Don't Judge Me Ch. 09

The study was everything I had anticipated, but so much more.

Beyond the view of the garden, which, obviously, was completely unexpected, everything else was so perfectly in line with what one would expect from such an urbane woman. The hardwood desk, impeccably organized, was set back and to the side of the center of the room, leaving space for several people comfortably to stand in the room for a conversation. It had a brass lamp, a quill and blotter, but also a fountain pen, a stack of possibly hand-made parchments, coarse and off-white, and a neat pile of binders on the other side of the desk, discretely concealing their contents.

The walls on either side of the room were entirely bookshelves. Apart from a door, I might add, which seemed to shrink amid the imposing bulk of the books surrounding and overwhelming it, in each of the walls. A ladder was attached to each wall, with wheels, so that it could be pulled from one end to the other to allow access to the highest books. And on the opposite side of the window from where the desk sat, two large, overstuffed, as predicted, comfortable-looking armchairs with a small coffee table were both facing the spectacular outlook over the gardens. In the corner behind the door was a tea-making area, with a steaming hot urn.

But I was drawn to the books. All those books.

They weren't modern books, either. These were Dickens, Austen, Darwin, and Jules Verne. There were novels, encyclopedias, anthologies of poetry, books on art, music, culture... but all of them, every single one, looked to be hand-crafted, and could easily have been over a hundred years old.

I looked to Miss Havisham for approval before drawing one out, and she exuded delight that I was taking an interest in what, for her, must also have been a passion. I had randomly selected Pride and Prejudice, as it happens, but it was not like any edition I'd ever seen.

The hard cover was clothed in a navy blue material, embossed with intricate patterns. The front cover had an oval frame with a hand-drawn portrait of, I presume, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. The title was elaborate cursive calligraphy, apparently gilt, so that it shone. It was spectacular.

Creaking it open, I found the hand-sewn binding, and the thick pages with a beautiful serif typeface, including additional flourishes on the g, the y, and so forth. It fell open to a page containing an illustration of what was surely a dashing Mr Darcy, matching the picture on the cover, and perhaps Pemberley in the background. The musty scent arising from the tome beckoned me to nestle somewhere and lose myself in Hertfordshire once again, among the intrigues of the Bennet girls.

But I looked up from this meticulous work of art to the next book, and the next, and then tried to comprehend the enormous collection spanning both walls. I turned again to Miss Havisham, agape. She was allowing me to sense her delight. She was deeply gratified that her love of these books was appreciated and shared. We exchanged, silently, for several moments, sensations of joy, comfort, adventure, escape, and thrill, that these books represented.

Eventually I closed Pride and Prejudice with great care, and replaced it respectfully in the shelf. I reached out and lightly touched its binding, then let my finger trace along the bindings of the other books, drinking in the enormity of this collection of artworks as I slowly made my way along the row, awestruck.

Miss Havisham stood patiently as I took it in. She was beaming with satisfaction. When I finally, reluctantly, withdrew my hand from the array of books, I started to speak, but Miss Havisham started also to speak at the same time. We both stopped apologetically, each offering the other to go first. Miss Havisham insisted.

"I'm just... um, I wonder where the bathroom is, please?" I hadn't realized before just then, but the need had become acute.

Overtly embarrassed, Miss Havisham gushed, "Oh, my dear I'm a terrible host. How rude! I'm dreadfully embarrassed. Here," she stepped towards the door in the opposite wall, surrounded by books. "Be my guest." She opened the door and stood to the side.

I thanked her diminutively (I may have courtesyed. Is that weird?) and quickly scurried towards the now open door. As I reached the opening, which led into a very short walkway between shelves of towels and assorted linen, she whipped out from her reticule my green knickers from that morning. "I suppose I could give these back to you now," she smiled.

I gave it barely a moment's thought as I skipped past, completely aware that skipping would make my recalcitrant little dress jump and flit in completely indecent ways. I looked over my shoulder and flashed a smile, "You keep those. I think I'm growing accustomed to life without them."

Miss Havisham really should keep her guard up, I tutted to myself, catching the distinct hint of an erotic flicker behind her contrivance of a scandalized gasp. She closed the door over, but not before saying, as if to herself but loud enough for me to hear, "what an incurable little flirt". And there I went again, filled with cheeky pleasure, eroticism coursing through my body from head to toe. Yeah, I reflected, she was right.

