By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
Chapter 2, Part 2
December 14, 1871, Continued
"Put this in yuir pipe and smoke it, lassie. Ye say ye want people t'think yuir a
regular sort of girl. If that's what ye want, ye'll have t'learn how a girl dresses, talks, and
behaves. I reckon yuir unschooled in doing that, but yuir aunt can give ye a lot of good advice. Ye should take it.”
Then the
woman glanced toward Irene. “Mrs. Fanning, what's Myra's full name?”
“It's... Abigail Myra Olcott.” She paused, and then added, “I'll be telling folks that she's my orphaned niece from back East.”
Molly
nodded and again faced off with Myra. “Missy, there's a lot that ye'll have to do differently from now
on. A girl don’t get into fistfights over trifles, for one thing. Don't be hitting anybody or insulting
anybody just for treating ye like a lassie.
What else can a body expect? Or maybe ye'd prefer that everybody finds out that ye used to be Thorn Caldwell? Ye might give some folks a good laugh, but
it'd be an easier row to hoe in the long haul.
Wouldn't ye like that?”
Myra's
stare could have killed a flock of prairie chickens. “No!” she said emphatically.
Molly shook
her head. “Then I'd
advise ye to keep clear of folks when possible, till ye've figured out
how a decent young lady handles herself.
At that
point, the matron paused. “That's enough for now.” Standing
up, she faced Mrs. Fanning. “I think it's time to have a powwow about... certain subjects that
perhaps yuir niece isn't quite ready to start fretting about.”
Irene
nodded disconcertedly and then picked up the green robe that the doctor had
provided. She held it out to Myra, who
was wearing a gray patient's gown. “Myra, please put this on, and then go out into the other room and eat
your breakfast. I'll join you after I've
spoken to Mrs. O'Toole.”
Myra wanted
to balk, but something, some sort of… voice in her head, repeated what she had been
told, and did so with an intensity that compelled her to pay heed. She crossed into the next room on bare feet,
slamming the door behind her.
“She'll need a bath,” Molly said after Myra had gone, “but we shouldn't be raising a lot of questions
over at the bath house. The doc has a
tub from out East. And after ye get her
home, see that she cleans up every day or two.
Most of all, remember what I'm telling ye about not letting her have much to do with
people before she's ready.”
“How can I make her behave when you're not
around?” Irene asked.
Molly
looked doubtful. “Didn't Shamus explain it? Ye
have just as much control with her as I do.
Just tell the lassie what ye want, and she'll feel obliged to do it, as
long as ye make it clear that it's really an order.
Don't be worrying too much. The
colleen'll be shaping up on her own in two or three months, if she's like the
girls over at the saloon. When that
happens, ye'll have a whole new set of issues, but everything in its own
time. Meanwhile, ye’ll have t’be schooling her about girl-things, like clothes
and having monthlies. Just teach her
what yuir ma taught ye.”
“What do you mean about there being other 'issues'?”
Molly
sighed. “Don't be
surprised if she soon starts acting all flustered-like – around boys, I mean. That sort
of thing seems t'come natural with the potion.”
Astonishment
transformed Irene's face. “Boys? She'll like boys, like
the saloon outlaws do?”
“Don't fret about it,” advised the older woman. “’Tis for the best. Loving and
being loved ain’t a bad thing.
But there's many a slip between the cup and the lip. Myra is just at the age when a girl can go
wrong.”
The widow's
eyebrows went up. “Do you mean she might become a... a hussy?”
Molly met
her glance intensely. “An ordinary girl is brought up t’be right sensible about the lads. Thorn never got that sort of teaching. If that niece of yuirs starts thinking about boys the way too
many girls his – her – age do, she might run square into...
consequences... ”
Irene
needed to sit down.
#
Molly
led Irene into the back rooms of Dr. Upshaw’s office, the part that served for living
quarters. There, in a cubical, was
placed the physician's personal bathtub, also used by his patients when they
needed it. “I got clothes for the gal,” she told her younger
companion, extracting a bag from her big carryall. “They ain’t much, just some old things from when Jessie Hanks
started, umm… working for me and Shamus.”
“Won’t Miss Hanks mind?” Irene asked.
“Not likely. She's all excited
about showing off in flashy stuff now, like that fancy blue gown she wears when singing, and them frilly unmentionables for when… well, let’s just say when Paul Grant
likes t’be seeing her in ‘em.”
Mrs.
Fanning returned a doubtful glance. “I think I understand.” Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Irene went to check on the heating bathwater.
An extra-large kettle sat on the hot griddle, a thin trail of steam
wafting from it. When she dipped the tip
of her finger, it hurt but didn't scald.
Going to the door, she called, “Mrs. O'Toole, could you help me carry this hot
water?!”
