Stories The Taming of Josephine
A collaboration between myself and Brentwood Society, who wrote the following introduction:
Before you begin, those of you who have been following us (and by “us” I mean me) should know that the following story takes place in a setting outside of the usual Brentwood Society and ComPet world. This alt-Britain setting, originally conceived of by Dave Potter, and introduced to me through the work of the writer cafterhomme, features many of the things you, the reader, have come to expect from my little corner of the internet: bondage and humiliation wrapped in manners, civility, and social hierarchy. As cafter puts it, the setting “celebrates womanhood as a possession, a work of art for the male gaze.” While not featured in this first chapter, it also includes physical modification to the whims of a patriarchal society, which, while fun for some, is not fun for everyone!
Special thanks to Brentwood for being inspired by my writing, brainstorming this continuation into the world of Artist’s Masterpiece, Dollhood, and plenty of other tales. Its a singular joy to collaborate with BW and explore not a native to this strange culture, but a complete outsider, ensnared in fabric and expectations.
Prologue
The lady of the house held her eyes on the pen fluttering along the monogrammed page, carefully composing each word in her head before uttering it clearly and eloquently as it was written.
My dearest niece,
Words cannot express the sympathies I hold within my heart for your profound loss. My beautiful sister left for those wild American shores nearly two decades hence, and today, the sorrow grips me as it did then—my heart, it feels as though it has ceased its beat.
Please child, know that our doors remain ever open to you, especially in this time of need. The very notion of having an orphan in our esteemed family, whether she finds herself in Montana or Malay, is utterly unconscionable! You bear the name Finney, but you can also be a Gainsborough.
I implore you, come home to Heathfield Manor. It is here you may claim your ample inheritance and rightful place among the well-esteemed circles of our fair society.
Your Aunt Emily,
Mrs. Hugh Gainsborough
Lady of Heathfield Manor
The lady sighed and redirected her voice to her maid, “Thank you, Agnes.”
The maid bowed her head in response and took the letter from the dictation machine, which had ceased its whirring of clockwork driving the scribe.
Naturally, she did not hold the pen herself. For a woman of her position, such a thing would be preposterous!
The lady watched the maid fold the letter and slip it within its envelope — alongside fare passage across the Atlantic, first class on the finest of airships.
Perhaps there was a time when she would have felt the impulse to hold a pen, to fold a piece of paper, or to stuff an envelope. After decades in the elegant armbinder, she’d utterly internalised the essence and reality of leisurely life. Why even reminisce about her own scribbles when a finely-made device could do it perfectly? When a maid of the highest calibre could ensure the highest of standards?
That maid sealed the envelope with a drop of hot wax and returned to her, “Ma’am.”
After giving the envelope and its address a once-over she nodded, as much as her proud neck corset would allow, “That will do, Agnes.”
The maid nodded and placed the letter carefully in her left apron pocket. Fished from the right pocket, she presented a soft, rubber peach in exchange. The lady opened her mouth graciously and the maid carefully placed it inside. With the simple touch of a free finger, the fake fruit automatically inflated, sealing the lady’s mouth, preventing further dictation.
The Lady’s eyes smiled at her daughter, similarly trammeled and secure across from her in the fine sitting room.
It was done.
Chapter 1
In rural Wyoming, on the dusty, forgotten frontier, her parents had christened her Josephine Agnes Finney, but eighteen years later she introduced herself simply as “Jo.” Yet ever since she arrived on their doorstep, her uncle, aunt and cousin had insisted on calling her “Josephine” no matter how many times she corrected them. The simple misnomer was the most benign thing about their shocking behaviour, but it was also something tangible that she could hold onto, squeeze to her chest and hate.
Jo’s long, unbound mane of red, almost orange, hair flared out behind her as she stomped up the stairs in her heavy, leather boots; one of the myriad details her uncle had immediately eyed and scoffed at as “terribly unfeminine” upon her arrival. Her aunt too, high and mighty sitting on her lounger like a throne, had looked at Jo as if she was covered head to toe in mud. Jo couldn’t believe their gall, or herself for even accepting their letter and travelling so far just to be looked down upon like a dried cowpie.
Despite her spritely size she was able to slam her bedroom door shut with enough force to shake the pictures and nicknacks on the wall. It was bad enough having lost both her parents to a freak accident less than a month before, but to find out that these people were related to her, and her only surviving relatives, was maddening.
Why hadn’t her mother ever told her?
Back in the states, she had heard stories about Britain, the so-called “hermit kingdom.” Most of the tales, she had discovered in her short time there, didn’t have a lick of truth in them, all save one. At the massive Mid-Atlantic Flotilla port, the mood all changed when she’d changed over from the American airship to a British one. Suddenly everything became, for lack of a better description, politely oppressive. So much so that Jo had stayed in her cabin for most of the flight to avoid the stares and patronising remarks about her clothes, or the way she walked about unescorted, or even her opening a galley door for herself. Maddening!
Jo sighed with impotent irritation. Where was her suitcase? She had crossed the ocean with one small bag, preferring to travel light and having absolutely no plans for an extended stay. She looked around the room. It was a far cry from her somewhat austere room — by her own choice — back home in a windswept, little burg. The walls were papered in pink rose print that made Jo want to vomit. Though the wardrobe and chest of drawers seemed sturdy, the ruffles around the bed and the canopy suspended by its four white pillars elicited similar feelings of revulsion. As Jo searched, she found no trace of her scant luggage, but she did find a massive vanity — which fit this family well — and a rather curious looking pole with a pair of silk cords hanging from the top.
“How in the hell am I supposed to ‘dress for dinner’ if my stuff is gone?” She grumbled to herself.
As if answering her question, the door opened. Whoever it was hadn’t knocked. Jo wasn’t surprised that her privacy was not respected, but Jo spun around with indignation to find herself facing one of the smartly dressed maids that she’d seen working in the background while she and her family were getting acquainted. The maid was a middle-aged woman, tall, physically imposing, and simultaneously having a strange air of both dominance and submission about her.
“Miss Josephine.” She curtsied politely and entered, again without waiting for permission. Jo could see that there were two younger maids following closely behind. They were less physically intimidating, but they both had at least a head of height on Jo’s slight stature.
Jo crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
The maid paused. “Why, we’re here to dress you for dinner.”
“Dress me?” Jo scoffed. “I can get dressed on my own, thank you very much!”
The maid paused again, then looked back and whispered something at one of the others. The younger maid scurried out of the room while the other two remained, smiling amicably at her scowl, and an uneasy silence filled the room.
“If you’re just going to stand there maybe you can tell me where my suitcase is.”
“I will check with the footman when we are finished here, Miss Josephine. Our dinner guests shall be arriving in only three hours, and we must assist you.”
“Three hours to get dressed, are you out of your mind? I can throw on a dress faster than that, without a doubt! Besides, I already told you, I don’t need any help.”
Moments later the younger maid returned with Jo’s aunt Emily and her cousin Gertrude, heels clicking behind heels. Having just stormed out of their sight perhaps ten minutes before, Jo still found their appearances absolutely astonishing. It wasn’t just the copious amounts of cloth that went into their suffocating dresses with their many shiney buttons, lacey embellishments, and interminable, full bustles. It wasn’t that Aunt Emily and Gertrude looked like near perfect copies of each other, like two dolls of the exact same make with one having rolled off the assembly a few decades earlier. Both were tall, blonde, and shapely—the latter of which was accentuated by extremely tight corsets drawing in their miniscule waists. Upon seeing them, Jo wondered how they even breathed, let alone ate while wearing them. But it wasn’t their clothing or their similarities either, no; it was their “accessories.” Both Aunt Emily and Gertrude wore strange contraptions which trapped both their arms into a sort of sleeve. It bound their limbs behind them, making them quite helpless. Though these arm binders seemed as flouncy as the rest of their ensembles, Jo sensed the lace and feminine patterned cloth concealed something…harsher. Despite the absurdity of it all, Aunt Emily and Gertrude didn’t seem remotely bothered that they were walking around like armless mannequins. On the contrary, they seemed just as disturbed by Jo’s freely moving limbs.
