A Transgender Regency Romance - Constantine has been raised as a boy but her fortunes are about to change.

The news didn't make Constantine DesChambeaux happy, but one might not have been able to tell from his smile. "You have got to be joking," he said. His mood was not the best at any rate, not since two days ago, when the cramping in his lower intestine began--again.

The vicar squirmed with discomfort. The Reverend Doctor F. Miles Pillbody did not like to be accused of levity, which for a truth, was not in his nature. "I assure you, ...uh..." Panic bloomed in Dr. Pillbody's features before he settled on calling the person in front of him, "...my l-lord, that making a jest is the furthest thing from my mind." The breeches and cravat had decided him on what honorific to choose.

"No," said Lord Constantine. "My brothers put you up to this. The little shits." He tried to keep his voice from going shrill with anger, frustration, and fear. At fourteen, his voice had not yet deepened, and now this quack was telling him it never would. It could not be borne. 

"Now, Connie," his stepmother chided him, "your brothers had nothing to do with this. Don't blame them. Your father and I asked the doctor to investigate your recent--medical situation." His father merely nodded his agreement, but without looking at his eldest son.

"Don't call me Connie, Genevieve," Constantine complained. "It's a child's nickname, and I am the son and heir of a marquess, two-thirds of the way to my majority. It 's--belittling." And more, he felt it to be regrettable in light of the current discussion.

"You once were," said his father, still not looking at him.

At that moment, Dr. Pillbody chose to try to make his escape, sidling toward the door to the gardens. "If you will excuse me, my lord and --uh- ladies...."

Constantine glared at the unfortunate cleric, but turned his attention to his father. "You were saying, sir?" he inquired, trying to be respectful.

His father was still not looking at him, but spoke diffidently. "You were my son and heir--until you revealed your true nature by turning into a woman."

Constantine choked when he tried to speak, and another cramp struck his belly. "Father!" he managed. "You don't believe this...this quack, do you?"

The aforementioned Pillbody quietly closed the garden door behind him, having made good on his decampment.

Now the Marquess of Malvoir stared directly at Constantine, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "I've seen what's inside your coat, and the doctor has confirmed that you have begun your courses. You're bleeding from your...," the peer's face contorted with distaste, and he used a piece of mild slang from London men's clubs, "..bower."

The accusation overthrew Constantine's composure instantly. He broke from the confrontation, fleeing the smaller drawing-room, through the inner hall, and up the stairs, holding an arm in front of his face to conceal his tears.
*

"Nicely done, dear," the Lady Malvoir observed with blunt sarcasm.

The Marquess shrugged. "She's your problem, now, Genevieve. See that she doesn't come back downstairs until she is properly dressed as befits a young woman of her age and social standing." He sighed. "She's been in denial of her new status for a month. It can no longer be tolerated."

His wife inclined her head in dutiful acquiescence. "As you wish, Malvoir."

He frowned, trying not to wince. When she called him by his title while they were alone, he knew he was going to be sleeping in his own rooms that night. "And have one of the footmen find Thomas and August and send them to my office. If they've been mistreating their sister, I'll have them disciplined."

"You're already sending them off to school next month. Does your cruelty not have a limit, sir?"

Malvoir refused to engage his wife in verbal fisticuffs further, knowing himself out of her weight class. He trudged to his office on the other side of Debenham Manor, resigned to sleeping alone for that night, and perhaps for many following nights. The worst of the situation, he mused, was that Constantine--or Constance as they had determined to call her now--had always been the best of his children.

Inquisitive and studious, but proven to be a fine horsem--rider!--and a good shot, as well as excelling as a beginner in fencing. Dutiful and obedient, but also showing initiative and responsibility. Honest and honorable--damn it, the boy had been a paragon--until six months ago when he began growing breasts. And then last month, when his--her!--courses had begun.

He sighed. Allowances had to be made for the child. He would not punish her for denial or even refusal--yet. But he began to wonder if the solution would be to send her to her relatives in France. And perhaps, as his sister had suggested, place her in a nunnery until she learned how to be a young woman.

A twinge of empathy shivered him to his bones. Lord God, he couldn't do that to poor Constantine, could he? "Yes, Genevieve," he said aloud, drawing a curious glance from a footman carrying a bundle of faggots into his office, "my cruelty does have limits."

*

Constantine pushed into the room he'd been living in since the family came home from Town after Parliament adjourned in early July. A week later, he'd had his fourteenth birthday--old enough to be reckoned almost a man, if not for his troubles. He'd had his own room in their townhome, too, after his father had picked him up from Harrow. 

He hadn't been expelled from the prestigious school, exactly, but he had been suspended once the school officials had found out about his--anomalies. He'd been sent home under orders to find a way to satisfy the masters at Harrow that he was indeed male. The Headmaster, in particular, who was also Constantine's Master of House, had taken it hard to send the boy away. But he'd done it.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. None of the other boys had to prove they were male. And he wasn't the only boy at Harrow to have developed small breasts. "Argh," Constantine groaned. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that they were not so small as that. In fact, in the last two months, they had doubled in size, becoming like two small teacups glued to his chest. Keeping them wrapped tightly had lately become painful.

He ran his hand through his short honey-blond curls. At least he'd managed to get a haircut while in Town, before everything went to shit. And he'd saved his wardrobe from being destroyed. Well, not all of it. During the last month, nothing he put into the laundry came back, and the clothes he was now forced to wear on his slim body were increasingly rank and distasteful.

But he would not give in. He had an older sister, Alexandra. He would not go from being eldest son and heir to being youngest--daughter! His stepmother and her two brats were not going to cast him aside. He'd fight them. He'd....

Apparently, he would lie face up on his bed and moan while his belly cramped like he'd been kicked by a horse, and hot tears ran into his ears. "Damn," he said, trying the word out. It certainly was enough to make a man curse. Especially when he felt another hot flow, this one in his groin. He was going to have to change the cloth pad he wore in his drawers to keep his clothing from being ruined--again.

It just wasn't fair!

He stopped sobbing when he heard voices at his door: his stepmother, his sister, and Miss Vivian, his sister's governess. He had a sudden intimation of what was planned. Leaping off his bed, he seized a heavy wooden chair and pushed it toward the door, intending to lodge it under the handle and prevent the entry of his nemeses.

But he was too late, Genevieve, Alexandra, and Miss Vivian swept into the room along with another ally, gentle old Nurse Betty, who now had care of his brothers. "Get out! Get out!" he screamed at them. He hated that increased volume turned his voice shrill, and he hated them, all of them.

"Now, Connie," said Genevieve, "we're only here to help you."

He shook his head. "No, you're not! You're all part of the plot to make Thomas father's heir, instead of me!"

Startled by the accusation, Alexandra looked sideways at her stepmother. "Really, Genevieve?" she asked.

"Alex," he pleaded with his sister, "you should be on my side!"

Genevieve sighed. "It's a truth that Thomas will supplant you as heir, Constance. But it's also true that if you became Marquess, you would be unable to provide an heir for yourself and your family, in the way a man is supposed to. So Thomas, and his children, would be your heirs, if you take the long view."

"It's a lie! I am a man!" Constantine raged.

Genevieve motioned to her troops to surround him. "If you are a man, then you are a gentleman," she said. "And no gentleman would strike a woman, not even a stepmother, hmm? If you're a girl, of course, you are allowed to fight back. But there are four of us, and sad to say, we are all larger than you."

That was true. Even his sister was several inches taller and probably weighed a stone more than he did. "Don't twist logic with me! I order you all to leave my rooms! I'm the heir! You have to obey me!" But he failed to keep his voice from going shrill, again, and he knew he sounded like a petulant child. Or a girl.

"We have orders from your father to the contrary," said Genevieve. She stepped back for a moment and called into the hallway. "Bring in the bath, girls, and start fetching the hot water." She turned back to Constantine. "You'll feel better after you have a hot soak. Then you're going to dress appropriately and come to dinner."

Constantine retreated, but there really wasn't anywhere to go. He had said 'rooms' when he ordered them out, but in truth, it was only a single chamber with a wide cubby holding a mirror for dressing. A connecting door to another larger suite was locked. He was trapped, and what was more, the vicious cramping surged, sapping his energy and his will to resist.

Two girls ported a large brass tub through the door to place it in the corner. A third girl carried towels and a robe decorated with tiny pink roses. Roses.

Genevieve spoke. "Before you leave, girls, seize any pieces of masculine apparel or accessories you see and carry them out with you. Look in drawers and cupboards, too." The servants left, their arms loaded with the remainder of Constantine's clothing--his boots, his cravats, his beaver hat, his shaving kit (never used).

Tears ran down Constantine's face freely now, as he watched his male life disappear out the door. Alex gazed at him with sisterly affection and sympathy. Miss Vivian appeared apprehensive--taking sides with one family member against another might not be well for her own future. Nurse, who had tended Connie and Alex before she became Tom's and Gus's nurse, cried even more than he.

Genevieve's expression was all about resolve. She was a lovely woman-- dark where his own mother, Caroline, was bright and fair--but otherwise physically similar. Again, other than coloring, Alexandra and her stepmother could have passed for mother-daughter. Both were curvy and above average height, while he was slender. Would he develop to look more like his sister in only a year or two?

Until this crisis, he had always liked and respected his stepmother. After his mother had abandoned her family, Genevieve had stepped in within two years and taken the motherly role without effort or apparent regret. Then she had had babies of her own, and the form of the family seemed set. Until that fateful weekend in February, when circumstances had revealed the growths on his chest to the other boys at Harrow.

His face was still leaking, and his stomach cramping as he regarded his stepmother.

"Sit," she suddenly ordered him, patting the bed. He did so, startled into obeying. She pulled up a chair and sat facing him, motioning the others to find seats, too. 

Alex perched on the other side of the bed and reached across to touch him. She smiled, and his own smile wavered into existence before being snuffed out by his misery again. Nurse settled into the room's other chair, and Miss Vivian remained standing, helping the servant girls bringing in buckets of hot water by minding the door for them.

