Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 4 Chapter 41
I’ll admit I required the support taking those steps, keeping upright.
As Doll and Owner, we felt a burden of silence and decorum in public that was immediately eschewed at home. With John’s many allowances, I was growing quite used to confident strides about our halls with only the simplest flat slippers on, just as the sound of my free speech filling the place from my tiny speaker had become almost natural. As a Doll, I was still weak and somewhat short of breath even with half-loosened stays, but over the intervening weeks — and, I admit, after a night at the Royal Ballet — I had taken an affinity to gestures of dance: subtle twists and swirls that caught my lovers’ eyes and inspired their passions more than my stilted and over-formal words could ever do. I resolved that, if my face would never emote again, then I would let my body. In so I gradually became stronger and more connected with what flexibility remained in this armless body, elegant by design. I had even managed once or twice to raise one leg like a heron and twist a doorknob with my toes, though I only learned to do so for emergencies.
No such independence could be revealed here, however limited.
Now I was back in near-vertical heels with my wilfulness utterly contained and restrained; my old self on display. The click-clack of those heels traversed the hallway as the murmuring of company grew. Familiar faces passed by in the blur, and my parade continued as my face and decolletage grew more flush with each step.
Thanks to Priscilla and John, I was no longer struck with a feeling of entrapment or panic when locked and silenced by that now-familiar press to my temple, but it was… annoying to now be so hindered again as I traversed the event incognito, and unable to look around the Hodgkinson Estate at the many Societymen and any newcomers, scouting candidates for my sister’s suitor.
To think my bodily limitations were now just mere inconvenience marked a measure in my recovery, to be sure, but John had made it clear how he felt about women’s silence and the Mandate. He was not a radical, he would conform to the laws of our status and class, and respect other women’s propriety, but I was his, and he wanted all of me, not just my shell. John had put it frankly one day whilst admiring a painting by a chiaroscuro master at the Victoria & Albert Museum, both of us observing silently, separately: why would he not desire to hear my thoughts? In theory, as my husband he had as much right to them as he had to my body. In practice, he had earned everything I had to give, everything I was, for his gentle love and support.
The idea for a private communication method between us had begun to form early after these outings, but we believed such devices were the realm of fantasy. The decision to consult with Damsels in Distress again — more discreetly this time — to commission the design of a hearing aid with the functionality of my vox gag only percolated after we found a second rationale: this Repatriation event.
At this crucial juncture, I needed to have a say in my sister’s destiny, and I was absolutely certain Father would never see me as more than a Doll. He had said as much with words and actions alike throughout the years. My ideas and motives were never objected to, it was merely objectionable for me to have ideas and motivation at all!
Yet John remained out of his element in the Society of Dolls. As I needed support to simply walk down this hallway, he needed support to enable his burgeoning confidence to flourish here, in this den of wolves. Without that support he was adrift… but with our unified knowledge, my social graces, and his inherently male abilities… we had a chance.
So I was in his ear, and his strong hands were wrapped about my waist. In one aspect I was subservient and weak, yet in another I was indecently empowered, directing my own steps forward; left then right then left. To think, I had once believed my words would tear us apart!
Now we ventured into the drawing room together, and instead of fear, I was filled with determination, asking John to steer us toward an older couple, a rotund moneyman engorging himself on hors d’oeuvres whilst his Lady wife stood idly and politely, her hourglass waist slight but respectable for her age, contrasted and complemented by puffy gigot sleeves and wooden hands tied by delicate ribbon in her lap. She might have been the only Lady present without a fleur-de-bouche, instead displaying her ruby lips wrapped around a massive delft blue porcelain ball. Undoubtedly uncomfortable, with the way her jaw appeared locked open wide to fit the ornamental bauble, but quite in keeping with her vintage style. She recognised me immediately and shook her head, tiny perforations in the gag allowing a jingling bell inside to tinkle and alert her husband to our approach.
The men shook hands and us ladies curtseyed, and I spoke through John.
“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience upon our arrival, sir. I didn’t know—”
“Nor should you, lad.” Lord Kettering spoke around his fingers. “It’s been quite an adjustment for my dear Songbird and I’m sure for your…” he regarded John for a moment.
“My assistant, she is a ref-f-formed intellectual-type, aspirationally.” John said, flicking his eyes at me. The words were acrid on his tongue, I knew. “Ms. Barnes used to be quite the radical, but t-t-thanks to her silencing, she has settled into a proper role nicely, t-t-taking care of mine and my wife’s… needs.”
“John, this is how you gain trust with boorish men,” I added just for him. “I have listened to hours of your father’s calls from between his legs. I know what they fancy, what they want to hear.”
