and which had now been given over into my unsolicited keeping became history with the least amount of fuss and, undoubtedly, with the least amount of consideration for its rightful owner.
In short, Gregory Hacklebury intended to have me and Meg was going to hold or tie me down to make sure his wedding tackle didn't end up on the wrong end of a swift knee again. Well, I reasoned, that wasn't as bad for me as it might have been for poor old Angie. I'd lost my own virginity in Copsey's Woods at the ripe old age of sixteen years and three days and though it hadn't moved the earth for me, I have to say it wasn't as bad as women in Angelina's day were wont to crack on.
Of course, I'd still have to go through the physical bit all over again, but then I could and would adopt the female maxim of the day and lie back and think of England. After all, this wasn't really my body and, while I felt sorry for my temporarily absent ancestor, I'm afraid it was a case of 'not my problem', as far as I was concerned. I was more interested in getting back to my own body in my own time and whatever I left behind here would have been sorted, sifted dead and long buried come nineteen seventy-five.
Always assuming I ever made it back to my own time and body, of course. Up until this moment I had been assuming that I would somehow retrace my unexpected leap through time, but now, as I lay there considering the options and alternatives, an awful thought occurred to me. What if I ended up stuck here as Angelina forever? After all, I had nothing to suggest that the process was reversible, did I?
No, I couldn't let myself think like that. All I had to do was make the best of things until it happened. Marry Greg, shag Greg, try to be nice to Greg, stab Greg in the guts if I ever got the chance... no, not that. Even if I did whiz back to the present before the wheels of justice turned full circle, I couldn't leave Angie to dangle on the end of a hangman's rope, which she surely would do if I killed Greg, whatever the provocation. Women tended to get a rough deal in this century and there would be a big crowd to watch pretty Angelina Thyme dance the Tyburn Jig, I knew.
So, I'd play along with Greg and keep him sweet and who knew, maybe I'd even get out of this corset and into something a little less punitive. Good idea - that is until I realised just what it was that had finally caused Angelina to turn wildcat on him. Meg let it slip - or rather, she didn't so much let it slip as paint it in big bright letters a couple of feet high. Master Greg wasn't so much interested in my tight little front of house purse as he was in the rear doorway, to put it as euphemistically and politely as possible.
And if that doesn't paint the picture big enough for you, let me put it more bluntly. In simple terms, Gregory Hacklebury was more interested in buggering me than he was in simply having normal sex with me and whilst I'm quite happy to be a bit adventurous these days, back then, both in nineteen seventy-five and in eighteen thirty-nine, I wasn't at all keen on that idea.
Okay, I reasoned with myself, so you don't like the thought of it, but then, nothing's changed. It's not your body still, is it? No, I told myself, it isn't, but it's still me inside it, so no way. Now you're being hypocritical, I argued. You were quite happy for him to have his wicked way the other way, but now...
Who says I was happy with it, I retorted indignantly. I just said I could bring myself to tolerate it, just to ease the other problems. So? Tolerate this then. No, I can't let him do this to her body.
You'd have let him do the other.
Yes, well, but...
The argument was quickly forgotten and, if I was still entertaining any ideas that I could have any say in the fate of my temporary body, I was quickly disillusioned and given a very painful insight into just what sort of vicious, depraved creatures my captors really were...
6 .
It was intended to be the day of
In short, Gregory Hacklebury intended to have me and Meg was going to hold or tie me down to make sure his wedding tackle didn't end up on the wrong end of a swift knee again. Well, I reasoned, that wasn't as bad for me as it might have been for poor old Angie. I'd lost my own virginity in Copsey's Woods at the ripe old age of sixteen years and three days and though it hadn't moved the earth for me, I have to say it wasn't as bad as women in Angelina's day were wont to crack on.
Of course, I'd still have to go through the physical bit all over again, but then I could and would adopt the female maxim of the day and lie back and think of England. After all, this wasn't really my body and, while I felt sorry for my temporarily absent ancestor, I'm afraid it was a case of 'not my problem', as far as I was concerned. I was more interested in getting back to my own body in my own time and whatever I left behind here would have been sorted, sifted dead and long buried come nineteen seventy-five.
Always assuming I ever made it back to my own time and body, of course. Up until this moment I had been assuming that I would somehow retrace my unexpected leap through time, but now, as I lay there considering the options and alternatives, an awful thought occurred to me. What if I ended up stuck here as Angelina forever? After all, I had nothing to suggest that the process was reversible, did I?
No, I couldn't let myself think like that. All I had to do was make the best of things until it happened. Marry Greg, shag Greg, try to be nice to Greg, stab Greg in the guts if I ever got the chance... no, not that. Even if I did whiz back to the present before the wheels of justice turned full circle, I couldn't leave Angie to dangle on the end of a hangman's rope, which she surely would do if I killed Greg, whatever the provocation. Women tended to get a rough deal in this century and there would be a big crowd to watch pretty Angelina Thyme dance the Tyburn Jig, I knew.
So, I'd play along with Greg and keep him sweet and who knew, maybe I'd even get out of this corset and into something a little less punitive. Good idea - that is until I realised just what it was that had finally caused Angelina to turn wildcat on him. Meg let it slip - or rather, she didn't so much let it slip as paint it in big bright letters a couple of feet high. Master Greg wasn't so much interested in my tight little front of house purse as he was in the rear doorway, to put it as euphemistically and politely as possible.
And if that doesn't paint the picture big enough for you, let me put it more bluntly. In simple terms, Gregory Hacklebury was more interested in buggering me than he was in simply having normal sex with me and whilst I'm quite happy to be a bit adventurous these days, back then, both in nineteen seventy-five and in eighteen thirty-nine, I wasn't at all keen on that idea.
Okay, I reasoned with myself, so you don't like the thought of it, but then, nothing's changed. It's not your body still, is it? No, I told myself, it isn't, but it's still me inside it, so no way. Now you're being hypocritical, I argued. You were quite happy for him to have his wicked way the other way, but now...
Who says I was happy with it, I retorted indignantly. I just said I could bring myself to tolerate it, just to ease the other problems. So? Tolerate this then. No, I can't let him do this to her body.
You'd have let him do the other.
Yes, well, but...
The argument was quickly forgotten and, if I was still entertaining any ideas that I could have any say in the fate of my temporary body, I was quickly disillusioned and given a very painful insight into just what sort of vicious, depraved creatures my captors really were...
6 .
It was intended to be the day of
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