"No one is happy about the situation," Genevieve told him. "But if you struggle and physically resist us doing what needs to be done, one of us is likely to get hurt." He blinked owlishly at her (if owls had eyes full of tears). 

She continued. "You don't want to hurt any of us, do you, Connie?" she asked.

"Maybe you," he said. He looked at the others. "I surely don't want Alex or Nurse to be hurt. And Miss Vivian seems blameless." He turned back to her. "You're the only one who has something to gain here." 

"Well, you're wrong on that, too," his stepmother said, smiling again. "I do gain something, but are you aware that Nurse, along with your own mother, argued against your father's decision to raise you as a boy?" Nurse nodded, looking very sad. "And that is the fight that caused your mother to leave? If things had gone differently, I might not be here, and Caroline might have had sons of her own, given time.

"And you and Alexandra would always have been sisters." At that, Alex reached across to try to take his hand. He let her, and she gave it a small squeeze.

"Here," Genevieve leaned forward, turning her face slightly. "Go ahead and sock me in the jaw if you think it will make you feel better. Isn't that what boys do--get in fights and hit people?"

Constantine felt his lips tremble. He'd been in fights at Harrow--gotten and given his lumps and been whipped for fighting too. The school rules were strict. But he couldn't hit his stepmother. He just couldn't. Soon he was bawling, and she was holding him in her arms. "It's fine, Connie. We understand. Sometimes it is a terrible thing to be a woman, but it has its rewards, too. We'll teach you." She kissed his eyelids.

"Now," she cooed, after he seemed to have cried himself out. "Get undressed and into that tub. I guarantee you, the hot water will make you feel better. And after your bath, we can find you something to wear, so you can go downstairs to dinner with the rest of us."

He started to say something, but she stopped him. "Not just yet. Now is not the time for arguing. Now is the time to enjoy being rich enough to afford a hot bath, hmm?" She petted him on his cheeks and hair. "And remember, Connie, we do love you. All of us. Your sister, your father, Nurse, Miss Vivian, me, even your bratty little brothers." She grinned. "You'll see."

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

Debenham was in the middle of Suffolk County, a village really since Norman times, until one of Constantine's ancestors was granted an earldom and built his manor house there. The River Deben arose just outside the village, near the gentle rise where the manor stood.

The great house, Debenham Manor, stood three stories high, four in places, with a mostly above-ground basement and cellars dug into the rise behind it. It had eleven bedrooms for people of quality, including three suites suitable in case royalty came to call. Most of the ground floor was taken up by public rooms for entertaining and two sizable kitchens. The first and second floors above were mostly bedrooms, with the third floor, basement, and attic space for servants.

Stables, a chapel, a rectory, a gatehouse, a steward's house, and other outbuildings did not crowd around the larger building but were a convenient distance away. A little farther out were the barns and work buildings of the home farm that supplied meat, milk, vegetables, and grain to the household.

Dozens of miles away, in Kent, Malvoir Tower lay in ruins, the original holding of the DesChambeaux family. It's nearby rebuilt manor was not so grand as Debenham but pleasant. Currently, in use as a home for senior members of the family and semi-retired servants, Malvoir was seldom visited by the younger generations.

Far to the north, in Lanca'shire near the Scottish border, Freestark completed the family's significant holdings, a much smaller manor house, and another ruined tower. Currently leased out to Scottish relations, Freestark also served as a sometime hunting retreat.

A large townhouse in London served as residence for the Marquess and family when Parliament was in session, but life, as it was lived in 1817 for the DesChambeaux' took place in Debenham Manor.

*

They helped him undress with caring and regard for his feelings. But each item removed was whisked out of his sight, taken from the room by maids who were still carrying up buckets of hot water. The room became steamy, adding to the late September midday warmth. Constantine stripped slowly but continuously. If he dawdled, they simply moved in and began removing things without his help.

When he was down to his underclothes, he expressed his reluctance to continue with an audience. "Please leave, all of you," he said.

"No, dear," said his stepmother. "You've had your alone time, and now I'm afraid one of us will always be with you. For a while."

He gasped, offended. "But why?"

"For your safety," Genevieve said bluntly. "It is feared that in your distress and discomfort, you might do yourself an injury." She clapped her hands together lightly. "Now, off with those grimy underthings, you must have been wearing them for weeks. No shyness, child. We're all girls here, and even if you're built a bit different down there," she didn't name the place, "Nurse has seen you in your altogether, and so have your older sister and I."

She took a breath, making a face. "Miss Vivian is going to be your governess. She deserves to see what all the fuss has been about."

"M-my...." He couldn't say the word. "I don't need...."

"Yes, you do," Genevieve said firmly. "You especially. Miss Vivian has served in that capacity for your sister since Alexandra got out of grammar school, teaching her how to be a lady, and you are certainly going to be needing those lessons." She sniffed. "Good lord, how have you tolerated the smell?"

*

The maids had heard most of that, but then servants are like that. The good ones are invisible, and the poor ones can't be found. But both sorts hear and see everything. And if they don't, they make it up. The three carrying buckets of hot water up two flights of stairs were no different.

From experience, the servants knew how many buckets of hot water it would take to fill the bath, and each bucket had to be carried, two at a time, up two floors from the kitchen. It was onerous work, but there were no complaints from the maids.

They had employment, a place to live, clothes to wear, decent enough food to eat, and wages. Ten pounds a year for 'inbetweeners,' meaning they were assigned jobs anywhere in the household that they were needed, usually dirty and unpleasant tasks no one else wanted to do.

But unlike some other nobles, the Marquess gave even the lowest of his servants a half-day off each week. With a full day holiday once a quarter, it was almost like luxury. People who worked for the Malvoir household felt proud and superior to those who served lesser lords.

Still, servants will listen, and they will talk. The upper class train themselves not to pay close attention to the comings and goings of their servants. And the servants are trained by their own needs to regard the doings and sayings of their social betters as matters of great importance. On the whole, they were proud of their employers who were not only as good to them as the system allowed, they were also about the only source of entertainment available.

So the three maids, Molly, Peg, and Jane, tasked with filling the bath with hot water, heard and saw much more than any of the other five in the room realized or understood. The two upper servants, the governess and the nurse, were almost as unseeing of the lower staff as the nobility. But after hours and below stairs were the source of the best gossip.

And the maids talked among themselves. Perforce, they must speak when they were passing each other in the hallways because they could not linger at either end of the trip nor dawdle along the way.

"The poor boy," said Peg as she refilled her buckets.

"But is he?" asked Molly, setting out on her second trip.

The conversation continued when and as it could.

"I heard from that Dr. Pillbody's girl that they cut off his tallywhacker at that school," Molly told Jane as the younger, taller, stronger girl overtook her in the upper hallway.

"I don't think so; she's bleeding into her drawers like a proper girl," said Jane.

She amplified as they passed each other again. "Nurse says Connie was always a girl. Just the lord wanted a boy so badly when she was born."

"Hmph," said Peg. "He sure smells like a boy."

On their third trip each, none of them had much breath left for talking.

"Maybe we'll see it," gasped Molly.

"Which?" asked Peg.

"What Nurse says she has," a breath, "down there."

"Is it like what a boy has?"

Molly could only nod.

*

Constantine regarded his four captors without hope. He was as exhausted as the girls carrying the hot water into his room. Emotionally devastated, he offered no further resistance as Nurse and Miss Vivian cut his small-clothes off him with a pair of scissors. The garments were so soiled, it was considered they could not be saved, and neither of the noblewomen wanted to touch them.

"What have you got wrapped around your chest?" Genevieve asked when the two had removed his undershirt. She prodded the stiff cloth with a forefinger.

"It appears to be a panel of muslin, wound twice around and fastened with pins," said Miss Vivian. "You must have stuck yourself several times trying to secure it." She seemed equal parts amused and appalled.

Constantine only whimpered.

A careful snip with Nurse's scissors and the whole concealment unrolled. The small breasts revealed had been compressed and chafed until the area around them looked raw and red, where the edges of the muslin had almost cut into the flesh. And the smell intensified.

"Oh, Connie," said his sister, "what have you done to yourself?"

"This," said Genevieve, "is why we are taking drastic measures."

Another few snips and Constantine stood naked, his anomalies revealed. The construction of his parts between his legs had baffled the midwife when he was born and still presented a minor conundrum. Constantine squirmed, trying at the last to conceal his secrets, but it was too late.

Genevieve had seen before, a month ago when Dr. Pillbody had made his first exam. Nurse and Alex had also seen him naked when he was a baby and a small child. Only Miss Vivian had not confronted the evidence previously. She leaned close on direction from Genevieve.

"Take a look at the source of poor Constance's trials," said the stepmother. "It's not so strange or unusual as all that, I'm told. But enough to put her through twelve years in purgatory."

Nurse nodded. "She were two years old, the prettiest little thing, when it were decided that she must be a boy. Her mother had had a miscarriage, you see?"

What they all saw was something that looked like a tiny penis, hardly more than an inch or so long but three or more times larger than the clitoris of a normal girl. Scant blond pubic hairs, newly grown, concealed some of the other details.

"Can she pee out that thing?" asked Miss Vivian, crudely perhaps.

"No-oo," moaned Constantine.

"No," agreed Genevieve. "All the other openings and bits are just where they ought to have been. It's only that small, sad prop that supported the lie. Malvoir was an idiot to persuade himself to believe it. Anyone with a grain of sense can tell that she's a girl."

"No, I'm a boy," whimpered Constantine, and he would have collapsed if Nurse and Miss Vivian had not supported him.

"Who said you had a grain of sense?" Genevieve joked. "Let's get her into the tub and clean the stink off of her."

With help, Constantine staggered across the wooden floor to the tub where it sat on its enameled placemat. He raised his foot above his knee to step into the water. It was quite warm and entirely pleasant as he allowed himself to be lowered to a sitting position. The water was just on the edge of being too hot, amazing considering how far it had traveled. A mild groan escaped him because the cramp in his belly eased almost instantly as the warmth penetrated.

He looked up at Nurse, concerned. "But I'm bleeding," he said. "Won't the water get up inside me?"

