A Transgender Regency Romance - Constantine has been raised as a boy, can she adapt to her new status?

After using the last of the warm water to rinse off any soap, the women helped Connie out of the tub and dried her off by patting her sensitive skin with soft towels. Her stepmother took care to examine her for any marks left by her twelve-year ordeal living as a boy. She found nothing save a fading scar, low on her back that might have been caused by almost any sort of injury.

Genevieve silently cursed her husband again for what he had put this poor girl through. And for no good reason. She herself had borne the man two male children, one of them before he had sent Constance away to that horrible school. He had no excuse unless to simply admit his foolish hopefulness that Connie’s mild deformity meant that she was, in truth, a boy.

But she wasn’t and never had been. There was no reason, now that the truth had been revealed and confirmed, why the girl could not take her rightful place in the family, to be loved and cherished as a daughter should be. She’d need a dowry, but as the daughter of a marquess, she would have a fine one.

She’d need a season in London, to be presented to the crown, to be introduced into society, and to begin her quest for a husband suitable to her status and her nature. She would require a kind man who could overlook her imperfections. Perhaps an older man, a widower, who already had a family and need not depend on a woman whose fertility might be problematical to produce children for him.

But, she would need to be trained out of her boyish ways and into her proper role. Not a meek miss, perhaps, like her sister, but then Genevieve was a strong woman herself and could empathize with Constance if she felt she had been deprived of something.

And the first step in such training was to get her properly clothed. “We owe this child so much consideration for what she has been through,” Genevieve said to Miss Vivian, the governess now responsible for both Deschambeaux girls.

She got an affirmative nod in response. “They look much alike, but I expect Constance to be more of a challenge than Alexandra has been.”

The likely understatement made both women laugh.

As the girl was in the middle of her menstrual flow, an immediate necessity would be to deal with that. Since Constance had been wearing men’s drawers at school, she presumably would not object to wearing similar women’s drawers designed to hold a cotton clout in place to catch the flow.

The cotton lining would have to be replaced at least once a day, but it was better than the old system of tying rags in place and later washing the rags. The cotton waste used for the clouts could be discarded.

Connie, for her part, readily consented to wearing drawers tied around her waist with a drawstring. Considering her earlier resistance, she was quite docile now, and everyone was much happier for it. Genevieve and Miss Vivian hoped such mildness would last but suspected it would not.

Next for the girl, a soft chemise to protect the skin of her chest and torso from her stays, which would push her small breasts upward and toward each other. The cleavage so created could be concealed or revealed by further layers of clothing. Connie had no problem with this, either. Despite being much softer, it was still rather like a man’s undershirt.

The stays were next. Very few men wore such a garment. But Connie should be grateful that full corsets were no longer in fashion, Genevieve reflected, as they had been when she was a girl of a similar age. Modern high-waisted fashions did not require such constrictions of one’s middle.

Connie made faces but stayed quiet as the stays were wrapped around her and laced into place. They needed adjustment, and Constance fussed a bit about that, she’d never worn such a garment before. “It’s pinching me,” she protested with violent movements of both arms.

“Where, dear?” Miss Vivian inquired. “It shouldn’t pinch.”

Connie apparently didn’t want to say, but her posture led Genevieve to guess. “I think it is her left breast, Miss V.” The girl nodded, looking miserable, perhaps at even this indirect admission that she had such growths.

After the stays, things went more smoothly and quickly. A second longer chemise would protect and conceal the stays from view. Then hose were eased onto the girl’s legs and tied with garters around her thighs. Hose were something almost everyone wore, though pantaloons were becoming more common for men but thankfully not for women, yet.

Petticoats were next, three of them. Genevieve expected resistance, especially since she was in effect cheating. The innermost petticoat had been deliberately cut and re-sewn quite narrow in outline. This, in part, was intended to restrict the girl from indulging herself in striding everywhere, like a man who had a claim to the ground he walked on. Having had no experience with such a garment, Connie did not know it didn’t normally fit that way.