Lord Kettering guffawed, taking a shine to my innocent stare and what unspoken ‘needs’ I might have. “Well then not all is unpleasant about this sore business! Huzzah for her reform! We shouldn’t hold it against the poor girl, not really. Women are so easily led astray without a firm hand.” He thumbed something in his pocket and his stately Lady shook and huffed in a silent moan, her gag’s jingling the only sound she could make to politely disguise the buzz emanating from under her skirts. “I do believe your ‘assistant’ set the kindling, but in truth my own wife overstepped that day, and whilst the Berkeley Gardens Social Club is now a far quieter affair with mingling of its members disallowed, I fulfilled my obligation to ensure all parties were tight-lipped, in perpetuity. You understand women, all they do is chatter incessantly behind closed doors.”
John baulked at ‘in perpetuity’ but I steadied him. “I can’t say I do,” he jested, and I told him to nod toward me.
Lord Kettering let out a hearty chuckle, “Well that’s quite right, I suppose. Exactly why Hope herself doesn’t have one of these golden chains about her lovely neck as well: you lot already did it for me!” He reached out and flicked the fleur-de-cou filtering my breath, sending an uncomfortable tickle through my airway. “I really do admire you Society men. Good lads, leading the charge on our little revolution toward a more modern stock of women! Meek, deferential, and mighty fine!”
His wife smiled around her gag and nodded in agreement, but the former Lord Chancellor only had eyes for my artificial lustre, young and radiant, as he downed his drink. “Damn shame those Battersby memoirs riled the commons and put a stopper to it all, we had such a good wind blowing! Now the crown has cold feet and even the old tinkerer Sir Linscombe is of two minds. He has those quarrelsome trade groups hounding him and Autoserve about their maids taking the ‘human touch’ out of servantry, but I suspect the heart of the matter to be, well, he doesn’t much enjoy us collaring his daughter-in-law Renee for naught.”
Within a hurried breath, I saw our chance. “Well, not knowing what p-p-precisely you fellows had in store that’s so hush-hush — and I don’t need to know, so keep me on the straight and narrow — if the project is shuttered ‘for naught’, then might we simply dispose of these collars and bracelets and nonsense? I do think our housegirl m-m-might be more useful if she could—”
Lady Kettering’s eyes lit up, and so did her husband’s, for vastly differing reasons.
“Well you see, lad, that’s why you need an automaid! Dispose of the raff, and whatnot. Now, I agree the cohabitation restrictions are well over the top, but we must appreciate the King’s men and their willingness to provide a solution on such short notice. What an honour it is to take such a crucial device in the protection of His Majesty’s lands from bolshevik sympathisers and ruffians, and refashion it into the height of Leisure! My Annette has been getting so many compliments on her lovely jewellery, haven’t you darling?”
The once-dignified Lady Kettering nodded her head curtly, the bell inside her mouth jingling in agreement.
“It is a m-m-marvellous look,” I prodded John to lie, “but perhaps—”
“No you’re absolutely right, lad. We can do away with the little proximity reminders, how else will this new fashion take off if our ladies cannot entertain each other and spread the word? — er, pardon my phrasing. What say you, madam?”
He looked not at his wife or me, but above and behind me at new arrivals, and the matronly voice of many a sleepless night spoke from her tinny vox gag. “If it pleases the Headmaster, I do think this could quell some of our most troublesome new students, and even has the potential to bring the most basic tenets of Dollhood to countless other Leisurely Ladies!”
I bid John turn me around, and sure enough, Dame Henderson was standing right there, her curvy and rubenesque body barely contained in modest grey governess’ attire, but of course she couldn’t be without escort. Firmly holding a handle in her dress’ prominent bustle, Sir Wainwright himself had deigned to preside over this event, and the bearded lion smiled warmly at us all.
“That’s a marvellous idea, Lilyana. I’m sure I can just ring up the Security Service and order a batch!”
The men laughed heartily, with even John giving a half-believable chuckle. He didn’t have the luxury of hiding behind a blank mask like mine, which albeit could barely contain the anxiety of being so near to the source of Society doctrine. Here my illicit words could affect many voiceless young women; perhaps for good, but these mere jibes and jests over refreshments seemed eager to slip and stumble into a new layer of restriction for the countless Ladies and Dolls to come after me. Could this Songbird system become the revolution that Emily’s memoir had stopped?1
I contented myself with having steered Lord Kettering toward minor improvements for Priscilla. Regardless, we quickly lost control of the conversation — if we had ever held it at all — as Sir Wainwright shook John’s hand. “Ah the young bombardier, I was happy to see your car arrive at the front door in one piece!”
A few men nearby laughed, and it was made readily apparent that the tale of my rescue had travelled far and wide. I could sense John’s tension, wanting to explain himself, but I steered him toward a response with more levity. “Well you may recall I’m a learned scholar, and I recently made a fortunate discovery… autocarriages do in fact drive themselves!”
The men chuckled and the mood stayed light, and I could sense John understanding a little, of how to parry and spar with his tongue, unlike his usual tendency to bristle and retreat as he always had with his father. I believed in him, for I knew what that tongue could do after all!
Lord Kettering gestured to me, appreciating my petite and slender design, and nodding with approval. “You had plenty of motivation, lad. Seeing your lovely wife here today, I must say I understand. At times we men are obliged to take drastic steps for the well-being of our property!”