"Tscha, child," said his old nanny. "Do you breathe in water when you duck your head under? It's not as easy as you think to get something up in there. And as for bleeding, there's not enough blood to matter, even if you have a heavy flow. No one has instructed you in these things, but Miss Vivian will set you straight." Nurse wet a cloth and used soap to scrub, starting with his hands.

"I'm going to work on her hair first," said Miss Vivian. Using a separate basin of hot water and several cloths, the governess first wet the erstwhile boy's head and neck all over, then worked into the hair chips shaved off one of the new-fangled shampoo bars. It had a pleasant odor, like lime and flowers.

As she worked, Miss Vivian spoke about Constantine's current condition. "What you see as blood, is really only bloody waste from inside you. It's the lining of your baby-bed cleansing itself. This will happen every month, perhaps until you are forty or even older. Well, every month unless you get pregnant."

"P-p-p—!" Constantine sputtered. "How could that happen?"

The ladies laughed.

"The usual way," Miss Vivian explained, "is that your husband sticks his cock into your cunny and plants his seed. If you are at the right time in your month, about a fortnight after your last period began, give or take three or four days, you will be fertile and may become pregnant."

Nurse added, "Then nine months later, you have a new baby. A miracle, some say."

"A great pain and bother, say some others," Genevieve put in, to general chuckles.

All of the explanations horrified Constantine. "I'm a boy! Boys don't have husbands or cunnies, and they don't get pregnant! They don't have b-b-babies."

"Perhaps we should just drown her," Miss Vivian remarked. And so saying, she got above Constantine's head and pushed down on his shoulders, causing the water to come up above his face and even the crown of his head. But only for a moment.

As the water cascaded off and the shampoo burned his eyes a bit, Constantine gasped and sputtered while the ladies laughed again. "Just joking, chick," Miss Vivian assured him. She kissed the top of his head then used a bit of the water from the basin to rinse his hair more thoroughly. After, she began cleaning his ears.

"Ow," he protested.

"Sorry," she said insincerely. "If you don't want me giving you baths, you will have to keep yourself clean."

"She's a tyrant," said Alex, giggling.

"I love you too," said the governess. "You're now my senior chick and must take your sister under your wing, you know. If her ears need scrubbing in the future, your behind may need warming."

"You said I was getting too big to paddle," the girl protested. "I'm sixteen!"

"Getting too big is not too big, yet," said Miss Vivian with a twinkle. "And I haven't paddled you since you were twelve, but we don't want to set a bad example for Constance here."

Alex leaned in to confide in Constantine. "Paddling hurts, you don't want Miss Vivian angry with you."

Constantine looked at his sister. "I'm not afraid of a paddling," he scoffed.

"She hits hard," said Alex.

Constantine amplified. "I was whipped at Harrow, twice for fighting, once for not keeping my room tidy, and twice more for falling behind in my studies. And I was beaten by the Boys' Court for talking back to a Senior boy. You have to stand there and let them hit you, or it will go twice as hard for you. Paddling with someone's hand or even a flat stick is nothing."

The women stopped moving or speaking, just staring at him.

Genevieve finally spoke. "You say whipped. Did they use a whip?"

He nodded. "It's called a pizzle. It's made from a bull's cock; it's stretched and dried and tanned till it's about three feet long and as big around as your finger. It hurts like the devil, but it won't cut your skin. Being whipped with the pizzle is called, ‘having a conversation,’ you see. Because it’s milder than really getting whipped.”

The room was silent except for a quiet sniffling. "You have to not cry out; it shows you're brave. Boys have to be brave." Constantine broke off a sob in the middle. "The last time I was whipped, in February, it was for fighting again. But I had to fight, the other boy called me a catamite and struck me first. If I hadn't fought, then a catamite was what I would be."

"What's a catamite?" asked Alexandra, her eyes as large as saucers.

"A sodomist's plaything," said Genevieve. "They whipped you in February?"

"Yes," said Constantine. "That's when it all went in the bottle. The Second Master, he did the whipping, and he misplaced a stroke. I got five, and one of them hit me in the kidney. I was pissing blood the next day, and when the physician examined me—I didn't want him to!—he found out. I'm—I'm not a complete boy."

Constantine's face screwed up painfully, and he burst into a heartbreaking wail with wracking sobs and tears. "I know I'm a girl. I've always known, I've always known. But I had to be a boy because that's what father wanted. He wanted me to be a boy, and he wouldn't love me if I were a girl."

"Malvoir, you son of a bitch," said his stepmother.

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.

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

Jewelery and slippers provided, Constantine glared at his image in the mirror. It was as if he had been decapitated and his head placed on some girl’s body.

“Whoever cut your hair should be flogged,” Genevieve remarked and Constantine smiled. He’d gotten that done while still in London Town before coming back to Debenham. “Does no one in the house have a suitable blond wig?” his stepmother complained.

“I have a wig,” said Miss Vivian. “Of course, it is brown.”

“And I have two black ones,” said Genevieve, “but they will never do.”

Constantine smirked, a minor victory in obstructing his emasculation but he’d take it.

“Uh,” said Alex. “I have a wig Mother left behind. It’s ginger blond instead of the honey color Connie and I have.”

“It will do, if it is presentable after twelve years,” Genevieve decided. “Fetch it, girl.”

Constantine glared at Alex’s back as his sister dashed next door to retrieve the wig from her trove of treasures their mother had left when she fled.

Genevieve smiled. “Such a pretty pout, Constance,” she observed. “Perhaps you should stamp one of your little feet to show us how displeased you are, hmm?”

Miss Vivian snorted in a failed attempt to suppress a laugh. Constantine’s mouth flew open but he said nothing, shifting his glare to his stepmother once his sister had disappeared.

Genevieve mocked him with a false moue of suffering and a lifted eyebrow. “I realize you think we are doing this to torment you, but it’s not true, sweetheart. You’re a girl and the sooner you get adjusted to that truth, the sooner you can go back to enjoying yourself.”

Constantine sighed. “I can’t imagine I’ll be allowed to do as I wish,” he said. “Are you going to let me ride my horse?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Genevieve. “Alex rides. We’ll have to have one of her old riding habits altered for you.”

He gestured with one hand. “I ride astride,” he said. A riding habit had a skirt.

“No, you don’t, not anymore. Women ride sidesaddle,” said Genevieve firmly. “You could do yourself an injury straddling a horse.” She and Miss Vivian exchanged quick glances. “It’s a wonder you hadn’t already.”

It was a firm belief among all classes that a girl riding astride risked breaking her hymen, thus removing evidence of her virginity. But Dr. Pillbody had assured the family, with the assistance of nurse, that Connie was still intact.

Constantine had no idea what they meant. Horseback riding had not been something he had ever gotten enough of. But women did not ride astride. Which meant that, riding sidesaddle, there were things they could not do, like take horses across rough country that would mean jumping over obstacles. He felt his heart sink.

Gallant, the gelding jumper he had been riding when at home for the last two years, already missed him, he was sure, for he had not been allowed to ride since his damn courses had started a month ago. And now…? Would Gallant even tolerate a sidesaddle? They were much harder on horses than conventional saddles.

Saddles made for men.

Constantine set his jaw. He would ride again, without skirts, without a sidesaddle.

*

Down in his office, the Marquess of Malvoir regarded his steward, Mr. Paul Atterbury, with some distaste. “I don’t give the devil’s arse-wind what you tell them,” he snapped.

“It’s only that they will ask, have asked, will continue to ask,” said the man. “They must be told something or they will make up their own stories. Lady Constance should not be the subject of rumor and gossip—but she will be. I have some influence over the narrative that is carried around, and through me, so do you. Sir.”

Malvoir winced. He surrounded himself with capable and competent servants and employees, many of them more intelligent than himself. Atterbury might well be the brightest of them all. Well, except for Genevieve whose intellect sometimes frightened him.

Mr. Atterbury continued. “We need to decide what we want them to know and what we want them to believe. You need to decide.”

“The truth?” Malvoir suggested.

“If the truth will serve our purposes, it were better to use it. But what is the truth and from whose viewpoint?” Atterbury shook his head. “Eventually, and perhaps sooner or later while she is still young enough to be made allowances for, she has to meet other members of the Quality. Because, in the future, she will need a husband.”

Malvoir blinked, admitting to himself that he had not been looking that far ahead. “What—what sort of man would want her? With her history?”

Atterbury looked at his employer sadly. “Not to be unkind, sir, but she is the daughter of a Marquess, one of the wealthier men in the country, too. She will have suitors. The task will be to find one who will treat with her well.”

Malvoir tapped his chin, thinking. “If she even wants a husband…” he mused.

*

Alex returned with the wig left behind by her vanished mother. It wasn’t so much a wig as a hairpiece that looked like a high, tight bun, and it had been made from Caroline’s own hair, which was a redder shade of blonde than either of her two daughters.

Still, when it was held in place with pins, it added volume to Constance’s short locks, and the different color was not immediately obvious. The effect was entirely pleasing, especially to Alexandra who secretly delighted to see the pretty pout looking into a mirror produced on her erstwhile brother’s face.

“You’re so lovely, sis,” she cooed, rubbing it in.

Connie glared, and when she thought no one else could see, she stuck her tongue out at Alex who uttered a delighted peal of laughter.

But Genevieve had seen the interchange. She said nothing, though. The sisters would have to work out a way to tolerate one another. And she had an idea of how to hurry that along. “Alexandra,” she said, “while Miss Vivian and I see to Constance’s clothing and instructions, I have another task for you.”

“Yes, Mamá?” said the older girl eagerly.

Neither of her stepchildren regularly called Genevieve, Mamá, and never called her Mother. They both preferred her Christian name., usually. Alex appeared to be signaling her willingness to “suck up”, Genevieve reflected.

“You and your sister will be sharing the Rose Suite from now until your coming out in the spring, at least. You’ll also share a ladies’ maid. The three of us,” she indicated herself, Alexandra and Miss V, “will consider who will be advanced to the position. With two daughters in the house, I’m not going to share my maid any longer.”