The bathroom was, unsurprisingly by now, magnificent. Everything was perfect, from the gleaming porcelain free-standing bath tub to the tri-fold changing screen, draped with two or three colorful scarves as if to remind the observer that intimate clothing is draped frequently over that barest of modesty screens, as the concealed immodesty beyond is agonizingly close, but so far away, out of sight except for the narrow gaps between the vertical screens, which merely serve to amplify the knowledge of what else might be seen if only one were arranged at a different angle. Such a burlesque accessory to voyeuristic intrigue, and beyond that, perfectly superfluous, since anyone actually wanting privacy would surely use another room.

And the sink was lined with every imaginable shape and color of perfume beneath a wide and tall mirror with a heavy frame. Some fragrant soaps sat invitingly at the foot of a small porcelain figurine of a bathing woman, half protected by a garment or towel from the sculptor's gaze, but with her breasts and plump tummy exposed unreservedly as she washed, apparently, one of her arms. It was hypnotically beautiful. Not at all sexual, but intimately sensual, and subtly erotic in ways difficult to articulate. Or was it just me, in my buzzed state?

When I emerged from the bathroom, much refreshed and relieved, Miss Havisham was almost finished preparing our tea. "Did you find the perfumes on the, ah!" she inhaled deeply through her nostrils, staring at the ceiling as she ruminated. "You found the Quelques Fleurs. A perfect fragrance for a pretty young woman. Well chosen!"

I felt like it might have been the first thing I had done right all day. I basked in the glow of Miss Havisham's compliment. It really was a lovely, delicate floral scent. Had I known then how much it cost, I might never have dared touch it, but Miss Havisham was clearly delighted I was wearing it.

Lifting a teacup and saucer in each hand, she nodded at the armchairs to invite me to find my seat. I hesitated, thinking of the beautiful upholstery, and my nakedness.

She read my mind, "Don't be shy, my dear. If you had any idea the sort of thing these chairs have experienced in their time... besides, I have them reupholstered regularly, and cleaned every day. Please don't be self-conscious. They are here for you, not you for them. Sit yourself down."

When we both were seated, and Miss Havisham had handed me my tea with a small pastry on the side, and taken the same for herself, she sat back into the comfortable chair with a sigh. "Right. Now. Where to begin?" she pondered.

"Can I ask a question?" I dared, looking into my teacup as though it were the focus of my attention.

"Please do. You must have a thousand of them," she sipped at her tea.

"That name you called me, 'Shynalee'," I didn't know where this was going to go, but we had agreed, if silently, to trust one another. This was as good a chance as ever, "Where did you get that name?"

She smiled knowingly, nodding, "You certainly are observant. What does the name mean to you?"

"Well," I wondered if my answer was going to be 'correct', or just come across as dumb, like so many of my faux pas throughout the day. "When I was a very little girl, my grandmother died, and she left a book to me. It was very old. A little baby chicken called Shynalee was an odd one out, like the ugly duckling, but in this story eventually the rooster was killed, and Shynalee ended up saving the flock from the fox. It was such a strange little book, and I'm sure nobody else has heard of it, but the name is kind of unique."

Miss Havisham's mind was unavailable. She bore a faint smile, and was looking, it seemed, at something down in the garden. "This ladder," she pointed without looking at it, at the ladder on our side of the room, more or less behind my chair. "Push it down near the end. At the door."

I didn't know what she was going to do, but I hopped up and easily slid the ladder along its well oiled runners until it was directly in front of the door, providing access to the books stowed above the top of the door.

"Second row from the top," she said. "At your right side." She rose from her chair and meandered in my direction.

I clutched the ladder with both hands, knowing I was going to climb it despite my queasiness at heights. Ladders scared me, but as ever, when Miss Havisham gave an instruction, I desired above all else to obey it. So up I went, step by step, until I was within reach of the high ceiling, a thousand miles off the polished floor. By now she was standing somewhere behind me, as I dangled in the stratosphere.

"What am I looking for?" I asked, quavering.