“Heroic action,” Sir Wainwright added. “It’s a shame what happened to you. Not that I agree with the spectacle, but I like to hope I would have your courage if any of my girls were in harm’s way.”
Kettering added between mouthfuls, “And what tasteless designs at that finissage last autumn! For a wife? Ungodly!”
Wainwright nodded. “There’s a distinct difference between fun and games, and what your father did here under cover of darkness. And to Alan, the societyman who vouched for his inclusion in our affairs! No man less deserving. No Dolls less deserving either, as I remember your girl being a remarkable pupil, her sister too. Quite a model student in her practical exams.”
I shouldn’t have been shocked, but Dear Reader I almost believed the headmaster’s well-wishes until that last double-entendre. He even eyed my pouting lips as he said it, not that I could eye him back.
Blank and perfect as ever, the once-familiar feeling of judgement from Dame Henderson’s emotionless gaze piercing me, even as she stared quaintly into the mid-distance. Had she known about my time under the headmaster’s desk all those years ago?
John didn’t, and so he replied naively and sweetly, as is his way. “Thank you sir, Hope here is truly remarkable, she has made great strides since her return.”
“Strides?” Dame Henderson queried.
“W-w-well…” John began to panic, so I spoke into his ear calmly and steadily. I had him deflect, deciding a bit of salesmanship was in order. “Well as you said, sir, her sister Chastity is indeed a model Doll. You’ll be pleased to know, at no point throughout the whole affair did she break perfect form, not once! Even with her sister in my rogue father’s clutches. As a newcomer to the Society and to the alumni of your academy, I have to admit your methods are remarkably effective! The dedication to Dollhood you instilled in her is quite m-m-magnificent.”
The other men noted their admiration to such a disciplined young woman, and assured him that someone would step up and give her a home, but a passing comment of, “I thought this one was Chastity, where’s the one that’s on offer?” made those well-wishes ring hollow.
Sir Wainwright sighed. “Wouldn’t it be grand if all of our students were as well-behaved and clear of mind as Hodgkinson daughters! With those damned memoirs stirring the pot, we’ve had to disallow free-speech dinners for fear of the gossip running rampant. Luckily our attendance has not yet taken a hit, but the young ones have so many more doubts these days, and doubts precede disobedience. With fewer Teachers than ever, liberties must be sacrificed.”
There happened to be quite a few young Society members there that day, a few older boys dragging their graduated sisters around by leash, announcing eligibility for marriage and learning what it takes to be men. Just in my entrance I had seen a few young girls skipping around their doll mothers’ skirts, whilst the more behaved teenagers stood still and proper, those untamed and curious eyes wandering about the gathering from behind well-pumped training gags. They were the future of the Society, and we were all leading by example. What kind of example I wanted to set… that was as yet unclear.
“It does sound like your hands are full.” I said to the educators through John. “Apologies for the turn of phrase, madam.”
Dame Henderson curtsied silently in recognition, whilst Lord Kettering and Sir Wainwright mourned the downturn the Society of Dolls had suffered in the public eye due to the former Doll now known as Emily Rivers.
Dear Reader, that our consultant Dr. Rivers had married a Doll of his own and restored her even further than I — even giving her russo-german arms with which to write her memoirs without transcription or censor — had been a complete surprise! It had also brought great attention to the work of Damsels in Distress, which I assume was Dr. Rivers’ intent. Though I identified with her struggle, I had no desire to follow in her footsteps — to me, the idea of being a natural, full-bodied woman was as foreign as to be a man — yet I was happy for her freedom in recovering what elements of womanhood were still available to her.
I was alone in this sentiment.
“That awful creature could have found a way to broach her complaints with us, and we would have given her a comfortable life under a more suitable man, like we will for young miss Collins today. This is why we have Repatriation in the first place…”
I was just trying to parse the ridiculous idea that any societyman would see a Doll’s nonverbal complaints as more than mere tantrums to be corrected, when the sound of the grand doors opening hushed my thoughts and everyone else.
Father’s voice announced, “My cherished guests, might I invite you to allow your ladies to depart for a tour of the gardens, before refreshments in the drawing room? The proceedings will soon begin.”
Two files of automaids marched into the room in perfect lockstep, their hands offered forward to escort the women out. I shook at the sight.
“Don’t let me go.” I begged John, who looked at me directly and without thought or reason responded. “Of course, darling.” before recognizing his fault and biting his tongue.
Dame Henderson must have heard, noticed, suspected, for whilst the men were blubbering on about ‘fallacies and embellishments’ in Emily’s memoirs — for they had all read through Humphrey Battersby’s exploits multiple times — she strode over and planted herself so close her bosom filled my field of view, and spoke down to me in a certain tone, hushed but curt. “I should have recognised you in my evening lessons, Hope. Where it matters, you and your sister are nothing alike.”
With that cryptic admonishment, our fearsome teacher let herself be taken by an automaid and escorted out of the room.
Our secret was no longer ours alone.
-
Dear Reader, I cannot say. Such events are outside the scope of my tale, and still in motion. ↩