Alex beamed, and Constance tried to deepen her pout into a scowl. Genevieve looked away from her youngest stepdaughter to avoid showing her amusement. The girl had no idea what such a dark expression did to her angelic features. Instead of angry, she looked heartbroken. In the future, men would find her countenance devastatingly appealing, and would probably break limbs trying to make her smile.

Continuing, Genevieve expanded on her plan. “I’ll have instructions for the maids, and for the carpenter; you’ll want two dressing rooms, perhaps two boudoirs, but you can share the big bedroom as my sister and I did when we were your ages.”

Connie’s mouth fell open and Alex snapped hers shut. The girls looked at each other, not quite glaring.

This will work, thought their stepmother. They’ll become each other’s dearest friend—if I have to bind them together hand and foot.

*

“It hain’t true,” Fleece insisted. He shook his wide head and its wooly curls.

Tother nodded his own head. “I’ve asked two masters and the chaplain and when I was home, my own father. The story is all over Town and probably the whole of Society. It is true.” He looked as if sharing this news made him tired.

The boys had recently started the new term at Harrow, after their August holiday with their families. They ought to have been rested but the tale of Constantine had snowballed in the six months since their sprig brother had been sent down.

Edge spoke up. “Yes, it’s true. That Connie is a girl, always was a girl? I had seen him, her before he, she was rusticated.” Rusticated meant to be sent home from school midterm.

Tother looked appalled. “You saw her?” Fleece scowled in confusion.

“Through the dean’s window,” Edge explained. “When the Physician examined her, back in February.” Edge was well-known for lurking and finding out things he shouldn’t have been able to know. Even an upper floor window was not secure from his eyes.

Not sure what to think about such eyewitness testimony, Tother protested, “And you said nothing to anyone at the time?”

Edge’s look turned stubborn. “It wasn’t anyone’s business until it became everyone’s. I put it under our brothers’ pact.” Meaning a sort of Official Secrets Act among sprig brothers: members secrets were to be shared only on a need to know basis. After a moment’s thought, Edge added, “Even if Connie is really our sister, she counts as a brother. We took an oath.”

Tother nodded his acceptance of that logic. “We said brothers forever when we took our blood oaths. And we ain’t liars.” When they were all eight, they had cut their fingers and smeared the blood on a chip of wood that had then been tossed into the little stream that ran through Harrow, and so down to the Thames and to the eternal sea.

“Connie is a lassie?” Fleece asked, having finally worked through the logic and testimony to tentative acceptance. He didn’t like it but as his old Gamfer would have said, “Ne’er try to out stubborn a stane bigger’n yer head.”

The other two nodded.

“Nae one will t’marry her, syne she were a lad,” the northern boy pronounced after consideration. He could speak like anyone else in school, though with a slight burr and more viable ‘r’s; it had been beaten into him with other lessons. But with his brothers, he preferred to speak in his home dialect. Not that he didn’t get accused by the others of making some of it up.

The three looked at each other.

“One of us will have to do it,” Tother decided. “Marry Connie, I mean.” He was the one who made decisions when there was no obvious consensus.

Edge examined his finger tips then looked up. “Do we draw straws or let her decide?”

*

Constantine looked in the mirror and saw a boy dressed in girl’s clothes looking back at him. A faux girl who moved when he did, who resembled his sister and his mother, but who he knew must be himself in a poor disguise. He sighed. It still seemed unreal.

He wore the white gown that had been decided on. It had a neckline low enough to hint at a bosom being in there somewhere, supported by invisible stays. Puff sleeves helped conceal the muscles in his upper arms from playing sport. Lucky perhaps that he had attended Harrow and not one of the schools where he might have been on crew and developed his forearms to an unsightly degree.

Not that cricket, football, horse riding, boxing, squash and fencing had left him weak anywhere. He had been proud of his development and accomplishments. He’d been one of the bigger, stronger boys in his year all through his career at Harrow and he had delighted in being so.

Now, that muscle would be a liability for the girl everyone wanted him to be. He put his hands behind his back to conceal his wrists and forearms, then observed the effect in the mirror. While the clothes made him look more like a girl, in the eyes and the set of his chin, he still saw his boy self.

“Why did you do that Connie?” his stepmother asked. “Why did you put your hands behind your back?”

He looked at her. “My wrists are half again as big as Alex’s,” he said.

“They are not!” Genevieve sounded exasperated. She put her own arms out for comparison. “See? My wrists and forearms are bigger than yours. I grew up on the manor farm of my grandfather in Hampshire. I rode horses and pitched hay with the boys, too. I used to wrestle them.”

She suddenly colored a bit and stifled a laugh. “Well, I don’t have to tell you everything. But the point is, you’re a little different from other girls, Connie. But that’s fine. We’re all a bit strange in our own ways. Don’t try to hide who you are and just be the best you, you can.”

Constantine took a deep breath and looked at the mirror again. He still thought he looked ridiculous.

“You’re quite pretty,” his sister said. “I’m actually a bit jealous of your skin, in particular.”

“You do have lovely skin,” agreed Genevieve. “Your complexion is healthy without being too highly colored. What do you think, Miss Vivian?”

Miss V appeared to consider the question. “Lovely skin,” she agreed. “But I think your best feature, Connie, is your mouth. You have a beautiful smile and your lips make a perfectly plump cupid’s bow.”

Constantine closed his eyes. He had not wanted to hear that about his mouth. He’d actually been teased at Harrow about his girlie lips, though it had only been teasing, and nothing quite serious until the blowup with Punch Farthinger. He wished there was someone present he could punch in the nose.

He opened his eyes and despaired at his reflection again. He was neither, nor—but something in-between. It wouldn’t do. “If Father wants me to be a girl now….” His voice faltered.

“He does,” Genevieve assured him.

Again, tears leaked down his face. “Do you think he will believe me to be…pretty?” Connie ended on am embarrassing squeak.

“Do you want to be pretty?” Genevieve asked, perhaps sensing a wavering in his resolve.

Connie regretted having asked and certainly did not want to answer. But duty to his elders compelled him. “If it pleases Father—I’ll try,” he said in a very small voice.

Genevieve clapped her hands. “Brava,” she said, nodding at the other women. Miss Vivian, Alexandra and even the maids who were in the room clapped for him.

If he could have died right then, he would have happily marched off to Hell, arm-in-arm with the Devil.

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

After Connie’s tears were dealt with, including being offered a large cup of cool water, a new phase of her education began. Genevieve moved herself, Connie, Alexandra, Miss Vivian and Nurse Betty to one of the upstairs drawing rooms and had a small luncheon set up for practice.

The room had excellent light with wide windows overlooking one of the numerous small gardens tucked into the angles of the building. A balconette of sorts protruded from two of the windows which in the fashion of the south of France, also served as doors. With both doors fully open, the room itself partook of the openness of the air.

Outside, it was that sort of fall day which England is not famed for but should be. The sky was blue and fluffy clouds decorated it the way a proud homeowner displays their household treasures in the finest room in the house. The larger garden on this, the southeast corner of the manor, stretched away to where a small herd of mild-mannered sheep decorated a parkland in much the same way that the clouds accomplished for the sky.

Inside the room, the walls alternated panels of light wood with linen wallpaper in a lemony hue, figured with tiny leaflets and minuscule fruit. Upholstered chairs surrounded the luncheon table which had a good assortment of cold meats and cheeses, breads and fruit and decanters of lemonade and cool water. A pot of tea brewed over a brazier on a side table.

Two maids stood ready to serve or fetch any item that might have been forgotten. It wasn’t a close imitation of a formal family dinner such as was planned for the dining hall downstairs in the evening, but it would serve nicely to begin Connie’s instruction in how to eat like a proper young lady.

Genevieve certainly knew there wasn’t time to instruct Connie in everything she needed to know about how to be a lady at the dinner table. But she had to try to give the girl the basics. Still, it was easier to tell her what not to do.

“Don’t sprawl,” she said, sitting at the head of the table where the Marquess would sit at dinner. “Keep your elbows close to your side, and one hand in your lap unless you are passing a dish that requires two hands, or you are cutting up your meat.”

She paused a moment for thought. “In fact, I think we’ll have your meat cut up in the kitchen before being served, at least until you can get more practice.”

Connie sent her stepmother a brief glare but did not protest this arrangement. She already sat in the front half of her chair, feet together under the table, hands folded in her lap. She gave the impression of being intent on learning what she must but that didn’t mean she would sit meekly at all times. She pouted, convinced, perhaps, that she was scowling.

Genevieve was unperturbed by the girl’s expression. “Can’t have you sawing away like a carpenter at the dinner table, can we?” she observed. “We’ll have more lessons, perhaps everyday until you’re picture perfect. Don’t take it too hard, dear,” she added, unable to keep a smile out of her own voice.

Miss Vivian, sitting on one side of the erstwhile boy, joined in. “You mustn’t reach for things; your elbows never need to be above the edge of the table. If you need something you cannot reach without extending your arm, ask the person nearest it, or a servant, to pass or fetch the item.”

Alexandra, sitting on Connie’s other side, was not going to be left out of instructing her sister. “It’s important not to interrupt the grown-up conversation; I always have trouble with that.” She giggled. “But watch me when you can, and if you doubt what would be the right thing to do, I’ll be sitting beside you—just ask.”

“And I’ll be on your other side,” agreed Miss V. “It’s not going to be as difficult as it may seem. After all,” she said with a bit of humor in her eyes, “if Alex can do it, so can you.”

Alex pretended to mild outrage. “Hmph,” she said and was pleased to see the tiniest of smiles on her sister’s face. Her eyes were so pretty when she smiled. “But it is hours still to dinner and Mama has said that we will be sharing the Rose Suite. After our luncheon, would you like to come and see it?”

Connie’s nod was almost imperceptible but she also spoke. “I would like to see the room. With you, Alex.” Her smile grew a bit. “I shared a room for the first years at Harrow, with three of the other boys. Um.” She seemed to stop to consider what she had said but then plunged on. “But you have had a room to yourself now for a long time?”

Alex agreed. “Oh, for ages, sometimes it feels lonely. But then, we did share a room before Father sent you off to school. We were small but I remember it. I cried horribly for days when they took you away. Didn’t I, Nurse?” she asked Nurse Betty who was sitting across the table as stand-in for everyone else who would be at dinner.