The
saloon proprietress joined her directly and, using potholders, they carefully
and slowly carried the heated vessel to the bathtub. Bracing the pot on the edge of the fixture,
they poured in its contents. Then ladies
put more water on the fire and continued the process until the tub was half-filled.
At
that point, Irene tested the bathwater to see if the tub had cooled enough for
comfortable bathing. “Perfect. Come back here, Myra!” she called.
The girl,
who had long since finished breakfast, emerged from the reception area, where
she had been sitting alone, feeling sorry for herself. Myra was keeping her eyes downcast, her
lips pursed in disconsolation. As Thorn,
she’d gotten over her
bashfulness about being undressed in front of a woman, but this was so very
different.
“Time to shuck off those clothes and lose that trail-dust,” said the Irish woman.
Myra
sent a frown to each of her tormentors.
“Why so shy?” Molly asked. “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt
and me ain't seen ten thousand times.
But since ye’re not used to having what ye have, Mrs. Fanning and me’ll be strolling outside to
continue our chat.”
Irene
stepped up to her niece with a fluffy white terrycloth towel and a small
washcloth. The latter was wrapped around
an oval bar of soap. “Ye be sure t’be washing yuirself all over,” Molly instructed her. “Every inch o’ye, and when yuir done, dry yuirself well.” With that, the two ladies went
out the back door, to the enclosed porch behind the building, and took their
ease upon a white-painted bench suspended from chains.
With
the women departed, Myra worked quickly, wanting to be done and covered up
before they barged back in. She slipped
out of her robe and peeled off her cotton gown, draping them both over a nearby
chair. Then, using the same chair to
brace herself, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the
water. It felt hot against her
newly-sensitized skin.
Hurriedly,
Myra used the slippery bar of soap to work up a lather on the washcloth. This she rubbed over her arms and torso. Upon touching her breasts, she gasped in
surprise. Curiosity aroused, the girl
persisted in stroking them, the curious sensation growing more intense. The feeling was not a bad one. Now she could imagine why Gilana moaned so
much when Myron had…
“Oh, my Lord… Gilana!" she exclaimed, her eyes open wide. Molly O'Toole had said that any man who drank
that damned potion would become the double of the “fetchingest” gal he'd ever known. The prettiest girl in Myron's acquaintance
had been Gilana Hulbard, a young cancan dancer of Yuma. Myra thought back to her reflected image in
the mirror. 'Shit, I look just like
her!'
The bemused
maiden leaned back against the end of the tub, remembering her last visit with
Gilana. As the shock wore off, Myra grew
curious about her present body, so like Gilana's.
At last she realized that she was as beautiful as dancer was. That thought inspired Myra to touch her
breasts, which caused her to wince.
She
continued caressing them, but now more gently.
In her mind’s eye, she became Myron again, and it was the
cancan girl's breasts that she was petting. 'Ooh… ooh, God!' The pleasure of it! It felt so wrong to have breasts, especially
the sort of breasts that would make men sit up and stare. But here they were. It felt good to touch them -- and no one was
watching…
A moment
later, a curious hand, as if it had a mind of its own, slid down to that… place between her legs. It
was the place that Gilana had so many times encouraged him to stroke. Why had the girl liked it so much? Myra couldn't hold back soft sighs while
rubbing the sudsy cloth against that special place. She squirmed, savoring the moment. 'Are all women’s bodies
like this?' Myra wondered. 'Maybe that's
why gals want to take so many baths.'
Myra
finally let out a low moan and sank lower into the tub. She kept stimulating herself with the cloth,
luxuriating in the enjoyable little jolts the action triggered. Thorn had always disliked bathing, but this
was different.... 'Oh, Lord, I could do
this forever,' she thought.
No, she
couldn't. Another voice in her mind had scolded her. Molly had said that she
had to wash every part of her body, and Myra couldn’t do that if she kept obsessing about her new source of pleasure. She shook her head, at first refusing to
listen. But that voice was insistent,
powerful. Slowly, reluctantly, she sat
up and started to scrub her neck and behind her ears.
But the
parting was not at all sweet sorrow. “Damn!” she muttered, looking forward to bathing again,
when not under the strict instructions of a mean old hen. She lifted her left leg so that her ankle
rested on the side of the tub. Then she
covered it with lather. The girl
shifted, shimmying deeper into the tub and then repeated the process with her
right leg. Her pace had quickened. 'Maybe I can get back to the better part
after I finish washing.'
It seemed
like a good idea; if she had had a mirror, she would have seen herself grin.
But, just
then, the O'Toole woman and Aunt Irene came back into the room. “Ain’t ye done, yet?” Molly
asked, a sly smile just curling her lips.
“J-Just finishing,” Myra answered,
her cheeks warming from embarrassment.