Aunt Emily gracefully entered the room on high heeled, immaculate white boots with Gertrude mincing anxiously behind her. Aunt Emily turned to the older maid. “Was there something the matter, Agnes?”
Agnes curtsied low and glanced in Jo’s direction. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Josephine has refused to allow us to dress her.”
Aunt Emily smiled. “Oh she has?”
Jo waved sarcastically. “Hey, I’m right here. You can ask me yourself.”
Aunt Emily and Agnes glanced at Jo before continuing without any further acknowledgement.
“Thank you for coming to me, Agnes. I understand that this situation is unusual for you. It’s unusual for all of us.”
Agnes curtsied again. “Yes, ma’am.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Aunt Emily finally addressed Jo directly. “Josephine, it’s clear that you’ve been through a great deal. I know you must be tired from your journey, so it would be simply marvellous if you would be a good girl and place yourself in the quite experienced and steady hands of our maids—”
“No, thank you!” Jo spat. “Now bring me my things and get the hell out of my room!”
Aunt Emily, Gertrude, and the three maids all visibly coloured and stood in stunned silence.
“Mummy did Josephine just…”
“Hush, darling.” Aunt Emily stopped her. “Josephine, we are trying to be patient with you. We understand you’re disadvantaged and have not been raised in polite society. Our well-trained staff is—”
“Disadvantaged?” Jo put her hands on her hips. Now just a minute!”
“Don’t interrupt, dear. The fact is you are in polite society now, you are under your uncle’s roof, and while you are under his roof you will obey the rules of his society and his home. Do I make myself clear?”
Aunt Emily’s voice never developed even the slightest edge, but Jo could sense a tempest brewing just beneath the surface of her aunt’s flawless makeup. Still, she wasn’t intimidated in the least. What could her prim, polite, well-mannered, trussed up aunt possibly do to her?
“Stuff it, aunty!”
“Mummy, she said…”
“I know what she said, my little dove.” Aunt Emily sighed. “Agnes, take whatever measures necessary, but she must be ready for tonight.”
Agnes curtsied to Aunt Emily, and then nodded to the two younger maids. Then the three of them advanced on Jo, who only smirked.
“Do you really want to do this?” She cracked her knuckles, but the maids were not deterred. For all her attempts at looking menacing, she was still a skinny, undersized girl after all.
They moved in on her from three directions like a wolf pack surrounding a stubborn little lamb. Jo threw a punch squarely at Agnes. It would have connected had it not been for one of the younger maids grabbing her legs and the other grabbing her shoulders. With Jo struggling like an unbroken mare with a particularly foul disposition, they wrestled her to the ground, while Aunt Emily and Gertrude watched from just inside the door. The maids held her firmly and allowed her to tire herself out for a few minutes of thrashing and cursing. When her fighting inevitably subsided, Agnes ordered the maid closest to Jo’s feet to remove her boots.
When the worn work boots and the patched socks were pulled away, Aunt Emily remarked, “Oh, she has such charming little feet! It’s too bad that they seem to have been spoiled by walking. Agnes, make sure you apply the pumice stone liberally and use the balm to soften them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Agnes replied.
“Oh, mummy, do they really let girls in the colonies just wander about and ruin their feet that way?”
“I’m afraid so, dear.”
“But why?”
Jo shook in the grasp of the maids. “Because in the ‘colonies,’ women aren’t just empty-headed playthings for men! They’re—”
Jo’s words were cut short by a hand firmly clamping over her mouth. Agnes gave her a dangerous look. “Don’t interrupt your aunt while she is speaking, Miss Josephine.”
“Thank you, Agnes.” Aunt Emily said. “Gertrude, my dearest, what’s the first lesson of being a Lady?”
The bound girl lifted her chin and recited proudly, “A lady speaking out of turn will find herself not speaking much at all.”
“That’s right, dear!” Aunt Emily. “Very good! Now, to answer your question, men in the colonies don’t dote on their girls the way your father does with you and I! They’re not protected and cared for like girls are here.”
“Oh, that’s awful!” Gertrude looked down at Jo, sympathetically.
Jo snorted into Agnes’ palm. If she hadn’t been so angry at her mistreatment, thoughts of how her own father had doted on her might have choked her with emotion. His Irish lilt, cheering her on as she learned to run and ride far and fast… clearly the definition of “doted” differed on the other side of the Atlantic.
The undressing continued. While Agnes and the other young maid held her down, the third maid sat on Jo’s legs to keep her from kicking and began to unbutton her shabby-but-comfortable flannel shirt.
“Ah, her skin is so fair! Not unlike fresh milk!” Aunt Emily gestured with her chin between Jo’s freckled cheeks and her pale belly. “Why you’d never know from those sunspots across her face. Gertrude, do you see now why we aren’t allowed outside in the afternoon and why we always wear our full bonnets?”
“Yes, Mummy!” Gertrude chirped.
Being particularly petite, Jo had always preferred camisoles to bras. The one she was wearing had seen many washes and was almost translucent, but she did not appreciate losing the tiny amount of modesty it afforded her. She shook her head and thrashed in the maids’ grasps as her perky, little pink-tipped breasts came into view.
Gertrude giggled. “Mummy, she’s so little!”
“Don’t tease, dear. I told you, your cousin is quite disadvantaged: lacking in education and the proper adjustments you had when you came of age. She has not been fortunate.”
Jo looked up at the pair of ladies standing there, and realised by the mention of ‘adjustments’ that their substantial curves, above and behind, might not be just due to familial traits and some fashionable padding in those dresses. Whatever her insecurities, she didn’t need anyone adjusting her.
“I’m not a charity case, you witch!” Jo snarled.
Seemingly unperturbed, Aunt Emily asked the maid, “Agnes, why don’t you introduce Josephine to a soother, a chamomile-flavoured one if we have any, and the lacing bar.”
The maid was too busy corralling Jo to curtsy, but a dutiful, “Yes, ma’am,” preceded Jo being dragged to that strange pole and its silk cords in the corner, her wrists being pulled up and into the soft, delicate, and unforgiving bonds before they were cinched tight and Jo was left stretched tall, half-hanging, half-supported by her tippy-toes.
Upon her next complaint, a soft beige ball on similar silk cord was shoved into her wailing mouth, and her sharp tongue found itself pinned down by the mass. She salivated shamefully due to the saccharine sweet and foreign flavour that filled her mouth.
“Much better.” Aunt Emily strode forth from the door, and let her critical eye wander the dangling young lady up and down whilst the maids wrung their hands and fumbled with her fraying blue jeans, mystified by the strange garment hugging her body.
“Much too rough a fabric, it’s like sandpaper, ma’am. And indecently revealing.”
Jo tried to kick at her tormentors as they yanked the jeans down her scrawny legs followed by her black, cotton underwear, but being pulled up onto her tippy toes by the silken cords she couldn’t balance properly, or get any force in it. In the end she only succeeded in making the bonds tighter around her wrists. The soft ball — the “soother” — filling her mouth stifled her agonised cry as the blood was further cut off from her wriggling hands. For a moment she was grateful for the humiliating device. At least it prevented her aunt, cousin, and the maids from hearing, and getting satisfaction from, her scream in pain.
“Oh, look at those skinny legs skittering about! She’s like a newborn baby colt!” Aunt Emily cooed and the maids chuckled.
“Mummy!” Gertrude’s eyes were the widest they’d been yet. “Josephine’s…” Her dumbstruck gaze was locked on Jo’s nether regions. “Her…” the girl’s voice dropped to just about a whisper. “Her shame and her legs…it’s–they’re so—so hairy! Are all girls from the colonies allowed to have hair down there?”
Aunt Emily nodded sagely. “I can’t speak about all girls from there, but this kind of thing can happen if a girl doesn’t have someone in charge of her rose, Gertrude. Now aren’t you glad that you have someone in charge of yours?”