“Aye, you did, chick, and it wasn’t for days, it was for weeks.” Something like a shadow passed over Nurse’s expression. She looked at Connie. “I could hardly console either of ye, loves, for my heart was breaking, too.” Tears welled up in the older woman’s eyes. “It were like…like to when my own babes died when I were young.”

Everyone at the table looked at Nurse. “I never thought I’d see you again, my wee Bonnie.” She sniffed. “That’s what I called you when it were just you and I—Bonnie, not Connie—because you were the loveliest child. As pretty as your sister,” she nodded toward Alex, “and better-natured.” She smiled. “Always willing to give your nurse a toofy baby-grin…”

Everyone laughed except Nurse and Connie who stared at each other with matching tear tracks on their cheeks.

*

Astonished, Constantine realized he did remember Nurse Betty from when he was quite small. She’d been the one who held him and played with him and his sister. She made faces and funny noises and got down in the floor and nuzzled his tummy with her chin. He smiled though tears.

His sister reached out to put an arm around his middle, pulling him against her. Their gowns rustled together and she linked her other hand with his. “Nursie loves us as no one else does,” whispered Alex, and Connie felt forced to nod in agreement.

The two Deschambeaux children got up from the table and walked around to their old nurse, pulling the woman up and into an embrace, all of them smiling and shedding tears. “I never wanted nothing but that ye be kind to one another,” said Nurse Betty, wiping her tears away with the end of her apron.

“We know,” said Alex, and Connie nodded his agreement, sure that if he tried to speak his voice would come out in the piping tones he had spoken in when sent away from home as a four-year-old.

Alex had been six then, he remembered, and she had railed at their father that if anyone was to be sent away it should be her, because she was disobedient to Nurse and mean to her dollies. Then Alex had fallen asleep after sipping from a cup of milk Mama Genevieve had given her.

In the present, he stared at his stepmother, wondering what had been in that cup. Ten years ago, Genevieve had been the newest member of the family and probably pregnant with Thomas, her own eldest child. But it appeared she had co-operated then with Malvoir’s plan for Connie.

At the time, he’d felt betrayed by his sister’s abandonment. But Father had taken him aside and told him that he must be brave because he was a boy, and that it was his duty to go off to school and eventually learn to be a man. That Nursie and Alex loved him, but were holding him back, and that Father was sending him away to keep him from being weakened by them.

And he’d dried his childish tears, put back his shoulders and marched out with his father to be taken away in a coach with the old groom, Bobbitch, for a traveling companion. The trip had not been long, they left from the London house in the middle of Spring, the term at First School starting in May but he hadn’t know that at the time.

His memories were very confused after that but eventually he had met his sprig brothers at First School…. They had all started as tender boys, four and five years old, Connie the youngest. They had missed their mothers and nurses and cried in each others’ arms, though the House Fathers and resident maids had tried to comfort them.

His memories were bittersweet but precious, he realized. But he was out of tears now, and desperately thirsty again.

*

Nurse hugged and caressed Alex and Connie. “I’ll always be your Nursie, and ye’ll always be my wee ones. But I have to tend to my other charges now, your brothers. I’ll be losing them in the next year, too. They’ll be sent away to school next fall.” She hiccoughed.

“They don’t love you like we do,” Alex protested, nuzzling against Nurse’s shoulder. She was taller than Nurse now and it seemed strange to both of them. Connie was barely shorter. “Thomas and Little Gus don’t deserve you,” Alex told Nurse.

“Well, they are boys,” said Nurse. “And boys have to protect their hearts from being wounded by love. Us girls,” and she pointedly included Connie in a glance, “have much stronger hearts. We must because we have to care even for those that are hard to love.” She whispered then, smiling, “Like your father.”

The sisters said goodbye to Nurse—though they would see her later the same day and nearly everyday—the parting felt more significant than most. They clung to each other, Connie in her white gown and Alex in her yellow, arms around each other’s waist.

“Don’t they make a pair,” commented Miss Vivian to Genevieve as they all left the luncheon table. “So alike and yet so different.”

“I daresay,” agreed the girls’ stepmother. “Let us hope they can become more alike in the future.”

“Very true,” said Miss V. “It wouldn’t hurt Alex any if she learned some of Connie’s study habits. Getting more similar to each other need not be all one direction.” She chuckled and Genevieve smiled.

*

“May we go look at the Rose Suite, Mama?” asked Alex, still holding her sister’s hand. She looked visibly excited by the idea but Connie appeared to be more resigned to her fate.

“Certainly, dears,” Genevieve told her. “You may want to choose who gets which side of the bed and such. I’ll have the carpenters in there tomorrow to make alterations, but there’s no reason you can’t sleep there tonight if you wish.”

Both sisters attitudes changed once out of sight of the adults. Beaming, Alex grabbed Connie’s hand and started off, babbling. “You’re glad to get out of there, I bet, and so am I! Mama is so bossy, and Miss V is a know-it-all!”

Connie nodded agreement. “I think they were going to spray me with perfume next,” she complained. “Thanks for coming up with a reason for us to leave.”

Alex laughed. She seemed unreasonably happy to be going from having a room of her own to sharing a suite with her sister, who she towed behind her down the hallway, saying, “You haven’t seen this suite, it’s an amazing amount of room! With a beautiful view and lovely furniture, too.”

Connie rolled her eyes and quickened her step to keep up. “Slow down, Lexie, I’m going to trip in these skirts,” she complained.

Alex did slow down, looking back at Connie. “No one else calls me Lexie,” she noted. “I haven’t been called that since we were babies.”

“Bossy-boots!” said Connie with half a smile.

“Booger-lips!” Alex retorted with a grin.

“Honey-butt!”

Alex laughed, but admitted, “I never understood that one.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Connie. “It was because you were so sweet, you had Father convinced that honey came out of your butt.”

“Oh,” said the older girl. “Still, it doesn’t exactly sound like an insult….”

“I meant it as one.”

Alex grinned. ”When you were really small, I called you Doggie-bottom cause you would sit and pull yourself along with your hands like a puppy trying to clean itself on the rug. Now that’s an insult!”

“Yuck!” said Connie. “I don’t remember that!”

“It was before you learned to walk,” Alex explained. She laughed and Connie managed a strangled-sounding noise that might have been made by a boy trying not to giggle.

They paused in front of the door to the Rose Suite. “I’m glad you’re home and back to being you,” Alex told her sister.

“Me!?” Connie looked down at her gown and slippers. “I don’t think this is me.” She sighed. “I don’t really feel like I’m a girl.”

“You will,” Alex assured her. “You know you are, and the feeling will come.” She pulled the oaken door open. “You look amazing and I’m jealous, you know.”

“I—what?” Connie appeared flabbergasted.

Alex went through the door, calling her sister to follow. “Come on in, these are our rooms now.” Connie followed more timidly.

First was a private drawing room, smaller than the one in which they’d had luncheon but still spacious. A high dormer window that must open above on the third floor gave light, with another window at one end and a fireplace at the other. There were three doors and Alex opened the middle one.

“This is our bedroom,” she said, dragging the younger girl inside. A huge four-poster canopied bed sat in the middle of the room and two large windows gave lots of light. Rose-colored linen covered the walls except where blond wood shelving held books, vases, a chess set, a lute, a miniature harp, and other lovely things.

There were four doors and another fireplace, this one decorated with a frieze of cherubs and woodland animals carved in cloudy pink crystal. The andirons were in the shape of fanciful stoats, or possibly, elongated cats. The fire tools were polished brass and adorned with kittens and puppies.

The bed was covered in a fuzzy-loooking pink duvet, with massive pillows in yellow and pale green striped fabric. The canopy was maroon with a dark rose fringe and the posts were carved to look like slender tree trunks with climbing sweetpea vines.

There were tables, a settee and two brocaded chairs scattered around. Four massive trunks were under the bed and two slightly smaller but brightly painted ones sat at the end nearest the door. There were steps built into the side of the bed on each side, since the sleeping platform was almost shoulder height off the floor.

Lamps and candlesticks sat on various surfaces, though none of them were currently lit. All of them were gracefully decorative and richly crafted of silver, brass or pewter.

“This room alone is bigger than both our bedrooms put together. And it’s beautiful,” gushed Alex. “Don’t you think so, Connie?”

Connie stared at her. “It’s pretty,” she admitted after a pause.

It seemed obviously designed for feminine occupants, a fact Connie could hardly fail to notice.

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

“Do you want the left or the right side,” Alex asked her sister, standing at the end of the enormous bed, gesturing.

“You’re senior,” said Connie. “You should get first choice. What are in these side rooms?” She went to one of the doors and opened it.

Alex rushed to her side, and they explored it together, the room was larger than Connie’s private room at Harrow had been but similarly furnished with a narrow bed, a table and a set of shelves rather than a proper chest of drawers.

“Maid’s room,” concluded Alex.

“We’re going to have our own maid?” Connie asked. At Harrow, as many as eight boys shared a single servant whose charge was laundry, linens and leathers, in the jargon of the school. The boys kept their own spaces clean and even did their own sewing of minor repairs.

“Yes, we’ll share one for now,” said Alex. “But when we move to London in the spring, and I turn seventeen in March, we’ll have to each have our own, because mine will be so busy with my come-out.” She suppressed a giggle.

“Damn,” said Connie, startling her sister. “Is she going to sleep right here, practically in the room with us?”

“Oh, no,” said Alex. “Mama Genevieve is going to have the carpenters alter this space, so there are two boudoirs and two dressing rooms. I guess the maid will have to sleep somewhere else?”

“Do we—are you—” Connie seemed to shake off some of the questions she wanted to ask. “What’s a boudoir, anyway?”

Alex took her to one of the other doors and opened it. “A boudoir is a lady’s private parlor,” she said. And the room did fit that description with a small couch, two chairs, two tables, and the sort of serving cabinet used for storing items one might need when entertaining a guest. A bay window stretched the room and provided a view in three directions.

