mr. Pollard examines this maiden manifestation with the same intent interest he had devoted to me from the start. Yola and I use Eliza Dolittle's famous exclamation in unison: "Not bloody likely!" He deals with his lamb chop unperturbed. "All in the way of business, of course," he says casually. "We'd expect a demonstration." Yola and I exchange a mystified glance. Her voice holds ice. "What on Earth are you talking about?" He is enjoying himself, he affects surprise. "Why, Mr. Bolling, of course. He wishes to purchase Miss Carstairs " It is a small bomb. Even I stop eating. "Are you trying to be offensive?" Yolanda is giving Mr. Pollard both barrels. "The suggestion you have just made is not funny." My blush has vanished. With sudden certainty I know Yola is afraid. We feel each other's vibrations. I too feel a cold hand upon my heart. James Pollard no longer seems a boy.
"No offense intended." He waves airily. "Business is a nosey influence. It is known that the delightful Euphemia has been purchased once. So why not twice? It's an honest approach."
"Euphemia is not for sale."
"Does she have anything to say about it?"
"No."
"She really is a slave then?" His voice is eager.
"Mr. Pollard, you are a guest here because Roland Bolling knew my father. May we, please, talk of something else?" Their use of my full name made me feel like merchandise. I was actually scared of something I could not name. "Go away, James Pollard," I said as coldly as I could manage. "All you do is get me into trouble. I'd never dream of leaving Yolanda. If she threw me out I'd come back. Whatever's between us is none of your business."
"You enjoy your chains?" His voice is mocking.
"Go away."
"And you'll enjoy your hundred strokes with a whip on your bare skin?" He was pushing hard.
"Oh stop it! Yola, make him go." It was as though I had said nothing. His voice was suave as he turned to my Mistress: "We were thinking in terms of seventy-five thousand pounds, Miss Harding. Money is terrible, you can't ignore huge sums. The silence was hard to bear. I dared not look at Yolanda.
"Cash, of course. Immediate delivery." He was intent as ever. My darling is disturbed, her fear comes to me in waves. I realize there is something I do not understand. "What do I have to say to stop this nonsense?" She asks. Her voice sounds tired.
"Just the single word, 'Yes'." He says it as though no other word could possibly be used. She stares him in the eye. "The answer is no. The discussion is ended. I mean it. No!"
"One hundred thousand pounds, Miss Harding." I gasp. My darling seems to freeze. James Pollard calmly spears a potato. The atmosphere is electric. The cold hand clutches me more tightly. "Why?" Yolanda puts all our puzzlement into the single word. He shrugs. "You've a right to ask that." His grin encompasses us both. "Fairly simple really. Money is only tokens in the world of Roland Bolling, but Miss Carstairs is quite unique. He believes he can use her talents and her temperament to advantage."
"How?"
"As a bribe."
"Loan her out to some old lecher in return for a business advantage? Is that it?" He had the grace to squirm. "Substantially yes, though you do underrate the charm of those she would divert."
"Does she divert them in bed?"
"Primarily, no."
"They would torture her?"
"You spread things a bit thick," he complained. "I am under the impression the dear girl is spiritually attuned to such a role."
"I absolutely refuse," I tell him firmly. He gives me his full attention. "Your ankles are chained, your wrists are handcuffed, Miss Carstairs… " His implication is obvious. I am a slave and have nothing to say about my disposal. The knowledge that he views me as such thrills me with an excitation I know well. I will not admit it to him, but I am what he believes. But with the thrill there comes the fear I sense in Yola. "You'd keep me chained up in between tortures?" I enquire icily. James Pollard dismisses the whole conversation with a disgusted wave of the hand. "We're snipping at each other. Suppose I've shocked you a bit. Working for Bolling I'm inclined to take things for granted. Sorry and all that. Should have wined and dined you a bit first."