“Yes, mummy!” Gertrude chirped back and nodded emphatically without the slightest hesitation. Jo could see her cousin’s skirts swaying as the legs underneath rubbed together, probably imagining what it must be like left unshaved.
The jeans and underwear slid past Jo’s slender, tussling ankles leaving the slender girl completely bare in front of the maids, her aunt, and her cousin. Her cheeks burned not only with the embarrassment of being naked before appraising eyes, but with the helplessness of being strung up and tied as she was. Yet no matter how much she wanted to, she did not close her eyes. Instead she glared back with all the intensity she could muster. Once again she resented the “soother” as it prevented her from voicing all the cutting remarks that flowed through her brain like a turbulent river, lapping at the dam in her mouth.
As her struggles renewed, Anges shook her head. “I think it would be best if we just bathed and shaved her here. It’ll give her less opportunity to struggle.” She looked at Aunt Emily for approval.
“Do whatever you think is best, Agnes.”
Agnes curtsied. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Unable to talk and unable to escape, Jo was relegated to merely observing whatever happened to her. As a girl who had always gone where she pleased and done what she pleased, whenever she pleased, it was a terrible feeling to be suddenly so helpless, at the direction of someone who was supposed to be family. She watched with dread as they approached her with a large enamel tub — or ‘basin’ — of steaming soapy water that smelled heavily of honeysuckle. The heat of the water made Jo gasp and bite down on the soft ball in her mouth. Clearly anticipating her intention to splash the hot water at them, the maids tied her ankles and attached them to eye hooks on either side of the tub. Jo wondered if the hooks were an improvisation or if they were there specifically for the purpose of keeping protesting legs still. The latter wouldn’t have surprised her in the least. Then again, if her comically pliant cousin Gertrude was any indication, such things would probably be unnecessary.
Once she got adjusted to the temperature of the water, Jo loathed to admit it, but the warmth felt good, especially after her long journey. Not wanting to be drowned, she tilted her head back as they wet her hair and began to wash her lovely, red locks. Whatever else she had to say about her treatment, the strong fingertips of the maid felt divine as they massaged her scalp. She was almost relaxed when Gertrude’s buoyant voice cut in like a scalpel.
“Mummy?” She wrinkled her nose. “Do you suppose the little tub will be enough? She’s so smelly!”
“Don’t worry, my little dove. It may take ten tubs to get her clean and smooth, but rest assured, Agnes and her girls are capable of handling the most troublesome of messes!”
Jo snorted at being referred to as essentially a “mess.”
The warm soapy sponges slid across her pale, freckled skin, cleaning away the dirt and dust from the road and any “offensive” odours. Under Aunt Emily’s direction they took great care to scrub her thoroughly under the arms and on her “rose” and “bottom.” Jo tried to think of anything but her current predicament as the squishy sponge rubbed back and forth between her legs, sliding against her most sensitive skin. Since she’d become old enough to bathe herself, no other soul had touched her there, not even her farm boy, not even on their last night together. She’d kissed him plenty of times, but she’d rebuffed him whenever he tried to get handsy with her. Though she’d never admitted it aloud, she enjoyed the idea of doing something more with him, but Jo enjoyed the rush of teasing him—dominating him in her own way—even more than the desire for unknown pleasures.
Jo’s eyes rolled back in her head and she felt herself going limp in her bonds under the onslaught of the sadistic sponge.
“Why, I think the little strumpet is enjoying this!” Aunt Emily said with astonishment.
Jo tensed and straightened.
“Mummy, what is a strumpet? What is she…?”
“Frannie,” Aunt Emily said hastily to one of the young maids. “Please take Gertrude to the lady’s sitting room and put on a program for her–no Tell Tales or Romances.”
The young maid curtsied, dried her hands and taking Gertrude’s bound arms, quickly escorted her from the room.
“But what was she doing?” Gertrude asked again as she was hustled away.
“Never mind that, my little dove!” Aunt Emily called after her. “Just enjoy your program!”
The moment the door closed behind her daughter, Aunt Emily’s face, slightly, almost imperceptibly, fell, and her voice lost just a hint of its sweetness. She stepped closer to Jo. The rapidly cooling water dripped from her moistened body. Though the maids had stopped washing her most private area, she couldn’t help but still feel an embarrassing need between her legs. She blushed with shame knowing that Aunt Emily and everyone else knew exactly what she was feeling.
“Josephine, I admit my ignorance to what precisely is permissible where you are from, but here, young ladies do not show…desire during bath time! Such things are for married ladies and even then, only when their husbands permit it! When your…lower regions are being cleaned you must be quiet and still. Think of something pleasant like a bed of beautiful flowers or a basket of soft kittens!”
Jo stared back at her. Her embarrassment for herself had transformed into secondhand embarrassment for her aunt. Just what the hell was wrong with this woman?
“I hope you understand, my dear.” Aunt Emily smiled brightly before telling Agnes, “I think she’s had enough scrubbing now. She smells as sweet as can be, just like a proper girl!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Agnes said.
“She’ll need the strongest depilatory, don’t you agree?”
“I do, ma’am.”
“It’s such a shame. That one burns the most. Still, we must make sacrifices for beauty!”
Jo’s heart skipped a beat at the word “burns.” She didn’t know what a depilatory was as she was unfamiliar with so-called beauty products, and besides, she’d never really applied herself to reading and expanding her vocabulary. She moaned into her pacifier and tugged against the silk cords, but the bonds grew slightly tighter and she stopped again. She could only watch while Agnes donned rubber gloves and presented a glass jar, innocuously labelled “Modene,” which was filled with a thick, white cream. A slight skunky smell overpowered the scent of the soap when Agnes opened the jar, which only increased Jo’s nervousness.
The maid scooped a handful of the goop. She paused for a moment as if weighing it in her hand, and then she slapped the whole glob on Jo’s abundant, soft orangish curls between her legs. Jo gasped from the sudden shock of the cold cream against her bathwater-warmed intimate area.
Aunt Emily said sympathetically, “Oh, I know it’s a little cold at first, kitten. Don’t worry, it shall warm up in a moment. Just sit tight and let it do its work. You’ll feel a little uncomfortable for a while, but it’ll all be worth it. I promise.”
Her aunt’s words did little to reassure her, and Jo braced for the promised discomfort. True enough the cream did begin to warm, but the warmth quickly turned into heat. It reminded her of the time she’d been coaxed into trying some homemade ghost pepper hot sauce at a barbeque. The heat built and built until it became unbearable, right where she was most vulnerable! Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she thrashed about in her bonds, forgetting that she was only tightening them further. She squealed and pleaded for them to wipe it off, but the soother did its job well and she only succeeded in filling the opulent room with a muted blubbering.
The other maid held her as Agnes applied the same awful cream to Jo’s hairy underarms and legs. Eyes wide, her muffled begging did nothing to prevent the cycle from beginning again. Soon her whole body was on fire. The pain was such that she could barely register her aunt’s gentle encouragement and consolations.
Just as the pain started to dull, the maids thankfully rubbed the cream off with fresh, fluffy towels. Jo hung limply in her silken bonds, covered in a sheen of sweat. The smell of something like sulphur hung in the air, making the whole experience reminiscent of some country preacher’s version of Hell. Through the slits of her eyes Jo looked down at herself. Her body, scrubbed pink and completely hairless, seemed foreign to her. It was an awful feeling, being so disconnected from her own body, but she was too weak from tensing and screaming to dwell on it.
“There, there…” Aunt Emily cooed. “You were a very brave girl! And now look at you! You’re nice and smooth now, just as a proper young lady should be!”
Jo mumbled a weak, half-formed insult into the gag and continued to hang as they scrubbed her down again to clean away the sweat and freshen up her scent. Once she was dried with yet another fluffy towel, Agnes set to work on Jo’s hair with a curling iron while the other maids began to redress her, but unsurprisingly, not in her own clothes.