One door in the boudoir led back to the outer drawing-room, and another door opened into what Alex assured Connie was a dressing room, essentially a large walk-in closet with a dressing table, mirrors, skylights, and plentiful lamps and candlesticks. A second door in the dressing room led back to the bedroom.

“When the workmen finish, we’ll each have our own boudoir and dressing room,” Alex was saying as they re-entered.

“What’s this last door?” Connie asked, crossing the room with as strides as long as her petticoats would allow. She opened the room and gasped. “It’s full of books!” she almost squealed.

“Oh,” said Alex. “This was Genevieve’s sister’s room before she and her husband moved to Kent. This must have been Uncle Gregory’s library, see the other door?” She pointed, “That connects with the Stag Suite, his rooms, I’m sure.” She looked around, “I think Aunt Emmaline used her end as a writing room.”

“I love it!” said Connie. “I want this instead of a boudoir!”

“Uh—” Alex didn’t know quite what to say, but before she could try to put a damper on the idea, Miss Vivian called from the door to the parlor, “Girls? Genevieve wants you both in the little parlor downstairs to get ready to go to dinner.”

*

“We’re going to initiate you into one of the feminine mysteries,” Genevieve told Connie in a jocular tone. They had paused on the way to dinner, and her stepmother pulled the girl into an empty room where Miss Vivian had laid out some items on a table. Alexandra followed since the sisters had been holding hands.

“You want to be pretty for your father?” the governess asked Connie.

“Oh, she does,” Alex assured Miss V.

Connie winced but nodded. “I want Father to like me,” she said, sounding meek and younger than her fourteen years.

“Then we’re going to show you how to cheat a little,” said Genevieve. “You’re not really old enough for cosmetics, truly, and a family dinner is not the place to wear them, but you’ve been crying and do need a bit of help.”

They worked swiftly, a bit of powder to reduce her high color, then a bit of blush to restore the contours of her cheeks. “The trick is,” Genevieve was saying, “to make it look as if you are not wearing makeup at all.” A tiny dab of darkness on the inner fold of her eyelid. A bit of red pomade on her lips, applied, removed, applied again, and removed again so that only a hint of pink remained.

They showed her the mirror, and she gasped. For the first time, she did not see a boy’s head on her shoulders. “I am pretty,” she said wonderingly.

“Told you so,” giggled Alex.

“More than that,” Genevieve assured her. “You have your birth mother’s capacity for beauty. For a woman, it’s every bit as powerful as physical strength is for a man.”

Connie looked at her sideways. “Would it do me any good if I needed to bloody someone’s nose?” She was thinking of the prominent beak that had earned Felix Farthinger at Harrow the nickname Punch, and the satisfaction she had felt as her fist had connected with it.

Miss V and Genevieve both laughed. “Oh, girl,” Genevieve said, shaking her head, “you have no idea what you can do with such power.”

Alex laughed too, then headed on down the hall, at the urging of Miss V. “We’ll tell Father that you will be right behind us,” she said.

“Correct,” said Genevieve. “Thank you, Alex.” Then to Connie, “We’ll give her time to make that announcement, then you can make an entrance. For a woman, those are valuable, too.”

Connie nodded. She’d seen Genevieve manipulate the timing of her entrances before, and that was beginning to make sense to her. Her stomach clenched at the thought that everyone would be looking at her. “I’m going to throw up!” she warned her stepmother. But then, her nausea went away just as suddenly. “No, no, I’m not,” she sighed.

“Good girl,” said Genevieve, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

*

Dining at Debenham Manor was a formal occasion, most days. If there were few guests or none, thereby not requiring use of the great hall, the Marquess sat at one end of a long table in the smaller dining hall, with his wife on his left side and his heir on his right, if appropriate. Children under twelve were not seated at table unless it was only family.

Who counted as family, however, was flexible. For most occasions, Mr. Paul Atterbury, the estate steward, counted as family, and so too did his wife, Arlette. Unlike on many estates, the steward did not have his own residence but lived instead in a corner of the big manor house where his office and Malvoir’s were adjoining rooms.

Paul was a dark, slender man with an air of precision and competence about him. Malvoir trusted him as he would a brother, and Paul knew all the family secrets. Arlette was a blonde counterpart to Paul and acted as social secretary for Genevieve and the manor itself.

Gustavus was Malvoir’s cousin once removed, and counted as family, of course. A few years the Marquess’s junior, Big Gus Woolstone had served as a cavalry captain and been wounded in the Peninsular wars. For six years now, he had been living at Debenham while he recovered the use of his limbs. He still walked with two canes, and had lost four inches of height, but could again ride to the hunt which had become his chief pleasure in life.

Big Gus’s mother, Adelaide, had been from Hanover and a third cousin to the king, making Gus fourth cousin to the Prince of Wales. This odd, useless fact tickled Gus, and he frequently referred to the Prince Regent as Cuz or Cousin George. As in, “Cuz has really stepped in it this time,” or “Liverpool isn’t going to put up with Cousin George’s antics forever,” Liverpool being the long-serving Prime Minister and reluctant facilitator of the Prince’s profligate lifestyle.

Tilda, Gus’s aunt, also resided at Debenham, having been the big man’s nurse during the early years of his recovery. Now she served as Genevieve’s sometime companion and Alexandra’s tutor in piano, harpsichord, German, and watercolor. Technically no relation to the DeChambeaux at all, she still counted as family because of her connection to Gus through his mother.

All of these people were well apprised of Connie’s situation and had various levels of interest in seeing her attend dinner with the family for the first time dressed as a daughter. Most of them had a benevolent attitude toward the girl and wished her well.

Tilda, in particular, looked forward to engaging with a new pupil, Alexandra’s talents and dedication to art and music being less than ideal, to say nothing of her positive distaste for German.

Gus, many years before, had taught Constantine how to ride and jump a horse over obstacles. That the boy he’d instructed was now a girl, and in truth had always been a girl, bemused him. He wasn’t sure what to think about it. He had the germ of a thought about the girl, but development of that idea would rest on too many other things to spend any time planning, yet.

The two young boys, Thomas and Augustus, or Tom and Little Gus, Connie’s half brothers, would be attending this dinner too. Usually relegated to the children’s dining room, they would be seated at the high end of the table with Tom directly on the lord’s right and Little Gus next. Like little boys everywhere, they considered it part of their duty to annoy both of their sisters whenever possible.

Thomas, in fact, would likely be recognized as the heir at this dinner and perhaps addressed as Lord Debenham, the courtesy title than had belonged to Constantine.

Across the table, Alexandra would be seated next to her mother, then Connie, then Miss V, whose position as governess meant she counted as both family and servant.

Miss Vivian DuSangplein was also a cousin, of varying degrees, of the Marquess and, oddly, of both of his wives. Being of gentle birth, but as the dowry-less fifth daughter of a less than rich family, she had taken employment as governess of the Deschambeaux daughters. With the addition of Constance to her charges, she was satisfied that she still had years of responsibility ahead.

*

Most of these people were already seated when Alex came into the room, followed by her governess, Miss V. “Connie will be right in,” she assured her father, stopping by his seat at the head of the table. “Mama Genevieve is giving some special attention to her appearance.”

Malvoir did not look entirely happy with this. “Bring us tea and bread while we wait,” he told Davis, the chief footman.

“Milord,” agreed that worthy. The items required were already at hand and were soon served, along with dishes of butter and savory pickled meats.

Debenham was a grand manor, so the smaller dining hall easily had places for fourteen without crowding or bringing in extra chairs or additional tables. Eleven was no squeeze at all, the extra chairs were removed, and the diners spread out a bit more than usual.

A cozy room on a cool September evening, it contained two fireplaces, both of which burned only hardwoods and charcoal for better atmosphere. The fireplace at the parlor end was solely for warmth, while the larger one at the kitchen end had hooks and shelves for hanging foodstuffs that needed to be kept warm.

A butler’s hole next to the kitchen door, away from the fire, on the other hand, held items like wine, fruit, ale, butter and cheese that were better kept cool before serving. Alistair, the butler, chief of the house servants, customarily stood in front of this trove and presided over every dinner and any other meal of consequence.

Kitchen maids fetched the courses, placing them on buffet tables along the walls while footmen did the actual serving at table.

Alex took her seat on the left side of the table, leaving space between her father and herself for Genevieve on one side while Miss V took a chair farther down, leaving a place for Connie between her and Alex. Tilda already had the end spot on that side.

On the right-hand side, moving around the table, Thomas sat in the seat reserved for the heir, next to his father. Connie had formerly occupied that chair, and Thomas looked utterly pleased with himself to have taken it over.

Next to him sat Big Gus, mostly to keep the boys because Little Gus sat in the next seat. The steward and his wife took the last two places at the table, filling the right-hand side.

Only Genevieve and Constance were missing as Malvoir chose a piece of bread and raised his knife to butter it.

*

“Follow five steps behind me,” Genevieve told Constantine when they paused outside the dining-room door. “That way, everyone can get a good look at you without you being in my shadow.”

Connie, feeling like a boy in a costume again, nodded. He tried to glance back at the mirror for another view of himself as Constance, but the angle was wrong. Sighing, he stepped forward after Genevieve had proceeded through the door held open by a footman because the two rooms had different floor levels.

They entered from the parlor end of the dining room, at the foot of the table as it were, stepping down from the higher floor of the parlor two steps to the dining room level. Genevieve went first, and Connie paused at the top of the two steps to let his stepmother get five steps in front.

He started down, realizing as he did so that he could not see his feet. The footman presented a stiff forearm as he had for Genevieve. Constantine, feeling like a pure fool, placed one hand lightly on the footman’s arm for balance and lifted his skirts with the other hand so he could see where he was putting his feet.

Then it was just a matter of following his stepmother to find his seat between Alex and Miss V. And trying hard not to giggle when he noticed his father, the Marquess of Malvoir, staring at him while absent-mindedly buttering the back of his hand.

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

Connie had been hoping her father would end up licking the butter off the back of his hand, but the attentive head footman had already made a napkin available for the purpose.

The adults at the table, with the possible exception of Big Gus, pretended nothing had happened, but all four children were struggling not to laugh.

