Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 1 Chapter 15
The Spring of 2049 was very lonely. My eyes were beginning to open to the life laid out before me, laid out for all of us in the dorms at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, but still I returned to my proper place as best I could.
For one, we had returned to school, which as an institution was an unrelenting test in behavioural endurance. A glance toward a friend, a heel step too loud, wriggling slightly to scratch an itch, it was all noticed by our automaids. Personal or school-provided, it made no difference, every single one had been instructed and programmed from the first day to keep us on our best behaviour. An articulated plastic hand on the shoulder was enough to remind me of my attendant’s presence and duty, to keep me in proper doll form, and if I did not cease my disturbances, well, a cane was never far away.
Secondly, dear Reader, what was the alternative? I write this now at an age that a commonwoman would consider adulthood, obviously still unknowledgeable of a great many things, but my naivety back then was dramatic. A necessity for my upbringing, for the insulation and protection our Society provides to its young. Regardless, if I had known a way to escape with Althea into the great unknown during those final months of our education, I undoubtedly would have. But I’m sure you know how flawlessly a well-oiled machine can run: there were no independent bodies here to mess it up, to improperly secure a bracelet or a gag. It was only by then that I fully understood the reason for St. Werburgh’s signature house rule. Anything with an unsteady heart and wilfulness was silenced and bound effectively, pacified so as not to complicate the system (other than Sir Wainwright, who stayed out of the day-to-day affairs). No, not one uncaught hitch that entire Winter and Spring, and whilst I was not necessarily dwelling on escape, deep within my shell I had hoped for it.
So I found myself at my graduation in April of 2049, sitting between the two Dolls-to-be who had previously been my sister and my best friend, or at least that’s how I saw it then. The third-year Dining Hall had become ever quieter on Sundays as the weeks ticked by. Perhaps there was less to discuss, or perhaps it was less strain on the mind to simply remain in our prescribed mode of being, to chew our food politely and wait for our gags to be put back in.
I had stopped pestering Althea by late January, and had come to some semblance of peace with Chastity’s betrayal shortly afterwards, filling my weekly break with stilted, unenthused discussions with Vanessa across the table. Though I loved my breaks, she was quite unskilled in the art of sustaining a conversation, a subject definitely not taught under that roof, so I unknowingly said my final words in early March before I too receded into the act. Something mundane about that evening’s meal, but I can’t quite recall. Isn’t that funny that I can’t remember the last words I made with my own voice?
So I too was a committed Doll-to-be along with my withdrawn companions, dressed to the nines and arranged in the old church pews when a man and his gorgeous Doll ascended the stage at our graduation, one of the many guest speakers. She was pretty steady on her heels but I could immediately tell that she had never attended St. Werburgh’s. It was easy to spot with a well-intentioned but imperfect strut like that. Otherwise she looked the part, wearing a slim but lovely dress suitable for the ceremony and the reception afterward, a gentle rouge number which lifted her massive breasts to frame her two roses beautifully. The man announced himself as Humphrey Battersby, along with his wife, Emily.
Yes, the one and only.
Humphrey’s speech wasn’t particularly inspiring, but he was there as a new donor to the school’s trust, “so that more fine girls can get closer to God and our blessed ideals of Leisure!” Such over-exaltant pronouncements were starting to ring hollow to me, even then, but I thought nothing much of him at the time, nothing at all to hint at his private sadism and entrapment.
It was during the fine reception afterward that Lord Chittenham, Father, and Mr. Battersby all chummed together through the bustle of excited families and the clinking of porcelain and glass, joined by a young man I deduced much later to be Branwell Lowood, his leery eyes scanning the crowd for potential brides. It seemed they had all vacationed together the previous year whilst Chastity and I were here and Mother was in Wales. Father and Mr. Battersby got along quite well, it turned out, well enough to lead to our biweekly visits from the Battersbys, and to the introduction of my tale.
If I were a trained storyteller and had not given my life to Dollhood, I may end this first Book back in that room, with Chastity and I fully converted, transformed, refined, sculpted, and sitting across from Emily in what was surely your first experience reading about the life of a modern Doll Wife in the late 2040s. But what is a passing reference for Emily Rivers the Damsels in Distress advocate, the author of the four most controversial articles in our country’s recent history, the woman surely villainised in many a Societyman’s thoughts, is not my story.
True, this mention, this connection, is why I was personally selected by the Society to be allowed to speak to you people of our fair Kingdom in such an unprecedented fashion, but it is not my whole story.
My story, the one that will make you understand the multitudes and complexities of our fair Society and the decision to become a Doll, only just begins as I ascend the stage to accept my Certificate of Wholesome Quality, following just behind my righteous sister Chastity, trailed by my defeated love Althea.
After each of us in that long line had curtsied to Dame Henderson and our ever-present maids had received our certificates from hers, we were then guided across the stage to our Headmaster sitting behind a small signing desk, who we curtsied to again in respect.
“As a newly-certified young Lady, freshly refined yet still impure and capable of sin, do you, Hope Hodgkinson, willingly sacrifice your womanhood to join your sisters in Dollhood, and your future owner in the light of our great Society?”