When one maid held up a pair of white, knee-length bloomers trimmed in eyelet lace and politely asked her to step into them, Jo’s first reaction was to refuse, but she reasoned even the ridiculous garment was better than being naked, so reluctantly she did as she was told. Her skin was still warm from the bath and extra sensitive from being so recently denuded of all hair, yet the Egyptian Cotton drawers were soft and cool, making her shiver. The camisole matched the bloomers in material and in style. Jo wondered how they were going to put it on her with her hands bound above her head, but quickly noticed the straps were actually ribbons that tied at the tops of her shoulders in neat bows. She shivered again as the luxurious fabric brushed and teased her pointing, pink nipples. Not wanting to show “desire” while being dressed, Jo bit into the soother and willed herself to be still, but she sure as Hell wasn’t going to think about flowers or kittens! It wasn’t really “desire” anyway, just a natural reaction to soft fabric brushing against sensitive areas. No one would have called shrinking and giggling from a tickle “desire,” now would they?
Finally being permitted a touch of modesty was a relief, even if it came with more ribbons, hooks, buttons, and laces than she could have ever imagined. That relief began to dissipate as more and more garments were added, burdening her in both mind and body. First of which was a corset, brought by a returning Frannie and sprang open like a bear trap upon the bed once its box was opened and the tissue paper pulled away.
“Now, my little twig,” Aunt Emily smirked, “let us do what’s within our abilities to make your shape more suitable for the eyes of good company. I’d say you were a boy if not for seeing you bare just moments ago!”
Aunt Emily ignored Jo’s huff of indignation to turn away and address her staff. “You fetched this from the attic, Frannie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know it is three seasons out of fashion, but the Lady Rothbury left it on her last visit. None of my lady’s or the young mistress’ would ever—”
Agnes eyed her lesser to hush about tainting the Ladies’ clothes with this foreigner and continued. “The vicar wasn’t keeping his wife with the latest customs, just the queen’s mandate. Few adjustments or bestowals; a natural frame. Night stays would be too permissive for the gown. We thought it the only option, ma’am.”
Aunt Emily, seemed to tut tut, admiring the curve of the corsetry, its steel boning and fine silken fabric. It was as close to an inspection as the Lady of the manse might get without free arms to pick it up herself. “Quite right.” she nodded for the maids to proceed and turned back toward her niece, “Even so, you’re going to need padding for the bust, and a prayer, but you leave me no choice, arriving so unprepared in bosom and baggage!”
Even as the maids giggled and winked at her flat chest, Jo gave a start when she felt the rigid boning of the corset pressing against her ribs, the front clasps hooking together so the weaving behind could be adjusted more finely. She almost fooled herself into thinking that the end, but the strong-armed ladies maid Agnes tugged on the laces and the pressure increased, hugging her tighter than a bale of hay. The trap was beginning to close. Jo wanted to hurl obscenities from her occupied mouth, yet only gasped as the air was forced out of her.
“Don’t fret, the bar is doing most of the work, like stretching taffy. Try to push all the air out, Josephine,” Aunt Emily coaxed. “And imagine how lovely you’ll look!”
Jo made an indignant noise behind her soother. How exactly was she supposed to live without air? The corset tightened with another hard jerk on her strays, and Jo no longer got to choose to push the air out. It was forced out.
The cinching stopped for a moment and Agnes declared to Aunt Emily, “Her little waist is as defiant as she is!”
Aunt Emily tittered. “The poor thing. I don’t imagine she’s ever worn proper stays before…still, try to reduce her another inch. I want her to look as fetching as possible for the young Lord Cavendish!”
Jo wondered who the young Lord Cavendish was and why Aunt Emily wanted her to look “fetching” for him, but her thoughts were interrupted when Agnes took hold of her stays as if she were grasping a horse’s reins. Jo thought she felt her ribs breaking as the tortuous garment constricted again, pressed in on her from all sides. Tears came to her eyes, but Agnes wasn’t done. The maid placed her boot on Jo’s tailbone and pulled the corset tighter still!
Panicking like a foal caught in baling wire, Jo tried to breathe, yet couldn’t! Every intake of breath met resistance from her gag, then her diaphragm, until she was a hyperventilating mess, pulling on her wrist cuffs as the laces were tied off behind her.
Agnes said something about “inches”…
She couldn’t…
A sharp smell wafting from a maid’s passing hand roused her from her swoon. Jo’s eyes focused on the face of her aunt, who wore an expression akin to concern.
“It’s just smelling salts, my dear. Focus. Now, then, breathe like I do, with your chest, not your waist. Honestly, what do girls in the colonies do when they faint?”
Jo watched her loathsome aunt demonstrate short but measured breaths, which caused her ridiculous breasts to rise and fall dramatically above the bustline of her dress, as if that was the most common sight to see. Yet Jo realised her current frantic pattern would only bring her to faint again and again, so locked eyes with her aunt not in anger, but desperation, breathing in sync, finding a new rhythm. Short, shallow, weak.
How did they live like this?
“That’s it! Now you’re breathing like a proper young lady!” Aunt Emily praised. “I would expect nothing less of a girl of our shared lineage! Your grandmother, rest her soul, held a tightlacing record in the county seat for five years straight. Never mind that your great-grandfather was the Lord.” she giggled in a way Jo loathed.
The camomile flavour of the soother had faded, but the elegant silk and lace wrapped cage pressing against her chest did more to calm — no, crush — her spirit than the soother ever did. Jo was too focused on her breathing to even think about responding to her aunt’s praise, or to struggle as the maids finally untied her from the bar. She moaned as the blood returned to her numb hands. The exertion caused her to breathe heavier. It was only with her aunt’s careful guidance that she was able to bring her breathing back under control as the feeling returned to her finger tips.
Jo stood shakily between the two younger maids while Agnes fastened a “bust pad” over her chest and then tucked the bottom neatly into the top of the corset. This was followed by another larger pad being tied around her waist and left to rest high on Jo’s behind.
Her aunt looked her up and down. “Wonderful, that will give the illusion that she has some shape! Now, Agnes, the dress…”
Agnes brought out the dress as she was bid. Jo wondered how she would manage to carry so much material on her small frame, while unable to draw a full breath. For a passing moment she felt respect for the incredible endurance that her aunt and cousin must have had. The feeling only lasted for a moment, however. If they really had strength they would have fled this madness the same way her mother had.
The colour wasn’t so bad, Jo liked blue. Everything else, however, was a disaster.
The long skirt reached Jo’s ankles, combined with the voluminous, white petticoats, she felt as if she were trying to walk through waist-deep mud. The large bustle behind her made her feel clumsy and disproportionate. Coupled with the corset and the high heeled boots that she teetered on uncertainly and made her lean dramatically forward, Jo thought she resembled a snail. Despite all the prim and proper praise from the other women, she felt anything but beautiful. The bodice was tight, emphasising her tightly cinched figure, and making her midsection feel even more trapped than before. Her pale shoulders were bare and her small breasts were compressed and shoved upward in such a way that made her appear as if she would be ejected from the gown at any moment. Jo was used to hiding her slight curves beneath baggy clothing. Seeing her figure exaggerated and out on display made her feel somehow more vulnerable and naked than she had during the bath.
“Oh, just marvellous. What a transformation!” Aunt Emily practically applauded with her voice. “I’m certain Gertrude’s old glove will fit her, Agnes.
Jo wondered why her Aunt had only said ‘glove’ in the singular, but turned to see Agnes approaching with one of the strange sleeves with the straps. As she’d suspected, beneath the soft, delicate, lacy exterior there was an inner sleeve of unyielding leather, lined with rigid boning like the corset.
Despite knowing how pointless it was, Jo begged her Aunt not to make her wear such a thing. The soother reduced her pleading to blubbering, making her sound more pathetic. Without a full breath or stable footing, her attempts to keep the maid’s hands off her wrists were fruitless. Jo found tears in her eyes again, born of frustration, fatigue, and even fear. The device looked awful to wear, even worse than the bone-crushing corset.