"To your right, my dear. As I said, second row down. Don't expect me to do the looking, my eyesight isn't that good, and besides, what I can see from this angle is an absolute scandal, young lady."

Fuck, she was at it again. I clutched the ladder tightly as I quivered, the sexual thrill, mixing with my anxiety about the height, forming a heady rush of adrenaline. Being reminded that my bare bottom, and really everything up to the waistband just under my breasts - my tummy, the curve of my back, my hips, every fucking thing - was being shamelessly paraded for her by my unrepentant, wafting garment, which appeared to be looking for ways to place me in exactly this situation at every turn. But why would she do this to me now, up a ladder, while I has hanging on for dear life?

"Oh, now that's not fair at all!" I squealed.

I could hear her chuckling to herself as I clung to the ladder, waiting for my pulse to subside, unable to spare a hand to even attempt to adjust my incorrigible frock, not that it would have made much difference. For the time being, my whole lower body was going to be openly visible, and there was nothing I could do to adjust it. It wasn't easy to calm myself. I was now highly aware of Miss Havisham gleefully gazing up my dress at my undefended privacy, ready at any moment to say something else that would again send me into a lightheaded spin.

Without letting go of the ladder, but extending a finder and nodding, I pointed to the other side of the room, playfully to request that she turn away her gaze, with a look of mock sternness and insistence on my face. She replied with a completely unrealistic expression of incomprehension, as if not understanding my request, remaining steadfastly beneath me grazing on all the sweet treats that I was involuntarily offering like a half destroyed pinata, and even, the cheeky thing, making a show of twisting her head around slightly to each side, as if to get a better look at me! That almost undid me. She was such a tease.

Feigning exasperation and surrender, I turned back to face the wall with an exaggerated huff, leaving my bottom, and all my other secrets, to be plundered by her invasive gaze.

But just at that moment I saw it. Second row from the top, on my right. It was the curious shade of yellowy green I remembered as a little girl, and it had the familiar script on the binding, "Shynalee saves the day". I forgot all the shenanigans going on behind me and up under my dress, and I reached up to grab the distant memory. How long had it been since I had last seen this book? Not since I was a small child.

I descended the ladder excited, clutching the precious book to my breast. I slipped down the final two steps and almost lost my balance as I landed, but Miss Havisham steadied me. I looked at the book, then at Miss Havisham, then the book. "How?" I stuttered. "Where?" I continued my incisive, articulate commentary. "It can't...", I artfully expanded on my previous erudite exposition.

"Come, we're not finished our tea," she smiled broadly, gesturing that I should return to my seat.

I sat and opened the familiar book on my lap, memories flooding at me from the illustrations. It was a children's book, so the text of the story was simple. If I tried, I might be able to remember almost every word of it. As a small girl, it had been such an important story for me. It had resonated so strongly. This little chicken, Shynalee, was my role model, my hero. I didn't even know when the book had left my life. My family had moved a number of times, and Mom had finally shifted overseas only six months earlier, and Dad moved out to the suburbs. The book could have been thrown out, or left behind, I supposed, at any time. I hadn't heard or thought of Shynalee for the longest time until Miss Havisham had suddenly named me after her, earlier in the day.

I looked, hopefully, questioningly, to Miss Havisham for an explanation, through misty eyes.

She smiled, "Stories have a way of connecting people." It was a standalone statement, but I didn't know what it meant. She became distant, "Your grandmother was very dear to me".

"You knew her?" I gasped. I was excited to learn this. How could it be? I didn't know much about my grandmother. She was apparently something of a recluse. I had only ever heard half a dozen stories about her. Everyone always said the same things, as though rehearsed, shedding no light at all on what kind of person she was but painting a generic picture of a nice old lady.

"Oh yes", Miss Havisham responded wistfully. "She mentored me, taught me about the Sight." She seemed far away in her memories. She made them sound fond, but her shield was wavering, and there was some grave sadness in her inner journey down memory lane. I waited, with difficulty, patiently.

