'Now lift up this pretty face.'
She took my chin and tilted back my head.
'I must say, Miss. Denise, your governesses have done wonders for you at your school. You always looked like a pretty girl of course, but you are quite lovely now.'
I blushed! Was it all from shame, or was there not some thrill of pleasure and of girlish vanity in my reddening cheeks? Oh, my two years at a girls' school had left their indelible influence upon my disposition.
'Now put the high heels of your satin slippers together under your frock.'
She looked down to the billowy satin and tulle of my skirt.
'Have you done it? Are the toes daintily turned out?'
'Yes, Phoebe.'
'I'll make sure.'
She stooped and, thrusting her hand under my dress, felt my feet. The blush deepened on my face, and a soft wave of voluptuous delight swept over me, enflaming my body and exciting my passions. I am to write the truth here. The thought that here, I was dressed with all the dainty luxury of a very fashionable girl, standing obediently with my hands behind me at the bidding of a maid, while she adjusted my satin-slippered feet, troubled my passions. There was something sensuously bizarre in the contrast that fascinated me. Besides, apart from the queer mental impression produced in me, the actual touch of Phoebe's hands on my body, particularly on my insteps and ankles, gave me a delicious physical sensation. I noticed Phoebe was wearing long, white kid gloves. I asked her why, and she glanced at me shrewdly. 'Miss. Priscilla's orders,' she answered. 'No one is to touch you, or dress you without long glace kid gloves on their hands. But why do you ask, Miss. Denise?'
I was confused.
'Did the feel of the gloves on your silk stockings please you? Answer at once.'
'Yes, Phoebe,' I replied shyly.
Phoebe nodded her head with a lewd, knowing smile.
I was tortured by the possibility that she would not touch my ankle again. I feared that she would not stroke the delicate arch of my instep with her soft gloved fingers. I assumed that she would stop caressing my foot when she realized that she was affording me erotic pleasure. I could tell that she liked the position of dominating me. I could tell it pleased her to see me tortured and willing to be subject to her torments and whims. In fact, I believe Helen hired her because she was capable of severe disciplinarian actions.
As she stroked my ankle, I arched my back ever so slightly, so that the buds of my nipples would rub against the cool white satin of my slip. The sensation made me move involuntarily.
'Miss. Denise! If you don't stand still, I am going to be forced to punish you. Not only that, but I must finish my work. Miss. Helen will be calling for you soon.
'Miss. Helen is a very wise lady. Now stand without moving until she comes to inspect you.'
Helen had foreseen that the touch of the kid gloves would make its sensuous appeal to me. She had deliberately intended that it should. Why? My old fear returned to me-a fear that she and Miss. Priscilla, her aunt, were in a plot together to nullify me, to make me unimportant. Perhaps they had devised some enervating system to reduce me to perpetual subjection. If so, I had reason to shiver; They were so clever. Those two women had shown such insight into my character and failings.
On the other hand there was the promise that Helen Deverel had given to me in the most emphatic way two years ago. She had promised that the day after I returned from the girls' school I should be allowed to resume the dress of my sex, if the head schoolmistress sent me home with a good report. Well, I had returned this afternoon with an excellent report. Tonight I was to be Miss. Denise Beryl, a cousin of Dennis's. But tomorrow I was to resume my liberty. I was to become once more the master of Beaumanoir.
I was turning over these doubts in my mind when Phoebe interrupted my reflections.
'You have moved your feet, Miss. Denise,' she said sternly. 'In that tight, pretty satin frock, every tremor of your limbs is visible.'
'I wasn't thinking, Phoebe,' I said humbly, 'I am sorry.'
Phoebe was appeased by the humility of my voice.
'I will forgive you this once,' she said. 'There's no doubt, Miss. Denise, that you ought to be kept in girls' clothes all your life.'
'All my life!' I exclaimed.
'You are so much easier to manage,' she replied. What a selfish argument! All she thought of was her comfort, not one consideration did she give to me, my position, the career that awaited me. No! As a male youth, I should give her orders. Under discipline and dressed as a girl, I received them from her. That was all she cared about.
I was careful not to move again, and Phoebe busied herself putting away the schoolgirl's dress, the one that I had laid aside so I could appear as a grown-up young lady in a decollete gown with a long train.
I should briefly explain what had led me to these…unusual circumstances.
My father, who was probably the wealthiest commoner in England, had inherited the great estate of Beaumanoir in Hampshire, a house in Park Lane, and a large fortune, which by skilful business he had greatly increased. He married late in life and I, his only child, was born when he was fifty-two. I was baptized Dennis Evelyn, and the second name, which is given to girls as well as to boys, I always resented. I resented it all the more, because in complexion, features, limbs, and figure I was, alas, as the taunts of my school friends assured me, more like a girl than a boy. My father lost his wife when I was 12 and a year later married a second time-whence came all my troubles. He married
a middle-aged widow, Mrs. Deverel, who had a daughter Helen, a girl just four years older than myself. She was a sinister girl with dark hair, a pale lovely face, and a slim figure. She had the most winning manners and at once set herself to charming everybody. She succeeded with everybody-except me. I recognized her game immediately.
I resented my father's marriage and the intrusion of these new people into the house. I would not call the new Mrs. Beryl, 'mother,' nor Helen, 'sister.' Mrs. Beryl was considerate and Helen set about trying to please me, but I distrusted them both. I always had a fear that they meant to take my place in my father's affections and oust me from my inheritance.
I remember particularly one day when I was home for the holidays. I was thirteen at the time, Helen seventeen; she stopped me as I was leaving the drawing room and as she was coming in. Laying her little hand upon my arm, she said with her eyebrows arched, 'Evelyn, can't we be good friends? I am so unhappy that you dislike me.'
The name Evelyn irritated me. I looked at her ironically and I replied, 'I suppose that you really want to marry me, to get hold of my fortune, don't you?'
She laughed coldly, and pinched my arm hard. 'How wrong you are!' If I had not spoken so rashly, I might not be standing now in the fashionable ball dress of a wealthy young lady, waiting for the moment when I should take my place at Helen's birthday dinner party. I had become a living tribute to her domination, from the Louis Quinze heels of my smart satin slippers to the pink ribbon in my curls. For to that foolish answer, I attribute the beginnings of her hatred and resentment. She turned away from me that day, and never made advances to me again.
That same year, in the autumn, my stepmother died, and the shock of her death prostrated my father, who was then sixty-five. He had a great affection for Helen and a great faith in her capacity; at her suggestion, Miss. Priscilla Deverel, an aunt of hers, was introduced into the household to act as companion to Helen and to assist her in the management of the house.
Miss. Priscilla was a remarkable woman, a fully qualified doctor with a great medical reputation. Although she gave up her practice to join us, to me at this time, she seemed merely a harmless, slightly ridiculous old maid. She was forty-seven or so when she came to Beaumanoir, a wrinkled thin ungainly woman, who dressed very badly. She was very patient and submissive, and I treated her with the utmost disregard. I did not resent her presence in the house, as I did Helen's. I looked upon her as of no importance whatever.
The first time I had any doubt about her was a year later when I was ill with a cold: I was then between fourteen and fifteen, and Helen brought her to my bedroom. At first I would not allow her to examine my chest, but Helen threatened to tell my father of my refusal and to send for a doctor from London. That, for a special reason, I dreaded. I let Miss. Priscilla open my nightgown and I saw at once a flash of wonder cross her face. I flushed scarlet. I had a secret that I had always tried to conceal. My bosom was much too developed for a boy's and continuing to develop as I grew. I had not merely the nipples of a boy, but the white globes of a girl's breasts were