Aunt Emily cooed at Jo while they slipped the sobbing girl’s arms into the binder. “Look at me, a monoglove is quite standard among us ladies! There will be a little discomfort, my little twig, but just think how elegant you’ll look once your wings are secured and no longer flap about so wildly!”
Jo’s tears flowed down her cheeks as her arms were wrenched behind her. Her fingers found a pocket of soft silk inside, and slipped all-too-easily into sections around a soft ball not unlike the one she was biting down hard on. Jo imagined the hundreds of times her cousin’s hands must have slipped inside and held that soft impotence with only a smile and a thank-you-very-much, and shivered.
As with the stays, ever-tighter lacing was the anchor, pulling her elbows together, shoulders drawn back dramatically, enforcing a certain posture which thrust her meagre chest forward. The loss of freedom was almost as bad as the immediate pain in her shoulder blades. As if a knot wasn’t enough, the maids efficiently secured her with white, lace embellished straps over her shoulders, buckled to keep the monoglove from slipping down, trapping her. The dress came with a matching cover that slipped over the leather, the buckles, the minor embellishments, so the ornate shimmering sky blue of her dress seemed to ensnare the entirety of her up to the shoulders.
Once Jo was fully bound and trammelled in what these limey assholes kept calling a ‘dinner gown’, they added a few finishing touches. Her formerly free red hair had been tamed into neat, tight sausage curls secured with white ribbons tied off into large bows. After they’d dabbed her tears away, a pale foundation was applied over her face to hide her “imperfections” and rouge was liberally applied over snow white cheeks giving the impression that she was permanently sheepish and shy.
“Just lovely!” Aunt Emily applauded the maid’s and Jo’s dramatic transformation with her voice alone. “Now, there’s just one more thing and you’ll be ready, my dear!”
Jo let out a long, exhausted sigh.
What else could there possibly be to add?
Chapter 2
Fleur-de-bouche. The phrase sounded so harmless. Fleur sounded French, like a flower. How bad could it possibly be?
Jo wriggled in her straight-backed chair at the opulent dinner table as the young maid, Frannie, dabbed drool from her chin with a silk handkerchief for what felt like the hundredth time.
The trammeled guest huffed in protest through her flaring nostrils, but it didn’t get her anywhere. The elaborate bouquet erupting from her mouth simply tickled her nose, as Jo breathed each constrained, shallow breath through it. Even filling the lower half of her face with half a garden, she couldn’t quite tell if the petals were real or fake, but either way the heady perfume impregnated every wisp of air she drew in.
Yet, Jo had to use her nose, as the entirety of her mouth was sealed by an inflated rubber ball that acted as stem to this foliage covering her mouth, silencing her and proudly implying Jo’s mouth had more appropriate uses than speech.
Jo hated the fleur-de-bouche even more than the soother, which would have been unthinkable just a few hours before. Frannie had swapped the two before firmly guiding her to join the others in the dining room. Jo had no idea how a simple tap of the maid’s finger could coax this ridiculous device to automatically inflate, spreading her jaw and cheeks wide, pinning her tongue down impotently.
It was massive! It was humiliating!
And yet, Jo couldn’t ignore the stirring from the very core of her depths. Surrounded by so much formality and frivolity, her most basic of instincts manifested. The feel of the bulb pinning her busy tongue made her think of the way the other girls back home, the popular girls, had so candidly discussed Friday nights with their boyfriends on Monday mornings. She wondered if this was what it felt like to have a man’s thing inside her mouth. She ran her tongue below the obstruction and sucked experimentally. This one had a taste too, yet not so pronounced. In another context being so occupied could have been something akin to fun. Maybe the sweet farm boy she’d left behind had a point after all. She squeezed her legs together beneath the countless layers of petticoats and skirts and wondered.
Whatever curiosity she felt about the bulb stuffing her little mouth full, it was mostly lost due to the pang of her empty stomach. Though the neighbours had meant well, after her parents had died, she had faced so many meagre or empty tables. To see such a lavish setting before her without the opportunity to sink her teeth into the spread was maddening. Even after three courses of men-only aperitifs, sitting bored and bound, she was beyond frustrated, furious. Hugh, her corpulent and seemingly friendly uncle, chatted with his many guests–the male guests. All the women in attendance were in the same state as Jo, her aunt and her cousin. Yet, Jo could not detect a hint of boredom or irritation in the expressions of the women, above the fleurs or porcelain balls or panel gags with elegant embroidered names and crests across the front. There was almost a warmth and pride visible in their eyes as they maintained a dutiful gaze on their husbands, while occasionally making encouraging glances to the other ladies in attendance. Jo sensed that perhaps there were entire conversations communicated with only their eyes as they sat in still and elegant silence.
Jo had been sat off to the side with her cousin Gertrude at the far end of the table, like an afterthought. Her statuesque, blonde cousin had minced her way into the dining room so delicately. Though her own maid in attendance had guided her, it appeared to be mostly for show. Gertrude, as empty headed and delicate as she clearly was, seemed to be completely in her depth in that dining room. She sat in the chair, her back straight, her chest thrust out. She was simultaneously the picture of modesty and pure lust with the low cut of her evening gown, putting her substantial bosom on display to the men of the room. Yet, she didn’t seem at all aware of the effect she’d created. While her appearance and demeanour begged–pleaded–for attention, she also fit perfectly with her surroundings–harmonising with them. Opulence reigned across the ornate room of tapestries, oil paintings, gold leaf, and moulded plaster. Jo found herself blending too, but perhaps only in appearance. She wondered if Aunt Emily had picked their dresses, their full ensembles, to match with the dining room.
This whole aristocratic world was beyond reason.
She wanted to scream out, “Enough!” but no matter how she shook her head, tossing her sausage ringlets dancing across her painted face ridiculously, the fleur-de-bouche–the muzzle–wouldn’t even budge! Her whole lower face was effectively a vase for decoration, lips completely obscured by the petals, as were Emily’s and Gertrude’s, their chins held much higher, their posture impeccable against the strange chairs that held to the spine of their stays, monogloves hanging straight down behind, a simple loop slipped in an ungainly hook, keeping their bottoms down, sat firmly in their place.
Even without her loop secured, unlike her model cousin, Jo had only made it to her seat on her preposterous heels with Frannie’s hands firmly holding around her tight waist, keeping her from tipping, head over literal heels, crashing down the main stairs in a ball of cotton and silk.
And Frannie was still by her side, as she wiped Jo’s chin and worried at the hem of her charge’s dress. “I know it’s difficult, ma’am, but please behave,” she whispered in Jo’s ear. “I don’t enjoy counting paddlings for bedtime, but if you fuss it will give me no choice!”
Frannie’s British accent made it sound to Jo’s American ears like she was being called “mum”, and distracted her while the word “paddlings” skipped right through Jo’s mind, somehow less absurd. Surely it couldn’t mean the same thing in Britain as it did back home? If she’d thought for a moment that they would spank her for not going along with this whole absurd affair, then corset or no corset, monoglove or no monoglove, she would have destroyed the whole dinner party!
“Who is this delightful firecracker, Hugh?” A smug voice carried down the table to Jo’s perked ears. They’d introduced him at the door as the young Lord Cavendish, but Uncle Hugh called him Edward, the only gentleman in attendance without a lady at his side. Instead he rubbed elbows with her uncle at the head of the table as apparently the guest of honour. He was tall and handsome like a model from a fashion magazine; cold, distant, aspirational and unrelatable. What’s more, there was an undercurrent of contempt beneath his playful remark. It made Jo want to challenge him so–to prove him wrong–or perhaps right?
Uncle Hugh chuckled deeply and motioned with his half full glass to Jo. “Oh, yes, my niece. Yes, firecracker is the word…” He took a drink.
Edward patiently waited for a real response.
