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Hettie stumbled into the house, panting. Her hair stuck out in curious directions and she reeked of oil and perspiration. Here and there, a tiny scuff or cut embellished her ruddy cheeks.
A tall man stood in the hallway with a face like thunder.
“I’m sorry, Uncle!” Hettie sang out cheerily, taking off her hat and coat. “I didn’t know what time it was! And it’s been such a fun afternoon!”
“I presume you can’t hear the rather large town clock, then,” said her uncle. “Perhaps I should have your ears examined by the doctor when he next calls.”
Hettie laughed. “I suspect I was too busy trying to stay on Agatha’s bicycle to think about some old clock.”
Uncle Edgar frowned.
“Bicycle?”
“Oh yes – she’s got the most marvellous contraption! You can really fly along at a pace!”
Uncle Edgar took in the sight of his niece. Lord preserve us, he thought. She’s 21 years old and acting like a butcher’s boy.
“What on Earth are you wearing, Henrietta?” he said, with disgust.
“Oh, bother!” said Hettie. “Aggie’s cycling habit. I dashed off at such a pace I clean forgot to change back into my day dress and give these back!”
Hettie was dressed in a waisted tweed jacket and matching swagged knickerbockers, with flat leather calf boots and a crumpled white blouse. To think: she had been trundling round in this get-up for the whole town to see, like some ill-brought-up schoolboy. It was positively scandalous.
“Hettie,” said her uncle. “You are to go upstairs and change immediately. Dinner may be cooling but you will not get a crumb until you look more ladylike.”
Hettie chuckled. “Fine, I’ll put on some old skirt. But I’m not ladylike. I told you – I’m simply not cut out for being all prim and pretty. I rather like getting a bit oily and grubby if it’s for a lark!”
She scampered upstairs, leaving muddy footprints on the stairs, and the housekeeper shook her head at Uncle Edgar.
“Something must be done, Sir,” she said. “I just cleaned that carpet two days ago. Looks as though an army’s marched right across it.”
Uncle Edgar nodded. Something did need to be done.
~
Hettie grabbed the first rumpled garment she found. Lord,was she ever hungry! Tugging on the dark silk dress, she heard an ominous rippinng sound and noticed she’d torn the elbow seam. Drat – that was the sort of thing her uncle tended not to miss. Ugh – but she hated wearing this thing anyway. Too stiff and crepey and heavy by far. It had been a tonic to wear that nice loose cycling garb today.
Clumsily buttoning up the dress as she ambled downstairs, Hettie smelled shepherd’s pie. Mmm! Just the ticket! Cycling really took it out of you. She couldn’t wait to go back tomorrow for another circuit on the two-wheeler.
She had been ill-tempered about moving to Uncle Edgar’s house while her mother visited relatives abroad. A girl her age hardly needed a guardian, her uncle was such a stick-in-the-mud, and the small town in which he lived (Nowhere-on-the-Map, as she described it in letters to friends) was awfully dull. Just yokels and livestock. But by chance she met Agatha Falworth while out walking, and the two struck up an immediate bond. Both were bored silly and looking for adventures, and they liked to tease and challenge each other.
To Uncle Edgar’s annoyance, female company, which he had assumed would help Henrietta settle down into a more ladylike mode and outgrow her tomboyish roughness, was actually causing his niece to behave more and more like a navvy. She would rampage in with stained clothes, wolf down food and barge around the house leaving books and objects strewn in her wake. More than once, he had threatened to send her to deportment classes or etiquette lessons, but one look at the scruffy creature had reminded him of the money wasted on such classes in the past.
Yawning, Hettie ambled into the dining room. She’d bodged the buttoning on her gown, so the back stuck up like a strange crest. She walked barefoot across the floor, her hair flattened but still tangled. The brush on her dressing table, a pointed gift from a concerned relative, had acquired a fine, immaculate layer of dust.
“What’s for dinner, Uncle?” she said. “Has old Shippers done us proud?”
“Mrs Shipley,” said her uncle, with gritted teeth, “went to great lengths to make a delicious dinner. You were late, so I’ve offered your portion to Jones.”
The parlourmaid blushed as Hettie glared at her.
“That’s hardly fair!” said Hettie, outraged. “I’ve been taking the air and working hard pedalling that old bicycle, and I’m half-starved. It’s not like Jones goes any further than up and down stairs, is it? Anyway, I’m not all that late!”
“You can have some cold cabbage soup,” said Uncle Edgar, opening a newspaper.
Hettie stood up, furious. “Cold cabbage soup? I shan’t! That’s workhouse food. I want shepherd’s pie now! Jones, bring me some shepherd’s pie!”
Her uncle turned a page. “There’s none left, Henrietta. You’ve missed the boat. Still, it’s nice to see you’ve put on a gown for a change, even if you’ve fastened it askew. I forget you own them, sometimes. You’ve been invited to a ball next week and I honestly thought we’d have to send you in a potato sack just to get you out of trousers.”