Finally, she turned to me and, in a matter-of-fact tone that sounded like it was helping her maintain her composure, she said, "There was trouble between your grandmother and the family. There was trouble between your mother and me. To complicate things further, there was trouble between your grandmother and me, too. They were some dark days. We all suffered. Including this manor house, in fact. It was badly damaged in a fire, for which... I may bear some responsibility." Her eyes were welling with tears, but her voice remained steadfast as she fought to have the story told, "Anyway, your grandmother had, as you were told, left you this book. Your mother objected. It's complicated. Your mother and I... we had reason to argue, and the book ultimately became sort of emblematic of our tension."

She paused, unable to conceal the fact she was battling tears. I sat, open-mouthed, hearing for the first time this important history.

Presently, she continued, "She confronted me, eventually. She demanded I take the book away. It was a... a symbol of your grandmother, you see. Don't blame your mother, the situation was very complex, and I'm not proud of my part in it. Your mother made me make certain promises, and I agreed to them. One of them was to take the book away."

I couldn't bear her stopping now, "What else? What did she make you promise?"

The tears overflowed their inadequate weir, and flowed unchecked to her cheeks and beyond. She looked apologetic, wincing to suppress her sobs. She dabbed defiantly at the tears and pressed on, "I promised not to contact you until your twenty fifth birthday." She looked down at her feet as if in shame.

"That's... still two years away," I just spoke the fact into the room, not knowing, but guessing so, whether or not she was aware.

"Yes," she sniffed her sobs to a halt and regained something of her more customary bustle, "well, events have overtaken us, and while I solemnly meant to keep my promise at the time, I'm afraid it isn't possible."

My head was spinning, "Why?"

She went on to tell me that a woman around her own age, Mrs Reed, who also had the Sight, had "gone rogue", some years ago. She had become an enemy, recruiting girls and teaching them some of the rudimentary capabilities of the Sight, even though they didn't have the actual gift, but to evil ends, to make them deceitful and cruel. "Even without the Sight, Using some of these techniques, one can become quite manipulative. A very mean girl indeed, you might say", she cautioned. This group had somehow become well resourced and was seeking to find and destroy the little oasis that Miss Havisham oversaw.

It was a strange story, but no stranger than anything else I had seen this day. "How... how do you know all this?", I managed to ask.

After a deep breath, she placed her teacup and saucer on the little coffee table and stood, indicating I should follow. She brought me to her desk, and I stood to her side as she made herself comfortable and then gave a deep sigh.

At the touch of some concealed button below the lip of her desk, the whole surface of the erstwhile period piece was transformed into something more comfortable in a space-age adventure. From the previously smooth surface, shapes emerged, quickly revealing themselves as the keys on a keyboard. The colors all shifted at once and, in a chameleon moment, became a semi-transparent, lit keyboard, but not a regular one. There were several additional banks of keys and controls. At the same time, a holographic display burst into life above the desk, displaying a highly detailed aerial view of the manor house.

Miss Havisham gestured, and the display zoomed out and rotated into a map of half of the continent.

"We have... resources", she said, again gesturing. Green symbols began appearing on the map, many around our area, but also located in a wide array of places, even, apparently, fairly remote ones. "These are intelligence gathering resources. You can see this one, she pointed at the three-dimensional hologram, and the point she indicated in the middle of what I would have considered a rural area sprang forth a life-like hologram of its own, showing possibly the only set of traffic lights in a tiny town. A farm truck was heaving its way across the intersection, and while we watched, the license plate of the truck zoomed up a holographic panel showing ownership details, a log of where the vehicle had previously been detected, and any number of other details.

She waved her hand, and the additional holograms collapsed back into the little green marker. She made another gesture over the city, which zoomed us in somewhat. There were lots of green markers. She kept zooming, and I noticed some of them were moving. She pointed to one of these, and a panel opened, showing a holographic head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman, with a name and various notes.

I had no idea how any of that was possible. I had never really seen a hologram before. I was leaning forward, my face right inside it, the map with its green markers surrounding me. I felt like I was snorkeling among reef fish.

I was suddenly brought back to the moment, however, because Miss Havisham lightly smacked my bottom cheek! I had not been focused on maintaining the fragile boundaries of the little dress, and as I bent forward, of course I had become hopelessly exposed. The all-too-short dress was not able to give my any cover whatsoever as I leaned forward, and by now I was lying on the desk, so it had ridden almost all the way up to my tail bone. She wasn't going to let me get away with that, not without teasing and torturing me for it.