“Ahem, Josephine Agnes Finney, visiting from the Union States.” Uncle Hugh managed before succumbing to another sip.
“The States!” Edward exclaimed to Hugh after only giving Jo a passing glance. “I never imagined I’d meet a girl of the Americas in such a humble place! I would think such a rare bauble would only be available for viewing through the sturdiest of steel bars at the most exclusive of menageries!”
Uncle Hugh paused. Aunt Emily raised her eyebrows so slightly that it was almost imperceptible. Cousin Gertrude stared forward, her carefree smile was obscured by the pink petals on her own gag, but it was visible in her eyes. Jo wriggled in her chair. She may not have known what a menagerie was, but being likened to a bauble–a trinket–made her blood boil.
“She came to us quite by chance, Lord Cavendish.” Uncle Hugh said finally. “I’ll not bore you with the details as of now. They’re hardly appropriate for the supper table with delicate ladies present, but perhaps later if your curiosity burns so.” He looked between Edward and Jo. “I caution you to attempt conversation with her. She doesn’t know the first thing about polite discourse.”
Edward’s eyes danced with apparent delight. “Oh, really?” He glanced in Jo’s direction. “That makes me all the more curious about what might come out of her untrained mouth. I’ve always wondered what the raw, uncultured voice of a young woman might sound like!”
Uncle Hugh looked tired. “I can assure you…you’re not missing much at all!”
Edward smiled to himself and then looked at Jo in a way that made her feel as if all the layers the maids had heaped upon her were stripped away all at once, save for the armbinder keeping her wrists back and meagre chest forward. She felt rawly naked under his intense gaze, and noticed her thighs rubbing together seemingly of their own accord in response. It wasn’t anything like when the boys back home would leer at her and the other girls at the swimming hole, or in general. He didn’t look at her with longing. He looked at her as something he could acquire at his whim.
The next course the servants brought to the table rivalled anything Jo had ever seen at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Jo’s mouth watered as the fragrance of beef penetrated past the petals obscuring her nose. Frannie hastily wiped her chin and cautioned her to control herself.
“It’s not becoming of a young lady to show too much appetite,” the young maid lectured in a respectful, restrained whisper.
Jo shifted in her chair and grunted into her gag making the maid raise her hands in a desperate, calming gesture. In the far mirror, Jo could see the fear in Frannie’s eyes, the way she glanced at Agnes in apology for every one of Jo’s squeaks and squirms. The girl seemed to mean well, and even if she didn’t Jo realised that she was utterly dependent on this maid, at least for the moment. She swallowed her irritation and turned her attention back to the savoury smelling food. She felt the napkin under her chin again.
“Miss Josephine, please…” The maid whispered.
Jo shot Frannie a glare. She hadn’t eaten since a hurried breakfast on the train from Southampton! How the nervous young maid expected her to somehow not be hungry was beyond her. She watched the servants, their heads bowed, serve the men at the table first. The ladies sat, still as exquisite, marble statues. If they were anticipating food like Jo, they certainly weren’t showing it.
Each lady at the table had a maid standing by her side. When the servants finally began to bring the ladies’ plates, they handed them off to the maids, who in turn gently placed them in front of the trussed and gagged charges. Jo was so appalled when she saw what was on her plate, or rather what was not on her plate, that the nagging question of how she was to eat without her hands or her mouth free was momentarily forgotten. While the men’s plates were positively laden with sumptuous looking food and their glasses were filled with wine, the ladies’ plates looked more like something fit for tamed rabbits!
Jo wondered why she looked to the other ladies for their reactions. Of course they were not the least bit perturbed by their tiny portions. They didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed by anything.
The maids looked to Uncle Hugh at the head of the table. After a moment he returned their gaze and announced with a nod, “You may release the ladies now.”
The maids curtsied in almost perfect unison and quietly replied, “Yes, my lord.”
Jo felt enormous relief when the bulb in her mouth deflated. Frannie pressed the handkerchief under Jo’s chin to catch any saliva as she delicately pulled away the fleur-de-bouche. Having been so restricted, being able to freely move her tongue and to relax her jaw felt wonderful. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and waited for the monoglove to be removed next, happy that her relatives and their customs weren’t completely unreasonable.
Yet seeing these people as even slightly reasonable was short lived. Indeed, Jo found that she had no cutlery of her own, just as all the other women at the table were without. Instead she watched Frannie’s arm pass by her pinioned shoulder, delicate fork in hand, and fetch her some of the miniscule portions on her plate. The maid brought the greens up, inches from her lips, and said the most unbelievable thing: “A-are you… not going to say grace?”
“My what?” Jo practically shook at the meal so close to her lips, her hands twisting in their glove. She would have leaned forward and snatched the bite for herself if not for her very outfit keeping her so straight and narrow.
“Please, Miss Josephine…” Frannie’s forkful wavered. “Say grace so I may feed you.” When Jo clearly didn’t understand what she was asking, the nervous maid repeated, “Your grace, Miss Josephine. You must whisper your thankful prayers to God and Mr. Gainsborough for your meal!”
Sure enough, Jo could see her cousin and aunt silently mouth a short recitation before being fed like helpless infants from the hands of their staff. All around the laden table, the dozen or so ladies discretely flexed their freed jaws before using this miniscule freedom to thank their jailors for holding them captive!
Looking sideways at Jo, Gertrude swallowed a dainty bite of carrot and quietly said to her mother.
“Mummy, I don’t think Jo knows her prayers. May I help her?”
Aunt Emily practically glowed. “Yes, you may, my little dove.” Some of the other older ladies overheard the hushed question and smiled adoringly at Gertrude as one might smile at a little dog performing its tricks.
“Josephine…” Gertrude said softly. “Like this.”
Jo watched her cousin bow her head and close her eyes with the same utter sincerity as before. The dining room lights shone off her blonde hair giving her an angelic look, like something Jo might have seen out of an old art book in school.
“Try repeating after me,” Gertrude began. “Almighty God, my eyes look to you before I am fed. Bless the earthly bounty you have provided through my fa–” She paused, opened her eyes and timidly said, “I say ‘father,’ but you’ll say ‘uncle’!” She closed her eyes, bowed her head again and continued, “‘Let these nourish and strengthen our frail bodies that we may become vessels of beauty and life and whatever your servant wills…” Gertrude peeked at Jo’s expression of sheer disbelief, then smiled, “Oh yes, it’s a bit long, you only say ‘Bless the earthly bounty and my father’–or ‘uncle’–for the rest of the meal, it’s the least we can do, and…”
Jo was mesmerised by the pathetic, almost blasphemous prayer that she had absolutely no intention of repeating. Her dropped jaw, aghast, must have caught a few eyes, for Edward chuckled to Uncle Hugh in a voice loud enough to cut Gertude short. “My, my, so they are as godless in our former dominion as I have heard! Your Gertrude ought to be commended for trying to bring some civilization to the little savage!”
There was a noticeable pause at the table. The faint sound of the men chewing and the clink of silverware were the only noise until they died away too.
Uncle Hugh cleared his throat. “Gertrude certainly has a knack for…”
Jo’s lips quivered with indignation. She strained against all the fabric and lacing and straps that imprisoned her. The very idea that this overdressed, manicured, pompous horse’s ass had the gall to call her “uncivilised” made Jo see red.
“You bastard! You call us godless? I’m a savage?” She yelled, tossing and twisting against her bondage. So lost in her anger, Jo couldn’t feel Frannie’s shaking hands on her bare shoulders trying to press her against the backrest of the chair, or the young maid’s desperate entreaties that she be still and silent.
Calling a man a bastard back home would have been fighting words, at least if Jo had been a man. Still, it would have at least elicited an angry response. Much to Jo’s surprise, Edward didn’t seem the least bit disturbed. In fact, he seemed amused, like one might be if a small kitten had swiped his fingers. The silence that had come before was like a cacophony compared to the uneasy stillness that followed Jo’s outburst.
