Chapters An Artist's Masterpiece Book 2 Chapter 3
Her nineteenth birthday party was one of the most memorable events of Emily Battersby’s young life and each minute of it has been ingrained in her psyche ever since. Not that “memorable” should be taken in an entirely positive sense though. By “memorable” I mean, she can remember it. In some respects, “traumatic” might be a better description.
She was still reeling. Reeling from that awakening. An awakening in a hospital that she didn’t even know she had been taken to. An awakening to further unasked for and unwanted alterations to her body, intrusions into her innermost being. Subtractions from the essence of her humanity.
Of course she’d always known that one day she would be back in Great Ormond Street. That he would modify her further. But that knowledge she had shoved to the back of her mind, not concretised it. Besides, he’d done all the important stuff on the first visit. In this one operation she had been given what most ladies are bestowed their entire lives. What more could he do?
What more indeed?
Her waist was no longer human. It was that of a cartoon character. And she could not survive now without her stays. She could no longer sit or stand or move without them. And even when she did wear them, she felt weak, delicate and vulnerable. She now had an automaid with her 24/7. It was there sitting by the bed when she woke up, bathing her, dressing her, walking with her, feeding her. She was as helpless as a child. She hated it.
On her last day at Great Ormond Street she was raised by her automaid and dressed. Her waist now measured a frightening 13.5 inches in circumference and her husband could encircle it with his two hands, something which delighted him immensely. More than that, it rose up vertically in a stem for some four inches before blossoming out to support her gigantic breasts which now heaved with every tiny breath, causing the nipple rings - which were now affixed to the top of her corset busk - to pull agonisingly.
Her new outfit was then introduced. In line with changing fashions, this incorporated a bustle instead of a crinoline as well as an extremely high neck. It was, Emily had to admit, extremely pretty, made of silk patterned in white and navy blue, but it was so very restrictive even in comparison with her other outfits. Under the multitude of petticoats she wore boots that forced her to perch on her very tip-toes like a ballet dancer and which were laced all the way up to just below her knees. Between the boots was a short golden chain that limited her steps to only around five inches whilst on her hands fine (but excruciatingly tight) gloves of yellow silk were fitted along with the dreaded golden bangles which somehow had become more of the norm than an exception. She couldn’t do much with the rest of her arms either since the jacket of the gown was extremely tight also and incorporated a shoulder brace meaning that lifting them any higher than her waist became virtually impossible. Topped off with a hat to compliment the rest of the outfit and then a fleur-de-bouche1 - another indignity that she had never before been subjected to - she was supported out to the waiting vehicle by the automaid.
Emily rode back to Thornfield Hall in shock. Humphrey, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. He could not stop complimenting her on how she looked, showering her with praise and thanking her for being such a perfect wife. She longed to demonstrate her real feelings to him, but with the inflated fleur-de-bouche filling her mouth she was mute and expressionless. In desperation she tried to catch his attention, but with the restrictive attire she soon grew weary and so she just sat there, mentally and physically exhausted, leaning on him for support whilst he casually fondled her new breasts through their silken coverings.
Back at the hall, the automaid escorted her mistress from the carriage and into the building itself. She was led through the hallway and into the dining room and, as the doors were opened, music was struck up and a loud shout of “Happy Birthday!” filled the air. For the first time since her wedding day, the hall was full: her family, some local figures and friends of her husband were all present. After a chorus of “Happy birthday to you!” she was led to her seat and the birthday meal commenced. Her fleur-de-bouche was removed of course, but she could eat very little due to her demanding costume. Then, after the meal there was music and dancing although for Emily, this meant standing only, holding onto an automaid for support.
So many people came to her and complimented her on her appearance. Her parents said that they couldn’t believe this was their plain daughter, whilst Branwell lewdly eyed her up and down and commented that it was a shame that the law prohibited incest because she looked so different to his old Plain Jane sister Emily that he would gladly “roger” her now, which caused her to blush and him to guffaw. It was only when her sister came to her that she felt safe.
“Emmie, what have they done to you?” said Anne with a concerned look upon her face.
“It… is… nothing,” Emily replied, struggling for breath.
“You are so different. You look beautiful but not like the Emmie I so know and love. Are you happy?”
“It… is… bearable,” she lied.
“Oh sister,” cried Annie, tears falling from her face and embracing her sibling warmly. “I feel for you, I really do. I thought that my lot was bad, but yours…!”
It was only then that Emily noticed the changes in Anne. Compared to her own they were nothing, but her breasts had grown significantly whilst her waist had shrunk to around eighteen inches.
“Your husband paid for them. As I am to attend university next summer, he said that it is only right that I look good amongst the city girls. I wanted to object but he has been so generous to both you and Branwell.”
Emily longed to cry, but she couldn’t bring herself to tears in front of the crowds. It hurt her to see her own darling sister being turned into a fashion-plate doll just as she was although, thankfully, Anne would still be attending university and at least this was as far as it would be going for her. It was a small mercy.
The party continued for several hours with dancing, jollity and alcohol for the men. And then, around ten, a rather drunk Humphrey Battersby refitted his wife’s fleur-de-bouche, struck his glass with a fork, ordered quiet and made a short speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I thank you all for being here today to attend the nineteenth birthday party of my darling wife, Emily. Whilst wishing her all the best and thanking her for being the best wife imaginable and putting up with my many strange ways, I’d like to thank you all for making our happy marriage a possibility. People like Harry over there and Jake, who pointed me in the right direction towards finding a suitable bride, folks like my old university chum Matt who has helped suggest modifications for my feminine piece de la resistance and, of course, my excellent and esteemed father-in-law for giving me permission to marry his darling daughter. Now, as you can all see, the nine months or so since our wedding have been ones of great change for Emily, changes that I am sure we can all agree have benefitted her immensely - why, they’re so good that even her pretty younger sister has joined in on the act! - but before we leave tonight, we have one final announcement to make: In line with her new appearance and financial standing, I have decided to offer my darling Emily the gift that all ladies aspire to and, tragically, so few can manage. From this day forward my love, your lifestyle shall be able to match your wealth and beauty and you will live as a Lady of Leisure! Yes indeed, maid, bring the monoglove here and let me fit in front of you all as a symbol of Emily’s fine new status. Raise your glasses please, to Mrs. Battersby of Thornfield Hall, a bona fide Lady of Leisure!”
And as the cheers and shouts rang out, the automaid forced her arms behind her and methodically laced up the unforgiving glove.
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The fleur-de-bouche is an item commonly worn by women in this alternate Britain. It is, in essence, an inflatable gag but disguised as such by the front being covered by a large flower so that it appears feminine and pretty. The name is French and literally translates as “mouth flower”. ↩