The girl looked sour but resigned, her stepmother observed as the middle petticoat was added. This one had been chosen for its very full ruffled skirt to add volume to the outer layers. The outer slip then was smooth except near the longer hem where a bit of lace might be allowed to show.

At this point, Connie’s face screwed up in an expression that might cause one to presume she was undergoing some form of torture. But she said nothing, stoically bearing up under her unwanted feminization. If only she can maintain such fortitude through her coming ordeals, thought Genevieve.

She encouraged the girl. “You’re doing well, sweetheart,” she said.

Connie barely nodded, her eyes closed.

Her sister, Alex, chimed in. “You’re going to be so lovely, sis. You have such wondrous clear skin and an adorably sweet face.”

Connie winced. Genevieve hid her amusement. Alex’s cooing compliments were probably hard for the girl who had been raised to be a boy.

The maids had brought in a selection of Alex’s gowns, some of which could fit the new girl with little or no alteration. Miss Vivian surveyed the choices and inquired of Genevieve, “Which do you think, my lady? The turquoise, the rose-red, or the white?”

“Constance,” her stepmother inquired, “do you want to make a choice?”

Connie shook her head, making a moue of distaste.

“I think the white,” said Genevieve. “A girl’s first gown should emphasize her purity and innocence.”

Connie showed just a spark of spirit, and perhaps humor, by rolling her eyes at that and Genevieve chuckled. The girl was strong-minded; she would pull through this and learn to shine. It pleased her stepmother to think so.

*

Constantine was thinking about his brothers while they dressed him. Not his two younger half-brothers here in the house, Thomas and Augustus, but his brothers at Harrow. Back when he’d been a boy.

They’d all been sprigs together those first years—sprigs being the name for boys under the age of eleven. They were housed in the First School instead of at Harrow proper. At First School, they had got their letters, learned to do arithmetic, and had their first taste of Latin.

Sprigs slept four to a room, four rooms to a house, and the Master of the House had his own room, along with a larger chamber where they took meals and lessons. The boys from each room regarded their bunkmates as brothers, and these were the youngsters Connie thought of while his stepmother dressed him in skirts.

The year they turned eleven and moved to the main school, they each got their own rooms, but they remained sprig brothers, as the school saying went, close friends, watching each other’s backs.

Tother Arden was eldest, Christian name James, and he was the third son of a Duke. The first son was the heir, the second, the spare, and James was t’other. He would be expected to become a religious, or go into the military, or some such career out of the way of his brothers-by-birth.

Tother was stalwart and true, a leader among boys and perhaps in the future, among men. He was handsome, brown-haired, tall, sure and decisive. And if Latin sometimes seemed beyond his grasp, well, his fellow sprigs were there to help him out.

Tother had been the boy who had grasped Constantine’s hand when Lord Malvoir came to take him away. “You’ll be back,” Tother had said. “Harrow forever.”

Phillip ‘Fleece’ Shepherd was next eldest, the son of a baronet from up near the Scottish border. Not as tall as Tother, but broadly built and heavier with curly blond hair that was almost white. Fleece was as strong as many boys a year or two older, and no one wanted to have to fight him.

Fleece had Connie’s back in the battle that had led to the suspension. His other sprig brothers were there too, but it had been the threat of Fleece joining in that had kept the confrontation to one-on-one.

When Connie won that fight, proving he wasn’t a catamite, Fleece was the first to congratulate him. Never much for words, he’d simply squeezed Connie’s fingers hard enough to bruise.

He’d done that again on Connie’s last day after whispering in his fierce North Country brogue, “They say you’re really a lass, but I dinna believe it. And don’t you either.”

Edge Flynt was a few weeks Connie’s elder but shorter if not slighter. They were both addressed as earls, but Edge held his title in his own self, while Connie had been an earl by courtesy only. His hair was black, and some said his soul was too.

Edge, really Edgar, was the thinker, the planner, the one who connived how to get the brothers an extra ration of gingerbread at Christmas, the one who had several knives in his possession at all times, the one who knew which of the grooms in the stable had a sweetheart in the kitchens.