Edward sat back and casually took a sip of wine and then licked his lips. “Such language! I rest my case!”
How could he sit there so smugly satisfied when any sane person would see his madness and the madness of his whole society? Jo filled her lungs to launch into another tirade. She had to do something to push him off his lofty perch! Yet just as she was about to let loose another barrage on him, she felt the bulb returned to her open mouth. Shoved inside and inflated even firmer than before, filling her cheeks, it pinned her wicked tongue down. Agnes had left her place next to Aunt Emily and assisted the frazzled Frannie in re-muzzling the fuming girl. Jo shook her head violently side to side, until the shallow breaths caught up with her. She was too incensed to consider that no amount of thrashing would dislodge the fleur-de-bouche from her protesting mouth.
“Well done, Agnes!” Uncle Hugh praised. “My apologies, Lord Cavendish–and to everyone. I had no idea that she would be so unruly! We might as well have dined in a stable!”
Jo had exhausted herself and sunk back into her chair, panting and sweating, the hands of both maids still resting on her shoulders, as a round of polite chuckles arose at her expense.
“Think nothing of it, Lord Gainsborough,” Edward nodded politely. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you should be admired for taking in this tiny lump of red clay. No doubt, under your careful guidance she’ll be sculpted into something truly elegant!”
The mood at the table became calm again and everyone resumed eating. Jo, suddenly remorseful, lowered her eyes to her plate and became acutely aware of her hunger again. She glanced at Edward. He wasn’t even paying attention to her now. Had he baited her knowing what would happen? Jo looked up at Frannie and gave her a pleading look.
Frannie dabbed Jo’s moistening chin again and quietly said, “I’m sorry, Miss Josephine. Young ladies who talk out of turn at the table are not allowed supper.”
“Mummy?” Gertude murmured to her mother. “What does bast–”
“That’s quite enough, Gertrude!” Her mother hissed. It was the first time Jo had seen her aunt appear out of sorts. “Now, eat your supper and ask no more questions about your cousin’s little tantrum, or you’ll have to join her.”
“Yes, mummy!” Gertrude looked at Jo and gave her a polite smile that the gagged girl could not quite decipher. She didn’t seem pleased that Jo had been silenced, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. It was just something that had happened. Perhaps her cousin simply didn’t know how to react.
Jo cursed herself as her tightly pinched stomach growled, louder than her muffled huffs.
Uncle Hugh, having clearly overheard Jo’s sullen grumbling, sighed into his glass and then purposefully set it aside.
“Agnes, Josephine is clearly overwhelmed from her travel and all the activity. Please put her to bed.”
Jo stiffened in her chair. The large grandfather clock showed that it was only a quarter past seven! Agnes curtsied and stepped between Jo and Frannie.
“Mummy!” Gertude chirped. “May Josephine stay in my room tonight? It would be ever so much fun!”
Aunt Emily smiled politely. “Oh, my little dove, I don’t think…”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Uncle Hugh cut his wife short. “Agnes, put her in Gertrude’s room!” He was straight-faced, but his voice was playful when he spoke to Gertrude. “Now, pumpkin, Josephine desperately needs you to be a good example, a perfect young Lady. So you’ll be on your best behaviour now won’t you?”
Gertrude blushed as all eyes were on her and she was required to reply without whispering. “Oh, yes, papa! My behaviour will be flawless!” With a nod from her father, she returned to alternating between quiet prayers and birdlike eating.
Agnes assisted Jo to her feet.
Uncle Hugh stood up with all the other gentlemen at the table. “Goodnight, Josephine.” He said, and everyone at the table echoed him. There was a touch of relief in their voices.
Before taking his seat again, Edward added, “I hope, Miss Josephine, to see you again. I’m certain some proper rest will cool your temper and improve your conduct.”
Unthinking, Jo tried to respond with venom, but only succeeded in mumbling nonsense. Edward smiled back at her, the clear winner of every pass of their verbal joust. Before she was guided away from the feast, her constrained stomach growling, Jo caught a glimpse of Aunt Emily. She was the only one who had not said goodnight to Jo, and she looked down at her plate with a very displeased expression.
The male-dominated conversation and the clinking of silverware grew fainter with each step from the dining room. Even if Jo didn’t already have a reason to stay in this madhouse, subjugated by her clothes and with Agnes on her left and Frannie on her right, running away would have been impossible. She followed, putting all of her effort into shallow breathing against her tight stays and maintaining her balance upon the precarious heels.
At the bottom of the stairs, Agnes took a sturdy cord wrapped in white silk and embellished with faux roses of the same material and attached it to Jo’s monoglove. “Miss Josephine, you will find patience and important virtue to cultivate. Practice it now. Frannie and I will be back to retrieve you in a moment.” Agnes took Frannie by the elbow. “Come along now, girl.”
Frannie’s cheeks were red, as if she were holding back tears. She managed a choked, “Yes, ma’am,” before she was led through a nearby door.
Jo stood there in the hall, preoccupied with her own bondage — the heels, countless layers, severe stays, fleur-de-bouche, and monoglove — the last of which she tugged at from its hitching point on the bannister. She felt like a troublesome mare about to be put back in the stables, and her snorts of defiance didn’t sound much better past the flowery gag.
Then she heard a crack, a great THWAP!! from past the doorway Agnes had led Frannie through. Tottering forward with little clicks of her heels, Jo strived to peer inside the door, ajar, and found what she saw… unbelievable!
There was her maid Frannie, the timid girl who had held so much power over her–whether she ate or starved–bent over a table on her forearms, one lock of her perfect hair falling past her teary eyes. The older maid had hitched up Frannie’s dress and petticoats, and pulled down her bloomers, all conspicuously of a less pure silken white than what Jo was swaddled within. There shone in shining red the skin of her buttocks, met once again by Agnes’ wooden paddle with a THWAP!! causing Jo to flinch and the younger maid to whimper.
Three more were given before the punishment was complete.
Agnes strode out to catch Jo peeking at the very end of her soft white leash, and Jo caught herself shrinking a bit for the first time since arrival. She dared not step backwards lest she lose her footing in the heels.
“I would normally apologise and remind m’lady that such reprimands are not for your delicate eyes or ears, but as we both know, you are no Lady, and by the wrestling you offered earlier, certainly not delicate. Yet as long as Mr. Gainsborough sees you worthy of such treatment, I must remind a lady-to-be’s actions are imbued with consequence.” She straightened the apron of her uniform and was shortly joined by Frannie, who wiped her cheeks with a kerchief, tucked the loose lock of hair back, and dared not look at either of them in the eye. “Excellent, now let us get you to bed, miss!”
Even though she was still famished, much to Jo’s chagrin, she really was tired from the day’s activity, just as her uncle had told the table. Going to bed was almost as attractive an idea as eating. Though she was relieved to feel the heaviness being lifted from her as each successive layer was removed, it took nearly as much time to be undressed as it took to be dressed. The shedding of layers, the untying of laces, the wiping away of makeup, and the unpinning of hair was done methodically, as if Agnes and Frannie were following a very long checklist. Jo’s patience was already well past thin. When they removed her fleur-de-bouche from her mouth, she felt almost anxious that she might pop off and say something she shouldn’t. The bliss of the massage her shoulders and arms received after the glove came off, however, quieted her displeasure.
Jo’s momentary relief was tarnished when she watched Frannie lay out everything she would apparently need in order just to sleep in this insane place. The exhausted girl started to raise her arms in protest, but found them still weak and numbed from their binding, even after the blessed rubbing they had received from Agnes’ strong hands. Besides that, both maids were prepared for her to struggle, and they did not give her a sliver of a chance to do so. Frannie, her eyes still red from crying, was especially vigilant in rapidly transferring Jo from one elegant, cloth prison to another.
Stripped down once again, Jo still could shrug off how foreign her body looked. Scrubbed pink and denuded of all hair, she felt disconnected from it in a way that unnerved her. Even though the maids drew no attention to her state, Jo desperately wanted to cover herself, but Agnes held her hands firmly behind her.