Hettie grabbed a paperweight from her uncle’s bureau and dropped it onto his newspaper, sending it scrunching to the floor.
“I…want…food,” she said, angrily. “Or I shall write to Mother and tell her you’re mistreating me.”
“Mistreating you?” her uncle said, raising an eyebrow. “Why, you’re so spoiled, you don’t know what the word means!”
He grabbed her wrist firmly and Hettie, unused to walking in such heavy skirts, tripped and fell over his lap. She tried to wriggle free but her uncle held her in place. He drew her skirts over her head, unfastened her white drawers and began to spank her firmly with his hard, flat hand.
Hettie had never been spanked, even as a child, and the first slap on her bottom was an almighty shock. She shrieked as it stung, and again when the next landed.
“Owwwwwowowow!” she bleated, kicking furiously. “You can’t do this! I’m – OWWWW – an adult – OWWWWW – woman!”
“Oh yes, ” said her uncle, continuing to redden her round bottom, “Quite the lady. With your drawers around your ankles and your immaculate appearance, you’re practically royalty.”
He dealt an especially hard blow to her throbbing cheeks and she squealed like an infant.
“STOPPIT! PLEASE! STOPPIT!”
Tears were running down her face and her snub nose was running as well.
“What a picture of dignity and grace, Henrietta! I had hoped to educate you in the ways of young ladies of your class, while you were here, but I see you’ve attended finishing school already! Where were you, Saint Blubberings?”
Hettie thrashed under the stinging spanks and bawled as they built up, her face blotchy and streaked. Finally, though, she was still and sobbing, and her uncle let her up. She yanked her drawers back up and tied them, before dumping the skirts back down in a tangle to cover her glowing haunches.
“What a performance! Not the behaviour of a bright young woman, Henrietta; you’re closer to a feral cat! I think we’re going to need some assistance in making you into a delicate, pretty young lady. That way you can charm a nice husband, although he may need to put you over his knee from time to time as well to make sure you behave.”
Hettie scowled at him.
“I will not be ladylike for you, nor for any old Tom, Dick or Harry! I shan’t let anyone marry me or be charming – you can’t make me!”
Uncle Edgar regarded her.
“I won’t deny, it’ll be a challenge. But I think I know where to start. You see, you can tell a lady first and foremost by the way in which she holds herself.”
Hettie slouched on purpose.
“My point exactly,” said Uncle Edgar. “You hold yourself like a melting pudding. Which is why I’ve invested in a lovely item from France, just for my darling niece.”
He went upstairs and Hettie sat down crossly in a chair, wincing as she remembered, too late, that her bottom was still very sore.
When Uncle Edgar returned, he carried a brown paper parcel, which he placed on the table.
“Open it, please,” he commmanded. Hettie stuck out her tongue.
“Very well,” said her uncle. “I’ll do it, since you’re clearly too much of a child to follow simple instructions.”
He unfolded the crackling paper and held up the contents: It was a frighteningly stiff-looking corset in blue brocade.
Hettie thumped on the table.
“I am NOT wearing a blasted corset! Those are for vain, lightheaded idiots who mince around like silly little dolls!”
“Agnes and I agree on this,” she added proudly, and folded her arms.
“Oh, you don’t get a choice, my sweet, angelic little niece,” mocked her uncle. He grabbed her ear, pulling her to her feet, and called Jones back in.
“Hold her still please, arms slightly away from her sides,” he said.
“Get off me!” howled Hettie, but the young maid was surprisingly strong, and held her like a vice.
“Now, since – as you say – you’re not a lady yet, I can’t think it would trouble you if we were to remove this ragged gown the easy way,” said her uncle, producing a pair of sharp fabric scissors.
Jones gasped a little, then giggled, as she saw what he meant.
“Get…OFF ME! NO!” whined Hettie, as her uncle snipped away at the material, allowing it to fall, section by section, until she stood there in her undergarments. Blushing, she wrapped her arms around her thin cotton camisole, as her nipples grew hard beneath it. The maid couldn’t help chuckling, which enraged Hettie further.
“You are dismissed!” she snapped. “Find another situation, you impudent cow!”
Jones looked at her master, suddenly fearful for her job. But Uncle Edgar shook his head.
“Ah, now that is priceless. My brat of a niece believes she can dismiss my staff. I suppose little children do like to play at being proper grown-ups. Are you playing at being a real lady, Henrietta? Well, even so, if you speak to Jones like that again, you’ll be getting another hiding. If that happens, I’ll be the one holding you still while Jones delivers the spanking.”
Hettie grew pale. “Y-you wouldn’t…”
“Oh, I would,” said Uncle Edgar. “It’s tiring work and I’d appreciate a second pair of hands in disciplining you. Mind you, I’d probably equip her with a strap or belt as well, and she could apply these at her own discretion.”
Hettie gaped at him, appalled.
“Now then,” said Uncle Edgar, “Let’s see if we can’t improve slouchy Henrietta’s posture.”