Ten-year-old Thomas, catching Connie's eye, smirked and winked. She blinked twice back at him, wrinkling her nose at the same time. She'd learned to do that at Harrow rather than a blatant wink that might get one a reprimand from the very strict House Masters. Thomas was clearly delighted, and she forgave him a tiny bit for being the eldest son she no longer could claim to be.

Two years younger and directly across from Connie, Little Gus could hardly sit still, wiggling all over in his glee. He even successfully imitated her double-blink and nose-wrinkle.

Between the boys, Big Gus allowed his chest to move in a silent chuckle while his eyes twinkled at her, the only sign that any of the adults had noticed the Marquess's error.

The Marquess cleared his throat. "Everyone is here, dinner can be served," he said, dispensing nods around the table. The boys snatched at their buttered bread before it could be taken away, but Miss Vivian spoke quietly, reminding Alex and Connie, "Keep your hands in your laps while being served, and don't grab at things."

The bread, butter and pickles were moved out of the way, and the soup bowls placed in front of each diner. Tonight was artichoke soup. Connie had only lately decided this was actually edible. At Harrow, soup was usually cabbage or leeks, and the richness of the Marquess's table often offended Connie's simpler tastes.

Not that she was particularly hungry; her nervous anticipation of this meal and her debut in a gown had quite stolen her appetite. But Father's reaction as she entered had been quite gratifying, as had her brothers' appreciation of her accomplishment. Even now, Little Gus made faces at her while stuffing his own with his rescued bread and butter.

Connie made sleepy-eyes at him, but he didn't recognize the signal that he should cease his misbehavior, and instead, he opened his mouth to show her the half-chewed contents. Two places over, Alex made a sound of disgust, but Connie only lifted an eyebrow.

The Marquess, as soon as he had had a few spoonfuls of soup, cleared his throat to speak. Everyone turned their faces toward him. "It is gratifying," said the Lord of the Manor, "to have the family all at table together."

Almost everyone murmured some sort of agreement. "It is especially pleasing to me," the Marquess continued, "that the ladies are all looking quite lovely this fine evening. In particular, my youngest daughter has joined us in her proper person and is showing her mother and step-mother both proud." He made a formal-seeming lean in her direction, adding, "Constance."

She collected herself enough to bob her head back at him, rather than nodding. "Father," she said. "I am gratified that my appearance pleases you."

"Oh, well-spoken," said Miss V at her elbow. Her brothers both made faces, and Alex on her other side seemed to sniff at her, but her father smiled.

Connie lowered her gaze and put her hands in her lap, demure as any dutiful miss, but she was smiling, too. "I'm still his favorite," she told herself silently.

*

For his part, the Marquess had been dumbstruck when Connie entered the dining room. This lovely girl was the sullen boy who had raged at everyone for the last five months? How had the transformation been accomplished in only seven hours? Genevieve must be a witch, he thought.

He had recognized Connie's longer hair as being the wig Caroline had made of her own hair when styles had changed from long flowing locks to the still current mode of hair barely to the shoulder. He'd never expected to see that shade of pale ginger again.

He sighed. He'd blundered badly trying to transform Constance into Constantine, and it had cost him dearly. Someone of his rank could get a divorce only by an act of Parliament, and that had required money and favors. It was still costing him since his agreement with his ex-father-in-law required him to pay his ex-wife's expenses up to £1000 per year, besides having returned her dowry (which included a small house in Greenwich) and given her a one-time settlement of £4000.

Not that he couldn't afford that, but after ten years, the woman had not remarried, and the annual cost continued. But why should she remarry, she lived quite well on her allowance, renting out the house in Greenwich and keeping a larger home in London with lengthy stays in late summer and around Christmas at her father's homes in Hampshire and Oxford.

She somehow contrived to spend every farthing of her £1000 every year, too. And of course, Genevieve had to have an allowance just as generous as that of the ex-wife, and she spent hers, also. Though a lot of it went for gifts, Genevieve was famously generous, and this reflected well on him.

Expenses for Alex's coming season would probably run toward £2000, and it might be he would be lucky if they were not more. Gowns, jewelery, lessons in deportment, dancing and other skills, court costume, riding habits, gifts taken to hostesses—it added up quite quickly. Though he had not had such expense before, Paul had taken pains to lay it out before him.

And a dowry. That would be a very large bite. Not less than £10,000 would do for the daughter of a marquess, and Paul had suggested a number closer to £30,000, and he'd have it all to do again for Connie in two years. There were major expenses for the boys as well, but those were years away; the costs of sending a son to Harrow were negligible compared to financing a London season for a girl.

Well, with the wars in Europe over, his investments in Portugal, Flanders, Spain, Barbados, and Canada should be returning better profits. And his shipping interests, trading in China, America, and Africa, would flourish without so many privateers afloat.

Scotland remained a problem, and his Indian holdings were troubled by unrest among the natives. He should look around for other investments, perhaps the new railroads and canals. With Paul to do figures and Genevieve's connections and insights, he'd been able to grow his wealth over the last ten years, even during the uncertainty of war.

His wife's knuckle applied to his ribs under the table got his attention, and he turned his head in her direction. With a nod and a smile, she indicated that he should look toward his daughters. He did, observing how lovely they looked, so young and fresh, and so much alike.

Alex had more resemblance to his side; his mother and sisters had the same grace in the way they held their hands and moved their features. Connie looked a bit more like her mother, Caroline, with delicate brows and full lips. She could be a real beauty in a few more years.

And though she seemed a bit subdued, and he caught her watching her sister for cues on how to eat delicately, she had a way—an expression?—of signaling her intent to do a thing rightly and well. She learned that at Harrow, I'd wager, as did I, he thought proudly.

*

What a mess and bother, thought Constantine, having to pick apart your fish before eating it with only one hand above the table. If he were allowed to debone the eel with a knife and a proper fork, eating it would be no effort at all. But using only a small two-pronged implement to prise out flakes of flesh and convey those directly to his mouth became tedious.

It was also annoying that Alex, sitting right next to him, seemed able to do it with ease, enjoying larger and more delicious-looking fillets of the tender meat with every bite while he was eating only fishy crumbs. He tried not to let it be obvious that he was watching her every move, trying to suss out her method while Alex distracted him with her chatter.

"The eels are not from the river but from our own ponds, did you know? They are fed especially by the garthman to be sweeter and more tender than wild fish. Don't you think?"

"I try not to," said Connie seriously. "I've been assured it's not ladylike."

Alex laughed, and Connie smiled." You'll have to say that to Mother Genevieve, one day, to hear her laugh, too," said Alex. "She'll probably add that you don't want to let the men catch you at it. Thinking, that is, especially if it is thinking something they would not like."

Alex paused with a particularly juicy-looking morsel of fish on her fork. Connie eyed it with envy. "You're cleverer than I am, aren't you?" Alex accused.

Connie made a face. "I don't think that is true. You're older and know more."

"I know more about being a girl," conceded Alex. "And about how to eat fish." She dimpled and popped the morsel into her mouth.

She had noticed his struggles then, how mortifying. Glumly, he poked his serving with the too-delicate tool.

"You have to know where the bones are going to be," Alex said. "Then put your fork into where they join together at the backbone, tines flat, then push outward, turning the fork as you do." She demonstrated, ending with a meaty bit perched on the tines.

Connie stared at her, fascinated with his sister's facility with this arcane art.

"You try it," she suggested. "The boys are tearing the fish apart with their hands," she gestured toward their brothers across the table. "They'll have fish grease on them up to their ears. You don't want to do it that way."

"Um," he murmured. Well, seriously, he didn't. It looked like fun, but he knew if he got grease on his gown, he'd never hear the end of it. Besides, Father was watching. He stabbed the fish in the appropriate spot Alex had shown him and wrenched a chunk of fish meat loose from the carcass.

"That's the way," said Alex. "Well, sort of. There's no need to take vengeance on the poor fish." She giggled.

Constantine chewed the morsel of fish in triumph, swallowed, and commented, "You've no notion of the crimes that fish had committed. Barratry, I shouldn't wonder."

Alex giggled again. "What's barratry?"

Connie attempted another dismemberment of his fishy foe and succeeded. "Arson at sea with the intent of collecting insurance on the cargos."

Alex's peal of laughter startled everyone at the table. Mortified, the girl covered her face with her hands. Connie leaned away from his sister and looked at her sideways before going back to attacking his fish.

*

Big Gus watched the sisters with a great deal of interest, especially Connie. Eight years ago, while recovering from minor wounds, he had taught the boy Constantine how to jump a horse. Could this lovely girl be the same child?

He also watched the Marquess who couldn't seem to get his fill of observing his youngest daughter. Constance made a joke, and soon the whole table was laughing. She was amusing as well as being quite pretty. She might even grow into a real beauty.

Gus eyed the Marquess again. They were second cousins, and he was almost twice the girl's age. But neither should be an impediment when it came time for Malvoir to seek a husband for this girl-who-used-to-be-a-boy. If the girl had to go into Society to seek a match, there would be scandal.

But scandal could be avoided if matters were kept in the family. And Gus had to find some way to secure his future now that war heroes, especially broken ones, were no longer in demand.

The girl would be fifteen next summer, and the older sister might already be married by then. Fifteen wasn't too young for a marriage that would keep her from having to face scandal.

*

"You almost got us in trouble," Alex accused her sister later when they had returned to their new room to discover servants trundling in and out with furnishings, linens, clothing, and accessories. The stood well out of the way but watched with interest.

"Us?" protested Connie. "I'm not the one that laughed like a strangled chicken."

"I did not!" Alex pushed her shoulder.

Connie leaned then straightened back up. "You did. Thomas asked if he could have the egg for breakfast."

Alex pouted. "Big Gus commented, too."

"He said that goose eggs are always fowl."

"Then Little Gus got the giggles. It was almost a disaster."

"Father was smiling. He didn't seem displeased," Connie noted.

"You shouldn't have made me laugh like that, though. Genevieve pinched me to get me to stop."

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean for you to be pinched."

"Well," said Alex. "It didn't hurt much, but thank you for the apology."

"The fish is the one should have been pinched."