The most significant layer to replace from Jo’s dinner outfit was her corset, yet the idea of it being replaced at all was an unpleasant surprise. Just as soon as the severe evening underlayer was loosened and unwrapped from her waist, before Jo could take a full breath, a softer and more form-fitting piece of what Americans would have surely classified as ‘lingerie’ was pulled over and tied almost as tightly. It cinched her waist but this time ended just underbust, so as to not constrain her breathing too greatly.
“We don’t want to lose the progress on your waist training today…Still, night stays are kept at only 22 inches. We believe in proper respiration through the night to prepare a lady for the day to come!
Before Jo could protest, Frannie approached with a white bundle of cloth, and Jo wondered what it was for.
When Frannie unfurled it, Jo forgot the stays and her mouth dropped open. “I–” she began, not believing that she would have to utter the words. “I don’t need a diaper!” She exclaimed looking at the thick, white, lace trimmed thing in the younger maid’s hands.
“Of course you don’t, Miss Josephine.” Agnes reassured her. “Nappies, as we say here in the King’s language, are for babies. These are decency drawers. They’re for maidens to wear at bedtime.”
Jo shrank into Agnes and away from Frannie.
“Now, now,” Agnes stiffened her grip on Jo’s slender wrists. “Every unmarried girl in a proper household wears them. They keep your treasure safe, and yes, like a nappy, they’re there in case of any accidents.”
“My–my treasure is perfectly safe without them and I haven’t had an accident in…” Jo didn’t like how whiney her voice sounded, she hadn’t had to argue about her own continence in many, many years!
“Miss Josephine,” Frannie said with an edge of desperation in her voice. “Just step into these, if you please.” She held the drawers at Jo’s knee level.
“Frannie,” The older maid said. “You must be polite to young ladies in your charge, but you must be firm with them if they do not obey immediately.”
Frannie cleared her throat and tried to appear sterner. “Miss Josephine, step into your drawers at once.” She said with just a modicum of force in her voice.
Jo looked at Frannie, who had a full day of work behind her, and a raw rear end for the effort. The memory of the poor maid getting paddled on account of her was fresh in her mind. Frannie didn’t seem like Agnes. She didn’t have the same sadistic glint in her eye, the satisfaction of upholding an order that seemed written in skin as much as stone. With a deep sigh, Jo picked up one foot and slipped it into the puffy garment. Though the cotton was still as soft as the bloomers she’d worn to dinner–softer even–Jo’s skin crawled as the drawers were secured around her slender waist. The excessive padding made it impossible to close her legs fully. The bulk combined with the lace ruffles covering the seat made her figure appear comically clumsy.
“Thank you, Miss Josephine.” Frannie said.
Jo was uncertain how to reply. “You’re welcome?”
Frannie barely hid an awkward smirk as she nodded in response and continued her work.
The so-called “decency drawers” were secured by simple buttons. Jo wondered how these fasteners were supposed to “protect her treasure” when she could take them off with ease. Of course, it was unsurprising that they had an answer to that. After slipping the stifling, ankle length, long sleeve white cotton nightgown over her head and buttoning it up to her neck, Agnes immediately reacquired her arms and thrust the girl’s hands out in front of her. Frannie trapped Jo’s outstretched hands in padded white mittens which cinched at the wrists, and then placed them into a long pink muff of sorts. It was then that Jo understood how the drawers would keep her safe from herself and why there was a fear of her having an accident during the night.
Jo was made to sit on the soft four poster bed. While Agnes placed a lacy nightcap on her head and tied a large bow under her chin to secure it, Frannie took Jo’s feet and placed them into what looked like pink ballet slippers, but she could feel a stiffness to them she did not expect. Jo gave a start as Frannie began tugging on the ribbons and her feet stretched until they were painfully pointing downward! There was no way that she’d be able to walk with her feet like that!
Finally, Jo was bade to lay down in one half of the queen-size bed, but found herself without a pillow! Agnes simply grabbed the long muff and pulled it above Jo’s head, along with her entrapped hands, pushing the silken padding under her cap. It was wide and soft enough to cradle her ears, even her cheeks, yet unrelenting as Jo tentatively attempted to pull her pinned and mitten-bound hands from up around the sides of her head.
“See how this posture opens your chest, widens your clavicle, stretches your shoulders? Slipping into the glove tomorrow will be even easier than today, I assure you, miss.”
Jo wanted to retort that she felt like she was trapped in a marshmallow, and she certainly wouldn’t be going back in any kind of monoglove or arm restraints tomorrow, not without a good reason, but Agnes pre-empted her rebuttal and simply pressed a finger to Jo’s lips, and looked to Frannie who put a small device on her nightstand. It looked like a baby monitor.
“This will ensure you rest peacefully, Miss Jospehine,” Frannie whispered lightly, barely audible. “If there is an emergency, all you must do is raise your voice.”
“But if you rouse us unnecessarily.” Agnes spoke at her normal polite yet dry tone, causing a red light to go off in the monitor. “We will not be pleased, and neither will Lady Gainsborough. I assure you that sleeping in a soother is not pleasant.”
And with that said, both maids, older and younger, departed, leaving the pink room barely illuminated with a soft nightlight.
Laying in the near twilight, Jo tested her new boundaries. She experimented with moving the muff that trapped her hands from behind her head and then returning it. It was better than the monoglove, but not by much. With some difficulty, mainly due to the still-restrictive night stays, she propped herself up against the headboard with a small grunt. She glanced at the monitor and wondered how sensitive to sound it was. When the maids did not return after perhaps a minute or two, Jo felt safe. She wanted to test the slippers next, but the pressure already in her ankles just from wearing them made it doubtful that she could stand up in them. Jo sighed and lay back down. She thought about the indignities she’d suffered and her current hunger and discomfort. She comforted herself by repeating what her aunt’s letter had said: ‘ample inheritance.’
Jo was not particularly materialistic, but she knew the value of a dollar–a pound. She knew that there wasn’t much of a future for girls like her. In the Union States a girl could live alone, be a homesteader even, but work was still hard to come by for women. She’d missed many meals since her parents’ passing as she picked up small-time farm jobs, and then been dismissed for her scrawny stature.
A large sum of money could change everything.
So she resolved that she’d carry on for as long as was necessary to collect. A few days living in “leisure” would be a small price to pay for what had to be a huge windfall. The pink and cream contents of her cousin’s room, sickeningly sweet as they were, were no doubt worth more than her parents’ modest home. The soft nightgown caressing her slender body was probably more expensive than every piece of clothing she’d ever worn. She couldn’t imagine how much money her uncle had.
With a small fortune in her pocket Jo could go back home, maybe buy back her parents’ ranch from the bank. She wriggled more deeply into the soft bed, thinking about the night before her departure again, specifically about the feel of that boy’s hands on her. Cliff, that simple handsome boy who could rope cattle and thought that was the whole world. It could be her whole world if her pride let her, but she wanted— needed to do this herself. Still, his strong hands had felt wonderful, but so had reasserting herself and telling him, “no.” Still, she supposed she could have done it a little nicer. Would he wait for her return? Did she even want him to?
She found her legs squeezing together at the thought again, but the decency drawers bunched up and discouraged her. Jo bit her lip and imagined, what if she’d kept quiet and let him have his way with her? In her memory, suddenly he became less clumsy, more sure of himself, more forceful. She gasped, “no” but he silenced her with a savage kiss. His strong hand squeezed her breast until she wanted to cry out, and then he whispered in her ear, “I’ll domesticate you, my little colonial savage.”
Jo gasped. She was appalled by her own imagination, and even more so by her body’s response to it–swelling and needy, and all for a brief fantasy of a man she despised. She was frustrated that she could do nothing about her body’s response, but almost glad that there were measures in place to restrain her.
“Damn,” she mumbled with a wry smirk. “The decency drawers actually work.”