He opened the stiff wings of the corset and wrapped the structure around Hettie’s waist. Metal clasps held the corset together at the front, and once fastened, a rigid steel busk ran from just under her breasts to just above her pubic bone.
Moving round to her back, Uncle Edgar produced long laces and began to thread them through the two neat rows of holes. He criss-crossed the ties and pulled them tight now and again, so the corset began to tighten.
“Not too tight!” barked Hettie.
“Jones,” said her uncle calmly, would you be so kind as to fetch a rag from the scullery?”
He stopped lacing to take over holding duties from the maid, who bobbed a curtsey and ran off. She returned with a large rag. Uncle Edgar thanked her, balled up the rag and thrust it into Hettie’s mouth, to her surprise and disgust.
Uncle Edgar then took his cravat and tied it tightly across his niece’s mouth, knotting it behind her head to keep the gag in place.
“You see, tightness is rather the point, dear child,” explained her uncle, as he and Jones returned to their prior positions.
Scarlet with rage, Hettie mmmfffed and unfffed her displeasure, but Jones and her master agreed the gag took the noise level down to a much more tolerable level. Uncle Edgar resumed his lacing.
Tighter and tighter he drew the ties. The sword-like sound of the lace passing through each rivet only added to the anticipation Hettie felt. How many more could there even be? It already felt uncomfortable – no wonder she didn’t normally wear this nonsense. Oh lord, how tight would it be?
At last Uncle Edgar announced that the corset had been fully threaded, and Hettie breathed a sigh of relief. The steel bones of the garment pressed insistently on her sides and the busk squeezing her stomach, but it was workable.
“And now,” announced Uncle Edgar, “the exciting part! Let’s tighten the corset properly!”
“Mmmmphhh!” protested Hettie, as her uncle pushed her toward the wall and instructed her to place her hands upon it. To encourage her, he picked up a wooden hairbrush and swatted her sharply on the bottom, causing her to yelp and obey.
“May I, Sir?” asked Jones. “I’ve always wanted to try this!”
“Please,” said Uncle Edgar. “You would be doing me a great service. My back is not what it was.”
Hettie gasped into her gag as a small boot was applied to the small of her back, and wiry little Jones began to pull the laces tight.
“Good work, Jones!” said Uncle Edgar. “You are a strong lass! Let’s see how dainty we can make Miss Henrietta’s waist. I understand 19 inches is fashionable, and she will of course want to be the prettiest at the ball.”
“Mmborr?” gasped Hettie, her eyes watering at the squeeze of the brutal garment.”
“Yes dear,” said her Uncle. “I’m planning a ball and I’ve invited your young friend Agatha, as well as lots of charming ladies and eligible gentlemen for you to charm and dazzle. And look what I’ve had ordered for you to wear!”
He held up a frothy pink gown with huge taffeta skirts, layer upon layer of lace, bonny bows placed here and there, and a painfully tiny bodice.
“Let’s see if we can’t get Henrietta corseted tightly enough to fit into this ladylike frock!”
Henrietta wailed and drooled into the rag as Jones pulled gamely on the laces once more. She looked down to see her normal waist cinched and imprisoned in a fortress of brocade.
Uncle Edgar signalled to Jones to pause and passed a tape measure around Hettie’s cinched waist.
“20.5, Henrietta! We’ll have to keep you in corsets until the day of the ball to help train that stubborn waist down. Let’s try your pretty party dress on anyway.”
Henrietta glowered at him.
“Alternatively, I could order you something more appropriate to your behaviour,” said Uncle Edgar, opening the latest edition of The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. “Where are those designs for children? Aha – now, isn’t this darling?”
He showed Hettie an abominably ruffled short dress with a cute satin sash and a fussy bonnet. Hettie turned pale at the prospect. Imagine Aggie seeing her in this little girl’s outfit. Oh lord, she’d be a laughing stock.
“Such a little angel,” mocked Uncle Edgar, enjoying his niece’s dismay. “So, what do you think? Are we going to train your waist for your ladylike outfit, or shall we cut our losses and dress you like a child?”
Hettie knew when she was beaten. She nodded at the ballgown.
“Wonderful,” said her uncle. “Now, let’s see you walk like a proper little lady, and I’ll arrange some dancing lessons for you, so everyone will see what a delicate little flower you are. I imagine lots of gentlemen will be eager to buy you handkerchiefs and flowers and pretty hats, hoping to make you their adoring little wife.”
Hettie squirmed at the thought and found herself dreading the ball more than ever.
She felt a jab between the bones of her corset. Her uncle prodded her on with the cane, as one might a stubborn donkey.
“Come on, girl. Let’s see you promenade prettily with your new feminine figure.”
As she gingerly took her first steps forward, Hettie could already feel the mincing wiggle in her gait. No matter how she tried, she could not walk with dignity.
Her uncle sighed happily. “Very nice, my dear. What a charming sashay. Ah, but I do love a party!”