Teena Thyme
Authors: Jennifer Jane Pope
TE
ENA THYME
by
JENNIFER JANE POPE
Teena Thyme
first
published in 200
1
by
Chimera
Publish
ing
.
Published as an eBook in 2011 by
Chimera
eBooks.
ISBN
9781780800684
.
Chimera (
ki-mir
'
a, ki-
) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy
.
Ne
w
authors
are always
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so if you'd like our guidelines,
or you
'
re a published author of erotic fiction and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we
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This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex
.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this
eB
ook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright
Jennifer Jane Pope
. The right of
Jennifer Jane Pope
to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Contents
Over the past few years, I have been lucky enough to be able to bring you an assortment of heroines (and even some heroes) in a variety of predicaments, worlds and ages. During that period I've received letters and e-mails, expressing your reactions and comments to all my characters and storylines, so I like to think I now have a pretty good idea of your favourites and I'd like to thank you all for taking the time and trouble to give me such valuable feedback.
I should now like to introduce you to my latest heroine, a young lady, born in the nineteen-fifties, growing up as a child in the so-called 'Swinging Sixties' and finally reaching adulthood in the even more outlandish mid-seventies, at which point she first begins her adventures. However, if you think that this tale is set amidst the glam-rock days of Gary Glitter, David Bowie and The Sweet, then think again!
Because, when Teena is bequeathed the estate of a great-great-great aunt she never even knew she had, she inherits far more than a country cottage and several trunks full of early Victorian clothes. There is also a locket, a small gold keepsake containing the miniature portraits of a man and woman. Who they might be, Teena has no idea, but something tells her that they, too, are long dead ancestors and so she decides to wear the locket and set about trying to trace something of her family tree.
However, before she can try for even the first branch, things start to happen and Teena finds herself whisked back in time, where she awakes to find herself trapped in the body of poor Angelina and at the mercy of the truly awful Sir Gregory Hacklebury, who is intent on seizing Angelina's own inheritance, whatever it takes.
This is an age when women had few, if any, rights; women were simply regarded as chattels, the possessions of their fathers and then their husbands. It had always been so and very few females were possessed of the temerity of spirit to challenge that
status quo
.
However, Teena is no shrinking Victorian heroine and to her,
Status Quo
means head-banging, loud music and attitude, which she has aplenty. On the other hand, this is hardly an age that is likely to welcome a 'girl with attitude' and Teena has to learn even more lessons than she is able to teach and endure hardships and abuse the like of which she can scarcely believe.
How will Teena get on, do we think? Well, if you've read any of my earlier books, you'll probably be quite confident that she'll pull through in the end, but then what is the end? Where is the end? Even more important,
when
is the end?
So, come join me and let us meet our gal, the amazing Teena Thyme and her even more startling adventures through the centuries, which begin here, quite shortly now, around about Christmas nineteen seventy-four. Elvis was still alive, the Beatles were still fresh in the memory, Mr Bowie and his Ziggy Stardust dominated our screens and radios and even Madonna was still quite young, though whether or not she was still like the virgin of whom she sang, only she will know.
But then, none of that is at all relevant to our story, as you are about to discover...
The two maidservants uttered not a single word between them, neither did they pay the slightest heed to Angelina's screams of protest and she quickly fell as silent as they and ceased the pointless struggling.
Held firmly between them, she now allowed them to lead rather than to drag her, as they had initially done. Along the top passageway they went, until they came to the spiral stairway used by the servants. The way here was too narrow for them to pass three abreast, but the older woman, Meg, descended first, though all the time maintaining her vicelike grip on Angelina's slender wrist, whilst Polly followed behind, one hand grasping Angelina in the same manner, the other entwined in her now dishevelled hair, as a warning to the hapless girl not to try to pull free.
They passed beyond the ground floor, descending further, until they emerged at the end of another passage, which Angelina knew ran along through the length of the extensive cellars. They passed several open rooms, each one stacked with an assortment of crates, barrels and sacks, apart from the wine cellar itself, which was racked from floor to ceiling, the racks themselves laden with dark bottles.
Beyond the main wine store they stopped at another door, which Meg kicked open without ceremony. Inside, a single lantern burned with a guttering flame, casting the palest of lights amidst the gloom, so that only when they had fully entered the room was Angelina able to make out the racking which extended the length of the farther wall.
Breathing heavily, she peered into the shadows and realised that this room had also, at one time, been used for storing wine, though the racks now stood empty and seemed to be covered by a fine layer of dust, other than one section in the centre, which appeared to have been recently swept clean. And there, hanging from the horizontal batten that ran along about a foot above head height, Angelina saw how they had prepared for her.