Alex looked at her sideways. "What? You mean caught up for its crimes?" She giggled. "Well, it had been netted and gilled."

"Ah, but did it face an inquiry?" said Connie. "At school, when I got caught for doing something wrong, you can be sure the Masters properly grilled me."

"It was a baked fish," Alex managed to say between giggles.

"I suspect bribery," said Connie. "That fish got off lightly browned."

Alex laughed out loud again then turned her face to the wall because the servants were looking at her. "You are too clever," she accused Connie.

"I'm not, you know," she said. "One can't be too clever. It's an oxymoron."

"No," said Alex. "You're doing it on purpose."

"What?" asked Connie. "You can't be clever by accident."

"Exactly," Alex retorted. "And you're too pretty, as well."

"I might agree with you there," Connie admitted. "But I assure you, I'm not being pretty on purpose."

"Hmph," said Alex.

"Besides," Connie went on. "You have two dimples, one on each side. I have only one on the left."

Alex stared at her as Connie demonstrated that only one dimple made an appearance when she smiled. "How are you doing that?" Alex asked.

"What? I'm smiling, but I've only the one dimple."

"Yes, but it's on the right now. Did you switch sides?"

"Your right is my left," Connie said, rolling her eyes.

"Not if we stand side by side!" Alex pointed out.

They both broke into giggles. "Now you're making me laugh," Connie complained.

"Well, I guess you're only half-clever since you only have half a set of dimples."

"Stop it," Connie complained again. "Or I'll have to tell you what pokery is!"

Alex looked at her suspiciously. "What's pokery?"

Connie made two fingers on each hand stiff and poked her sister under the ribs. "Poke, poke, poke," she said gleefully.

Connie begins to adapt to her new life...

It rained. For five days in late October, it rained every day. Not hard and not steady, but it dripped or drizzled, misted or mizzled more frequently than not. England, on the whole, is a soggy place, and despite the fact that the eastern edge of the island gets less rainfall than the west, it did rain in Suffolk that week.

In Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex, the wind comes off the North Sea in the fall, sometimes roaring down the Manche (the Sleeve, as the French call the English Channel, not wanting to give up ownership without a word for it). Such storms upset shipping and drive all good folk indoors to warm fires and hot tea, if they can afford it.

But this was not such a storm. Though the wind had a tinge of winter in it, this was just rain. Cold rain that tasted of Norwegian pines and icy fjords, and tried to find a way through your clothing to your skin where it could make you shiver and raise goosebumps along your spine. Rain that made you feel alive because being dead would not be so bloody cold, now would it?

Constance loved it. “God is rinsing the dust off the world to make it shine for winter,” she told her sister as they stood just inside the open French doors in their rooms on the west side of the manor. The wind came from the northeast, and so the wet did not penetrate, but the cold certainly did.

Alexandra tried again to close the windows, but Connie continued to thwart her. “I’m cold,” Alex whined.

Connie just scoffed. “Put on some more layers. You’ve got a room full of clothing—wear it all and you’ll be warm enough.”

“That’s stupid,” Alex protested, trying to go around her sister to get at the sashes.

“We played football in the snow at Harrow,” said Connie. “And we never complained about the cold, not even when our fingers turned blue.” She hip-checked the bigger girl, protecting the window.

“That’s when you were a boy,” Alex pointed out. “Boys are stupid that way. They think being uncomfortable is manly.”

Connie shrugged. It was a fair hit. She grabbed her sister around the waist and pushed her backward, up and onto the bed. “Get under the covers then, if you’re going to be a baby about it.”

But before she could withdraw, Alex retaliated with stiff fingers under Connie’s ribs. Both girls were ridiculously ticklish, but the one who used this form of attack first always had the advantage.

Connie squealed, embarrassing herself terribly; it sounded entirely too girlish. Alex took her opportunity, rolled off the bed, and made it to the window to pull it closed. Connie counter-attacked to the ribs. The battle was on, and the sisters collapsed onto the floor, giggling like mad things.

* * *

Afterward, they lay side by side on the bed. Connie propped herself up on her elbow, holding a hand to the side of her face. “It’s kind of fun to have a sister,” she said.

Alex grinned, showing both her dimples. “I wouldn’t know,” she teased airily.

Connie wrinkled her nose. “Be like that,” she said. “But it is different.”

“Mmm,” said Alex. “I missed you. We had such fun when we were little.”

Connie shrugged. “I don’t remember much. Just that you were terribly bossy.”

“You were always getting in trouble,” Alex observed. “You wanted to climb into the pigsty, and I had to stop you.”

“Why?” Connie frowned.

“Why did I stop you? You could have got hurt!”

“No, why would I want to climb in with the pigs?”

Alex shrugged. “You always liked playing in the mud—and it looked like the piggies were having fun, I guess.”

Connie laughed, making an effort to be sure it didn’t come out as a giggle. “I still like mud, and rain and snow and, I guess, just weather and being outside.” She looked at the windows and sighed. “I would love to be out riding Gallant in the rain.”

“Silly,” said Alex. “They’re not going to let you do that. You’re supposed to be delicate and ladylike.”

Connie snorted. “Being delicate about things like weather at Harrow would get you thumped.”

“Better you than me, I guess. Imagine if Father had sent me to be a boy instead of you. What a disaster that would have been!” They did both giggle at the idea.

* * *

In bed next to his sister that night, Constantine wore his nightgown. The soft fabric felt comfortable, but the unfamiliar way it fit made him want to fidget. He stared toward the ceiling, invisible in the darkness, and tried to process everything that had happened during the day. It all jumbled together in his mind, like the way he had felt trying to pick himself off the football field after being the victim of a particularly nasty tackle.

It would be very satisfying to have someone to punch in the nose, he thought wryly. But really, everyone was trying to be nice to him. It wouldn’t be right to punch any of them. It’s just that their idea of being nice to Constance annoyed the hell out of Constantine, most of the time.

Harrow was gone, he realized. As hard as it had been physically and mentally, he had enjoyed the challenges. He would miss it. And he would miss his sprig brothers more. What were they doing without him? Tother, Fleece, and Edge—he’d been as close or closer to them than he was now to Alex.

“Idiot,” came his sister’s voice beside him. “You’re not under the covers, you’ll freeze.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“How can I sleep with your teeth chattering like that?”

“My teeth? I’m not cold!” Connie protested. “That’s rain on the roof you’re hearing.”

They lay silently for a time, listening. The banked fire in the fireplace still kept the room warmer than his bedroom in Harrow had been. And the rain did make pleasant music.

“I think that’s sleet,” said Alex.

“Shouldn’t wonder,” Connie agreed sleepily.

He didn’t protest when Alex sat up and pulled the covers up over him. She wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and he snuggled back against her softer shape.

“You’re like ice,” she complained, as they drifted off to sleep together.

* * *

Breakfast in the Deschambeaux household remained an informal meal. Servants set up a buffet in the small dining room and family members ate when they showed up. Very different from the mad, noisy, joyous atmosphere at Harrow, Constantine reflected—with a much wider variety on offer, too.

Watching his sister closely, Connie selected an egg, a slice of back bacon, and a roll with butter and jam for spreading. A Harrow breakfast would have included porridge with bits of sausage in it, perhaps potatoes, mushrooms or beans, and everything would have been hotter than the side table kept the dishes.

The fried tomato slice Alex added to both of their plates seemed very odd. He’d never tried one before, but accepted the contribution. The plate still looked a bit skimpy, but then, his life had not been at all as active since he came home as it had been at school. And now, since donning dresses and trying to be a lady, he supposed he would have to get used to starving himself.

There were dishes of kippered fish, kidneys, fried mushrooms, and fat slices of various sausages (as well as plump bangers), but Alex avoided all of them. So did Connie, though he resolved that if this did not fill him up, tomorrow he would have one of those bangers that he knew would have the proper sort of casing that snapped when you bit into it.

“Very good,” said Alex approving of his plate, identical to her own. Connie sighed.

“Come sit with me, girls,” called their stepmother from her traditional place near the head of the table. Everyone else appeared to have already eaten and departed. “I’ve got a fresh pot of hot chocolate, and some sweet biscuits, too.” She motioned to them to sit across from her, instead of on the same side.

‘”Girls,”’ thought Connie. ‘That includes me now.’ He didn’t like it, but it seemed gauche to let anyone see that it displeased him, so he smiled at Genevieve and took the place one off from the head, letting Alex have the seat Thomas had occupied last night. A week ago, wearing pants, Connie would have sat there as a matter of right.

“I’ve decided to throw a party for the neighbors,” Genevieve announced. She poured hot chocolate into all three cups that had appeared without request or signal being made. “Or at least, the youngsters of the gentlefolk in the area.”

Alex clapped her hands and beamed at her stepmother, then at Connie. “Delight!” she exclaimed. Connie looked doubtful, but it was hard not to smile at Alex’s enthusiasm.

“All Saint’s Eve is on Friday this year—that’s the end of next week,” Lady Malvoir said, expanding. “We can have afternoon games, dancing on the lawns if it isn’t raining, or indoors if it is. Anyone who wishes can stay all night and attend church with us on All Saints Day. Then we’ll have a luncheon before they all go home.”

Connie knew that people from near the Scottish border, like his sprig brother Fleece, called October 31st Hallow E’en, and reckoned it as a night of jolly frights and an opportunity to play pranks on one’s friends. It had become a minor tradition for the older boys at Harrow to attempt to frighten the younger ones with howls, the banging of pots and pans, and a general hubbub and cacophony in the night.

As they ate, Genevieve and Alex began discussing whom to invite to the party while Connie, who hardly knew anyone in Suffolk County outside of family, nibbled on his breakfast in what he vaguely hoped was a ladylike manner. Instead of discussing a guest list, he considered the murky—some might say “spooky”—patch of woods east of Debenham Manor.

How many youngsters would he be able to tempt into entering what looked like a bit of wilderness, but was in fact, entirely tame, with clear paths and no real hazards? Should he enlist Alex in the scheme he was hatching? Or would it be more fun to scare the wits out of his sister, too? Thomas and Little Gus might make willing and effective accomplices.