I didn’t immediately do what I was told. I didn’t curtsy in agreement. But I also didn’t break form. My gaze did not shift a millimetre. Sir Wainwright continued to read the legalese, an eye on me every other moment. I could see it written on his face: was I being dumb or uncooperative? Neither, yet. I was nervous. Was this the right choice?
“Ahem! Do you renounce your personality and consent to being reformed into an object dedicated to fulfilling your owner’s every desire, and in doing so, bring your family closer to the King’s favour, and therein God?
I thought about Mother. What would she think if I refused to commit to my life’s goal? What would Father do after he invested so much to get us to this moment? I couldn’t do it. My doubt was inherently self-criticizing. My unhappiness was not enough to ruin my family name. I acquiesced, I curtsied, and Sir Wainwright quickly signed an X in my place before I was hurried offstage to make room for Althea and all my other classmates behind me, and as I returned to level ground all I could think was,
“What have I done?”
According to Teacher Dottie, before a Hall full of witnesses, that simple ‘X’ did many things. It made me property of my father, to be traded and sold as he wished, most commonly to an appropriate husband. His natural guardianship was already in place, but that wasn’t true ownership and the right to complete control of me as an object, it was responsibility of me as a person. Now he had both. In the unfathomable case of his sudden and unplanned incapacitation, it made me property of the Society itself, my future under their discretion. It also made my legal birthday exactly sixteen years before the time of signing1, a requirement for the rest and a symbolic reminder of when I was reborn.2
Most importantly, signing allowed the Society’s esteemed Dollmakers to start their work on me.
Heels clicking down the back steps, my maid guided me down to the standing room and placed me next to Chastity, where we stood, silent and still, lungs straining against our formal event stays (two inches tighter than usual), and waited for the end and the ensuing flood of people through the doors. Finally, once all fifty or so were finished and Sir Wainwright had made his closing speech to the families about how well-behaved we all had been in his care, the doors opened.
Here we toasted, or should I say, they all did, the men, for there were but five women in the crowds who were not committed Dolls, and these were Ladies of the strictest variety, with arms in reverse prayer, useless hands sometimes even entwined with a rosary, chins raised to various degrees by neck corsets galore, and waists to die for. Mouths filled by fleur-de-bouches, these women used their remaining facial expressions liberally compared to the Dolls’ complete inability, and if I could have refocused my gaze to look at their wilful beauty all night long, I would have. These were the norm, the legally enforced minimum once their guardian or husband claimed any shred of nobility, but they would not be the majority for long if St. Werburgh’s had its way.
Eventually I found myself standing beside Mrs. Battersby, her quite a bit taller and older than I, just outside the raucous circle of men hurrawing the labours my sister and I had gone through to get the framed certificates Father was waving about. As I silently bumped shoulders with this blank woman next to me who could not even look at her husband, never mind show him the love I then thought must be coursing through her veins, I realised finally, now that it was far too late, that I didn’t really want to be a Doll, that this was wrong, so very wrong, and I had made an irreversible mistake.
But before I could take even one pathetic step toward the door, Sir Wainwright swooped in to our group to make an announcement, wrapping me in one arm and nearby Althea in another, and announced to the reception hall: “I have grand news to announce, just grand! This young Doll, Hope Hodgkinson, has done an extraordinary thing during her short time here at St. Werburgh’s: she has made friends with one of our reformed deviants, one Althea Burns, before any other would consider her worthy of such love and respect. Such generosity of spirit from this girl. From what I hear they are inseparable. Truly, truly wonderful!
“On top of this, in dedication to his daughter, Mr. Hodgkinson has also seen to it that Althea will be provided a place at the Hodgkinson Estate in Whitchurch-on-Thames as ‘Cuddles, loving companion to Cushions Hodgkinson and ward of Alan Hodgkinson’, a placement beyond prayer, and a true blessing for an outsider to our just Society. But we must remember it was Hope’s open-hearted generosity that saved this poor girl from a sorry life.”
A wave of unwelcome applause came crashing into me, nearly making me break form. Cuddles!? I felt as though I was going to be sick.
“Oh and one last thing, we will be instating a new program I have devised for integrating our three-year pupils into Society homes come next winter. You can read about it in the next Doll Society Bulletin!”
With all the men coming up to talk at me, to congratulate my father, their wives curtseying in silent recognition of my achievements and dedication while it was still my choice to do so, I was left no time or breath to ponder any of this before the reception came to its close, for us at least. Upon a resounding stomp from the Dame and her teaching staff in perfect unison, our maids manoeuvred us to the centre of the room in our standard double-file, girl and servant, fully trained and certified and ready to saunter wherever we were guided.
This time it was down the hallway and out the front door to a waiting parade of London autotaxis in the courtyard, each one predestined for the Great Ormond Street Hospital Auxiliary Wing to meet the Dollmakers in residence. The fifty-long caravan was a sign of opulence, of status, like everything else in our lives, and as I reluctantly stepped into the cab with my maid, I knew that my fate was sealed.
END OF BOOK 1
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Which would be upheld by any judge in the country if within eight months of the real birthdate. ↩
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It also relinquished my claim to a myriad other common laws both national and international, even including some special passages that made sure I would be respected as a Doll in most of Europe, though the UK is still considered a hermit kingdom even as I write this. John says trade is free and plentiful, and surely we have the colonies, but personal travel is far from it. ↩