Irene
picked up the towel she’d draped over a chair and handed it to the
girl. “Dry
yourself,” she told her niece.
“Aye, but be careful,” Molly added. “Ye’d do best t’be patting yuirself dry. Yuir skin’s a lot more tender than it used t’be.”
Myra came
out of the tub and began following Molly’s instructions, not liking being nude in plain
sight, but trying not to show it. The
older woman watched closely. ‘The way she’s doing some o’them
places,’ Molly thought, a knowing smile curling her
lips, ‘she knows exactly what I'm saying.’
“Done,” the girl said a few moments later. She tossed the towel to the floor and looked
around. Spotting the robe, Myra picked it
up and wrapped it around herself.
“Let's go back to the infirmary,” Molly suggested. When the
three reached that destination, the Irish woman held out to the girl a pair of
light gray drawers with white lace trimming on the legs.
Myra
scowled. “These’re girl’s drawers.”
Molly
nodded. “Aye, and ye’re a girl. There's no changing
that fact, so ye'll have t'get used to the idea. Now…” her voice grew stern. “Put ‘em on and no more guff about not wanting to.”
The girl
tried to protest, no words came out. She
glared at Molly, even as she grudgingly stepped into the drawers. With her
hands trembling, she pulled them up and snugged them around her waist. Myra did notice that the material felt softer
against her skin than Myron’s old cotton drawers had.
“Now tie ‘em so they won't slip down,” Molly said, “and then ye’ll be standing there – not talking – while I measure ye.”
Myra did as
she was told. Molly took a rolled-up
cloth tape measure, a pad, and pencil from her reticule. “Take notes o’what I’ll be telling ye,” she told
Irene, handing her the pad.
“Very well,” the other woman said, taking it.
Molly
walked over to the potion girl and began measuring. Myra was five-foot four, a full six inches
less than Myron’s five-ten.
Her neck was a slender ten inches around. Shoulder width and arm length
were all quickly taken.
“Just above the breasts, it reads… 32 inches,” Molly called out. Then she shifted the tape down, so that it
circled bare breasts. The girl squirmed
as her nipples were touched. “Hold still,” Molly scolded, adding a few seconds later, “Tape across her bust… 35.”
The inseam
length was measured, as was the girl's waist and
hips, 30, 22, and 35, respectively.
Finally, Molly had her sit down while she checked the length and width
of a foot. “For shoes,” she explained.
“All right, Myra,” Irene said, “Mrs. O’Toole has finished with her measuring, so you can get dressed. As she spoke, she handed her niece a gray
chemise that matched her drawers. Bands
of lace trim ran down its front, and there was a small lace rose in the front
of the collar.
The
girl grimaced as she inspected the garment. ‘Too damned girly,’ she thought to herself and
tried hard to resist putting it on. But
she found herself slipping her arms through the narrow straps and letting it
slide down her body. The fabric felt
cool and the weave tickled her… tits.
“Ye can be sitting down now,” Molly said, “and putting on yuir stockings.” She gave Myra a pair of yellow and green
striped stockings. “Ye tie ‘em up above yuir knees, and
then ye bring yuir drawers down over ‘em and tie those off there.”
The
girl obeyed. She could guess how
feminine she must look; it bothered her, but the damned magic had her its
grip. When Myra was done, she stood up
and saw Molly holding…
“A corset,” she whimpered. Out of all the
outlandish, girlish things forced upon her, this was absolutely the worst. “Do – Do I gotta?”
“I'm afraid so,” Molly replied. “With yuir...figure, ye need
the support.” The woman chuckled. “Or ye'll be jigging for all t'see.”
Irene
smiled for the first time that day. “Can't have that, can we?” Then, realizing what a bad time it was for
humor, her expression grew sober. “Put it on, Myra.”
The
new girl took the garment and wrapped it around herself, as she'd seen Gilana
do. It had hooks in back, but because
she needed her left hand to hold the thing up in front of herself, the other hand,
working alone, couldn't get the hooks into the eyes. “How is this done?” she asked, her voice strained. Irene stepped up and began closing the hooks.
It felt different from what Myra had expected.
As Myron she had heard men joking about corsets while sitting around the
winter fire, but her corset felt like it was hugging her, and not
uncomfortably.
“Now the most important thing.” Molly held
up a dark brown...
“A dress,” Myra groaned. “Ain't all this other stuff
bad enough?” she asked, gesturing at her body.
“I gotta wear a dress, too?
“Yes, you have to, if you don't want people to think that there's
anything unusual about you,” Irene answered. “Just take care not to rip
it.”
Myra
sighed and slowly, carefully, stepped into the garment. Having pulled it up, she inserted her arms
into the sleeves. Then, gathering the
fabric to her shoulders, she worked herself inside it and started buttoning. “These buttons are on backwards,” she complained.