And it was Edge who had gotten a note to Connie on his last day at school with a map of the streets around Harrow and detailed instructions on how to get back into the school without getting caught, including who to bribe among the staff.

Connie’s role among his sprig brothers had been as the one who would attempt anything on a bet or a dare. Scale a wall, or leap from building to building over gaps of six feet or more, or hit the first bullseye during archery practice, Constantine was up for anything.

He’d excelled at academics, too, being the first in his class to get a perfect score on an end of term exam. The subject had been French, which for Connie was almost cheating since he had learned French from his family at the same time he learned English. Knowing French made learning Latin somehow easier, and when they had started on Greek, he had found that within his grasp, as well.

Along with Edge, he had the knack for easy retention of facts, so subjects like History, Geography and Astronomy weren’t as hard for him as some found them. He did well enough in Music and Maths, too, and he was a star on the cricket and football teams in his age group.

It was football, in fact, that had led to his downfall. The game had been an intramural match between teams made up of Years 7 and 8 students, twelve and thirteen years old. Connie had caught a lateral pass from one of his teammates and was tackled while making a downfield kick to set up Edge, who had maneuvered into scoring position.

The tackle had been marginally illegal, contact with the opposing player mostly having been from behind. But the Master refereeing the match did not see, and Connie went down, taking the opportunity in falling of sweeping the other boy’s legs out from under him.

“What’d you do that for?” the boy, Punch Farthinger, had complained after falling.

“Illegal tackle,” said Connie, figuring they were now even and no hard feelings.

Whereupon Punch had set up the necessary but unfortunate later fight by saying loud enough to be heard by the other players. “I thought you liked it from behind. You’re Arden’s catamite, ain’t you?” After shouting at each other and both being set down for unsportsmanlike conduct, they had agreed to the later meeting to settle things.

On the whole, Connie did not regret the fight itself—it had been satisfying to beat Punch in his long nose, but then the evil shite had not the grace to stop bleeding. He’d had to go to the physician. The story of the fight had all come out, and both boys had been sentenced to five strokes.

Headmaster Butler had passed the job to his Second because Connie was one of Butler’s own house boys, and the Head did not want anyone thinking he had gone easy on someone for such a relationship. The less experienced Second Master had landed a blow on Connie’s kidney, and in the aftermath of that, Connie had been suspended and sent home.

And now he was being asked by his stepmother if he preferred a white, rose, or aqua gown to wear to dinner. Connie rolled his eyes to express his disdain for the question, which only made his cruel stepmother smile.

*

The white gown had gone onto the girl and fit well enough with only an adjustment to the too-tight sleeves. Most girls did not have such muscles in their biceps as Constance possessed. The cuffs of the sleeves were sliced, and an invisible gusset sewn in almost as quickly as it could be described.

“Remember,” said Genevieve, “We will probably have to alter her other garments similarly.”

Alexandra sighed. The gown Connie wore had been one of Alex’s favorites, and it dismayed her to see how fine her sister looked in it. Despite her boyish build, Connie remained devastatingly slender, with an oval face and flawless skin—a blonde beauty like their own blood mother.

Alex, on the other hand, suffered from blemishes and believed her chin was too prominent and her forehead too wide. It’s not quite right that my brother turns into a prettier girl than me, she complained to herself.

But outwardly, she expressed encouragement and support. “She’s old enough to wear some jewelery. I’ll fetch some of my pieces. Oh! And we must do something about her scandalously short hair!”

She trotted next door to her room, savoring the glare Connie had given her on the way out. She loved her brother-turned-sister, but it irked her that Connie remained the bright star of the household by going from heir-to-the-title to belle-of-the-family.

Alexandra resolved to have a kind of revenge by making sure Connie presented as feminine a look as could be facilitated. Giggling, Alex selected some of her own prettiest jewels. A necklace of linked pieces of lapis lazuli had always shown off her blue eyes and would work as well for Connie. And a crystal bracelet of sparkling delicacy! Wouldn’t she hate that!

It would be a fine joke on the boy restored to girlhood to enhance her femininity before presentation to Father at dinner, Alex decided and picked out two more lovely pieces.