Two stout lengths of rope had been tied to this batten, short pieces of hemp, to the free ends of which had somehow been fastened two even shorter leather straps, the one end of which was tapered, like a belt, the other end terminating in a heavy buckle.
The two maids drew her towards this part of the rack and now, as Angelina understood the purpose of these embellishments, she renewed her struggles, though she knew that by now it was too late. One at a time, her arms were pulled up and the straps buckled tightly about her wrists, so that she was forced to stand facing the obsolete wine rack, with her arms held wide above her head.
'No, please!' she wailed. 'Please, this is too cruel. Oh, won't someone help me?' Her pleas fell upon stony ground, however, and the two women turned away again. In the doorway Meg paused and looked back and Angelina, craning her neck to meet her gaze over her shoulder, saw the look of sheer contempt that passed across the serving woman's face.
'Meg, please,' she whispered. 'Why do you treat me this way?' At last, the maid broke her silence.
'Master's orders, miss,' she said curtly. 'And the master expects his orders to be carried out. Maybe if you'd remembered this you wouldn't be where you are now, eh? Next time, maybe you'll think twice before you flounce your pert little arse and swirl your silken skirts in temper.'
'But you can't know what he was suggesting!' Angelina protested. 'I can only thank the good Lord that I am not yet married to that beast and when I tell my aunt what has transpired here this day, the wedding will never take place!'
Meg's features twisted into a curious grimace and she leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe, a pose she would never have dared adopt above stairs.
'Is that so?' she said, her tone as mocking as her posture. 'So the little madam thinks herself too good to marry our master, does she? Well, time will tell, missy, and I think maybe you'll be singing a different song come the morning.'
When you've got a dad who's mildly dyslexic and who is also prone to downing several pints of 'best' at the slightest excuse, it's not a particularly good idea to let him go off, unchaperoned, to register your birth, but then how many four-day-old girl babies get a say in such things, eh?
Come to think of it, how many females get a say in anything much anyway, but then that's a different story and you don't want to get me going on that one, believe me. Women's lib? Equal rights? Don't make me laugh, please. See, there I go and you never said a word, did you?
Okay, so let's get around to the important things, the reason you decided you might find my story interesting enough to shell out whatever your local bookshop is charging you for this stunning piece of literature.
My name is Teena Thyme. Well, to be honest, it's actually Teena Felicity (how the hell dad managed to spell that one right and not manage something as simple as Tina, I'll never know) Spigwell-Thyme, but would you want to admit to a handle like that? No, thought not; so Teena Thyme it is, and now I'll tell you a little bit about me.
I'm forty-five now (at least, I am at the time of writing this, but then time, as you'll see, is a peculiarly elastic concept) but I don't look a day over (say) twenty-seven. Okay, okay, twenty-nine, but in a poor light and if I've had a decent night's sleep, I've been known to pass for twenty-five. Neat trick, eh? Forty-five, going on twenty-five.
How's it done, you may ask? Of course, you may not ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway and it's all very simple and at the same time a bit confusing, but then that sums up life in general and I'm taking no responsibility for that, believe me. We'll just concentrate on the facts ('The facts, lady, just the facts') no matter how unbelievable or inexplicable you may find them. Believe me, even I can't fully explain the thing and I was there.
And there. And there.
Ad infinitum
.
Ad nauseum
, if you prefer.
Ever heard that expression: 'It's only a matter of time'? Covers a mass of situations, a multitude of sins, doesn't it? I often wonder who first coined that one, back there in the mists of... time. If only they knew!
You see, I'm a time traveller.
Oh, for heaven's sake, sit down and give me a chance to explain and no, I'm not drunk - that was dad's department. And before you ask, no, I'm not from the distant future and neither am I one of Merlin's naughty little acolytes who just happened to peek into a spell book that he left unguarded on his bedside table.
Yes, there
was
a Merlin and yes, he did have a bedside table. Why not? The poor old bugger had to sleep sometime and everyone knows that if you don't have a bedside table you end up kicking all manner of stuff over the rug when you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed, in the wee small hours, and even wizards and sorcerers need to take a pee after a particularly heavy session on the wine and mead.
But again, I digress.
I, Teena Thyme, was born in 1956 - December, to be precise - in a small hospital, not very far from a place called Hayling Island, which is in Hampshire, England, and I promise I won't be offended if you haven't heard of it. Go there between October and April and the entire place looks like it's shut. Go there the rest of the year and you can spend hours in a traffic queue, trying to get on or off the place via its one and only road bridge link with the mainland.