Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 1 Chapter 12
Later that December, six elegant figures alighted their autocarriage and assembled in front of the the main house of the Hodgkinson Estate, three of which had fine winter travelling coats covering them completely like piano-shrouds, gagged faces peeking out to the snow-covered grounds from beneath heavy hoods.
I was surprised to see another automaid by the door and not Nanny; she had never missed greeting a guest personally, never mind the homecoming daughters of the household, but instead of a flurry of questions we were led in silence past the threshold into a house that looked quite the same, but felt markedly different. Colder, quieter. Until Pappa came out and wrapped us in a bearhug!
Overjoyed as we were, our Teachers had made it quite clear that our automaids were still reporting back to St. Werburgh’s over the break, and Pappa had to specifically allow us to break form lest we be punished once we returned. He did no such thing, so we remained still and passive even as our insides melted being engulfed in our parent’s warmth again after so long. It was during these last few months that I started to realise what extended time without human touch or physical interaction can do to someone, so you must understand how overwhelming it was, and delightful, to have formality and etiquette broken even for a moment, even if we dared not reciprocate in any meaningful way.
After Althea was silently introduced to Pappa via a written Christmas card held out by her maid, us girls were finally unwrapped from our toasty coats and led into the manse proper, as three or four other mechanical servants unloaded the carriage.
Still, the house felt off somehow, and I realised: Mummy and Nanny were nowhere to be seen. I panicked a little as a thousand tragic possibilities coursed through my head, but my expression barely changed. I hadn’t been allowed to ask.
It was later that day that Pappa mentioned casually how Nanny and the other staff didn’t live with us anymore. He said it even as he was admiring our elegant neck corsets. And still he didn’t tell our automaids to remove our gags. Not until dinner, but as we had still not been permitted to break form, that dinner was spent chewing quietly and listening to all about Pappa’s travels with Lord Chittenham and some other new friends, about work going splendidly, and about his petty troubles programming the new house staff.
He spoke nothing about Mother’s empty seat, and at one point he looked at Chastity, at her pleasant stare at the far wall while she ate her peas, and mumbled something about St. Werburgh’s being a “magical place.” It was obvious to me then: he finally saw us as Dolls, not young women, and normally I would have rejoiced at such a sentiment, but I was burning to break form and speak with him like the Pappa I used to know before I was gagged.
Surprisingly, he also took an instant liking to Althea, and by the third day of our vacation, it seemed he was making the school-provided automaid unnecessary with his chivalry, guiding her and adjusting her hair and gown when it became unkempt. Just like he used to do for Mother when we were young.
Before St. Werburgh’s I would have glanced toward Chastity, made an expression of disapproval, that he was having more real interaction with my friend than I was, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be a real girl who had these kinds of concerns, and the Teachers had taught me that sharing such thoughts or judgements was disrespectful not only to those I disparage but also to those I corrupt with my worthless opinions. Besides, I had no idea if Chastity would even acknowledge my break in protocol. She had taken the last few free-speech dinners off at school, her eyes glued to the far wall, maintaining the act which was soon to be our whole life, whilst Althea and I went on talking on and on, satiating our appetite in preparation of each forthcoming week of silence. It seemed she was abandoning me, but in my heart I knew that wasn’t true. She was just being my model sister once again, being my perfect example.
So I used Chas as my strength, and St. Werburgh’s as my rulebook, and I kept quiet, I kept still, I kept proper and pure. I kept my eyes forward, my lips pursed if my gag was off, my knees together under the folds of my dress, my heels on the floor, my voice silent. And I felt the rigid corsetry from my hips to my chin holding me in place, I felt my shoulders straining behind me, numb past the edge of the monoglove, felt the gag’s bladder filling my mouth entirely, felt the heat between my legs trapped in the diaper I wore.
And I cleared my mind. I trusted that Pappa would explain what happened to Mother eventually. It was not my place to doubt my owner, as Teacher Helene would say, and our owner was Pappa until he married us. But the question persisted in the back of my dedicated mind until the day it was answered: Christmas itself.