“Them buttons are on the other side from what you're used to,” Molly explained. “Just go slow; ye’ll be getting used to ‘em in a minute or two.” She was
holding a pair of used shoes, which, kneeling, she set down at Myra's feet.
With
the closed frock drawn flush with her flesh, could see how the underlying
corset held her breasts so that they pushed out the material. When someone saw her, they would probably be the first thing that they'd look at,
she realized, and didn't care for that idea at all.
To
put on the wooden-soled clogs that Molly had provided, she needed to sit down. “At least these ain’t too girly,” Myra muttered.
They allowed her feet to slip right in; a buckled strap, going back
around each heel, held them snug. “There,” she said, rising, “I’m finished.”
“Sit back down,” Irene admonished. “You’re not done. Your hair…”
“Your hair is full o’knots,” interjected Molly. “Boys ignore their hair
something fierce, and when it grows long it just makes things worse.” She took a wire hairbrush from her apron
pocket. Each bristle ended in a tiny
bead. “Now try not t’be squirming.
It’ll only be making the job more painful.”
The
comb hit a snag immediately. “Ouch!”
The
Irishwoman spent a full hour – or so it seemed to Myra – working through the morass of tangles. She yelped more than once as Molly showed the
snarls no mercy. When there was no other
choice, a mat of hair had to be snipped off with scissors. But, finally, the torturer had finished the
session and lustrous red-brown tresses flowed smoothly down past her shoulders.
“Now, Missy,” Molly said, “let's take a look at ye.”
Myra stood
up, her fists clenched, her brows knitted, her lips pursed.
Mrs.
Fanning looked the girl over discerningly.
She didn't think that a person passing by the girl by in the street would
judge any aspect that Myra presented as out of order. In fact, though plainly dressed, it was her
prettiness that would attract attention.
“What should we do next?” she asked Molly.
The Irish
woman motioned the widow to step outside the room with her. When they were alone she advised, “I’d say ye should be getting her home, away from
prying eyes. She'll be needing some
private time t'get used to...to everything that's new. It’ld be a good idea t’be keeping her busy with chores, so she won't be moping around too
much.” The matron then added, “I shouldn't be wasting any time
before taking the stage t’Phoenix.
Somebody needs to be shopping for that young lady, away from where local
people can see – and be asking questions.”
“You're very kind, but I don't know you. I would hardly expect so much charity even
from my closest friends,” replied Irene.
Molly shook
her head. “And I’m glad to have -- and t’be -- a new friend. Ye got into this trouble without asking for
it; the climb out’ll be steep for a while, for both ye and
Myra. I'm willing t’be helping ye carry a bit o’the load.
Anyway, I’ll be enjoying an excuse t’be going into the big town.
Christmas is getting close and there're things a body just can't buy in
Eerie. And if ye find yuirself needing
more help later on, ye just let me know.”
“I could use another friend,” the widow admitted.
Molly then
led them back into the infirmary where she started to gather in her
belongings. Irene stepped up closer to
ask an urgent question. “Molly?”
“Aye?”
“What should I tell people when they wonder where
Myron is?”
The older
woman frowned. “I don’t think ye should be saying a word. Most folks’ll figure that Myron died from that ricochet and
them outlaws hid the body. And even if
he didn't die, they wouldn't be expecting him t’be paying a
visit back home, not with the sheriff out t’arrest him.”
Irene,
surprisingly, felt better. “I guess I should be grateful that none of that is true.”
“That's the spirit. There was times when I was absolutely at my
wits' end about how t’be getting them potion girls to shape up, but
the good Lord somehow got us through. By
the way, I've heard that the deputy is coming out to yuir place tomorrow. Tell... yuir niece... to be upfront when
she's talking t’him.”
“What is he going to ask?”
Molly
smiled wanly. “The main things he’ll be after are getting the gold back and
catching them other outlaws. He won't
be interested in making things harder for Myra. She already got hit with the worst punishment
Judge Humphreys was ever likely t'be handing out for what Myron did.”
“She looks so angry,” Irene observed. “Could we tell her to feel happy?”
Molly shook
her head. “The magic
won't make a soul feel things that it doesn't really feel. Happiness can't be put into a person's head
through the ears.”
She
finished filling her carryall. “I'll come out to the farm right after me Phoenix visit. By then, ye'll probably have a laundry list o’ new questions. Until then,
Mrs. Fanning....”
“You can call me Irene,” the farm widow said. “And I have to pay you.”
Molly
shrugged. “For the
clothes, for breakfast, I suppose. Not
for any Christian help. I look forward
to us talking later.”
“We will.
Thank you so very much.”
TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 3, Part 1