We had arrived around the eighteenth of December, so Christmas Day lay near the midpoint of our time at home. Of course Chas and I were elated, though you wouldn’t have been able to tell save for our hurried steps down the stairs to the blazing hearth and electric tree, quickly followed by our guest. Wholesome excitement sometimes bent the rules of grace, and so the clacking of our bedroom mules thundered through the empty house, past the new autobutler, past the cleaner-bots scooting along the floor, until we rounded the corner to find Pappa in his chair, sipping on an Irish coffee, ready to dole out the glorious bundle of presents left by Father Christmas whilst we were asleep. The three of us allowed ourselves to be arranged in a row on the chesterfield, still in loose silk nightgowns on this special day. I hoped Althea would enjoy this, it would be her first Christmas in a proper Society household.
Slowly presents were unwrapped for us and announced, usually by Pappa himself but sometimes by our silent maids, and slowly a pile of goodies accumulated around each of us, even some for Althea! Corsets, perfumes, neck trainers, makeup, hair ornaments, gift cards to the spa at Laydon’s and the Doll Parlour, the list went on, and I could sense Althea growing uncomfortable next to me, before Pappa came over and wiped away a tear she had let slip.
“It’s quite alright, dear. You’re part of the family now.”
The generosity made me proud of my father, and so happy for Althea, that I strained against my better judgement to look over at her and share our love with smiling eyes, immediately receiving a stern hand and reminder from my maid behind me. Father, on one knee, noticed but said nothing, nothing that would free us even temporarily, before he stood up and addressed the largest box in the room, what could’ve been a seven-foot-tall obelisk encased in wrapping paper, but instead was anyone’s guess.
But Pappa must have known.
He read the tag aloud for us, “To Alan, my old friend made new again. Chittenham.”
And moments later the wrapping paper was off, torn away, revealing a brand new Doll in a bright pink plastic box visible through a glassy panel. I was shocked, confused, and immediately furious, all goodwill dispelled, evaporated. How could Pappa just abandon Mother like this! This was strictly against Society rules! This was… wait… this was my Mummy!
I could hardly recognise her, so many changes had been made. Her face had been reshaped, shaving her jawbone, making her cheeks look more plump, her nose more petit and button-like. These changes were dwarfed by her lips and eyes, both expanded and boosted in such a way to make them look truly inhuman, like a porcelain figure blinking away. Where before she had been a plastic woman, now she was a Doll given breath. Her skin no longer had its sparse wrinkles, nor the shiny lustre of passé skin treatments. No, Mother looked like the newest Dolls out of Great Ormond Street, like the recent St. Werburgh alumni whose husbands brought them back to demonstrate to us Dolls-to-be what lay in our future. And she looked as young as them too, the sun’s rays through the windows muted against soft peachy silicone, with not a freckle or flaw in sight.
And there was less skin to see, for her shoulders were properly empty as had been the style for some years, making her increased bust size even more apparent, once more almost cartoonish. The dress she wore matched the box, so even once Pappa had opened it up to retrieve her, she was still clad in golden ringlets and pastel pink. But it was the eyes that still shone with the same hazel colour, even frozen as they were, blinking steadily, to let me know that my mother was in there somewhere. As if I needed any more confirmation though, I watched her mutely try to leave Pappa’s support, step toward us unsteadily on reinforced ballet boots reminiscent of Belle’s. I leant forward to be stood up, one of the few things I could confidently communicate to my automaid, and with some assistance I was standing with my Mother, leaning into her impossible embrace, almost supporting her unstable gait in footwear a mere modicum less precarious than hers.
I’m reminded now of Emily Battersby’s telling of meeting Anne for the first time after her sister’s conversion, as even though I was overjoyed to see her, to feel her warmth near me, my Mother was breathing heavily, emotional in a way that I could not console, and even if I could ask, there was no voice left to reply to me, that had all been given up long before I was born. Was she just overjoyed to see us again, or was this the same passion which overtook her the day we left?
And out of the blue Chastity joined us too, nearly jumping for joy in a way that made me certain she did not understand the bittersweet nature of this reunion, and Mother calmed and mimicked Chastity’s gentle bouncing, sending her amply-augmented bosom into fits.
And Pappa wrapped his arms around us. “Awwe, dearest, she’s happy to see you. Now, my love, I told you this would all be worth it! Ladies, meet Cushions. Clarice is gone, this is your mother now.”
Cushions took a cautious step back, curtseyed to us, and I nearly cried.
I later learned that Pappa had sent his Doll, our Mother, to an unnamed rehabilitation centre in Wales, one much less gentle than St. Werburgh’s, as most of the re-education and enhancement clinics are. This institute specialised in behavioural adjustment and very fast returns, and it must have been worth the cost, as our new mother, “Cushions,” never overstepped her place again.