Titled people were a weakness with Miriam Hancock. She frequently spoke of them with harsh condescension, but the snob in her heart secretly rated them higher than wealthy businessmen, and so it was with some delight she agreed to the visit of the ennobled Marchioness of Wiggleswick. The delight had doubled when she discovered that in both Debrett's Distinguished People and Burke's Peerage the lady was ranked far higher in importance than Diana Chance-Barton.
She was extremely old, in her eighties, shrunken and frail, and her bony frame was slightly stooped at mid-chest as if perpetually ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. She needed to rely on a stout Malacca cane for support as she made her way through the front entrance, but if her body was failing her mental senses were still razor sharp. She took in the headmistress's study at a glance, disapproving of the style of décor but noting the high quality of everything.
"You seem nicely set-up, Miss Hancock. One wonders why you don't advertise your services more widely." she murmured haughtily.
Miriam was struck by her voice - she'd never heard a voice quite like it, refined, Wagnerian and aloof, containing a range of subtle meanings that weren't altogether clear. "I rely on word of mouth and a good reputation to do that kind of work." she replied, "I'm blessed with good contacts, and our local lady of the manor, Diana Chance-Barton is patron to the school. You'll know her of course."
She thought a little name-dropping may help to impress, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. The old woman's frosty features drew into a disdainful grimace, and when she spoke her words became elongated, with virtually no movement of her lips. "Diana Chance-Barton? No, I don't know the woman but I know of her. She's a floozy who spends every waking hour playing up to photographers with the idea she's some kind of leading light. Such behaviour wasn't acceptable in my day. When I was a girl we knew how to behave and were content just to know we had a high station in life."
She turned to the young woman who accompanied her, and who was now seated at her side on the chintz draped sofa. The companion was a little over five foot six wearing a lightweight shift-dress, about eighteen years old with long blond hair, and although she had a disturbing clever foxy face and a sly gleam in her eyes she was by any definition drop-dead gorgeous.
"This is Miranda, my favourite granddaughter and an individual I spoil outrageously. It's at her behest that I came here today. Miranda as a passion for dolls, you see. She's been fond of collecting them since her childhood and now has hundreds. She loves to undress them and put them into new outfits, and for her birthday this year she tells me she would like a live doll. That's a difficult gift to find and is the reason I contacted you. Hearsay as it you can provide what we're looking for."
Brimming with confidence the previously panciloquent girl quickly put in, "It must be a pretty doll or I'll hate it and refuse to have it."
The octogenarian grandmother at her side gave the headmistress a belligerent stare. "I hate imperfection myself, so I hope you've chosen something commendable. Freaks and deformity, clowns and midgets, animals dressed up as humans and vice versa. They are all abominations to me, and I have no sympathy."
Miriam nodded sagely. "I'm certain we can accommodate your requirements." She clicked a button on a table top intercom. "Send in Fifi, matron."
Her first impulse had been to offer this client Poppy who was waiting for a placement, but following some careful inquiries she'd concluded that he would be too dizzy and unpredictable to suit the old dowager. That being the case, she considered her choice of Fifi to be an inspired one.
A moment later the door opened and his small, timid figure, looking a bundle of pink skirts and white taffeta petticoats, squeezed into the room. His hair had been put into little-girl bangs and tied with enormous pink ribbons, and his cute feminine face had been perfectly made up, rouge on cheeks, lips red and glossed, and his huge liquid eyes ringed with mascara.
For the visit of her illustrious guest she had elected for the selected she-boy to be dressed in the latest of Margaret Pardoe's creations. It was a wondrous example of a dressmakers skill and artifice - a lovely primrose pink crinoline frock, fine and delicate in composition, cut to the thigh and flaring out. The bodice had been encrusted with bugle beads and garnished with embroidery, while a tiny waist, subtle and graceful, exaggerated the hipline. The cleavage was cut low but stopped short of immodesty to accentuate two delicate breasts compressed against the inside of the material. The dress was accompanied by a divine satin matinee coat of matching colour.
Fifi was dizzy with delight as the multi-layered drapes of silk-voile floated against the tops of his legs. His small hands, clad in white velvet gloves, were clutching a little purse that shimmered with sequins, and he wore high heeled shoes with cross-over straps that made a feature of his shapely ankles.
"My students are taught to make their own outfits," explained Miriam proudly, "and while lace petticoats are much out of fashion these days there's no denying the pleasing froufrou effect they give to a skirt.
Bemused and more than a little awe-struck Fifi approached the three females and his skirts bounced and rustled when he performed a perfect deep curtsy. The short skirt swept round his thighs revealing the tips of garter-straps clipped to the dark welts of stocking tops.
The girl inclined her head and amusement danced in her eyes as she watched the slender legs under the floaty dress that barely covered Fifi's bottom, but the older woman's expression gave nothing away. "What do you think, Miranda? Do you like her?"
Fifi stood still as the girl scrutinised him, his only movement being the batting of his large appealing eyes. "You promised it would be a boy doll, grandmamma. I want a boy doll."
The old woman's fingers, like a soft and wrinkled bunch of loose carrots, drummed her knee. "It is a boy. It's a boy in girl's clothes."
Fascinated, Miranda grinned. "Hm, a girl-boy. That's interesting." She immediately leapt to her feet and began to examine him. Closing up behind him she began to pet him like a kitten, revelling in the freedom to run her hands over his shoulders and down his hips. "Nice and slender. Very dainty."
The old woman looked on indulgently as her granddaughter stood back and eyed up the length of Fifi's legs, trying to judge how high the skirt would go before the gusset of his pants would be revealed. Taking her grandmother's cane she tucked the tip under the hem of Fifi's frock and hoisted it up to expose his underwear - tiny pink panties with a ruffled front panel.
She stepped back again, but only a pace, and she never took her eyes off Fifi. His stocking-clad legs were bared for virtually their entire length, the pale pink plumpness of his knicker-gusset just visible between the very tops of his thighs where a suggestion of delicate lace trimmed the rim of each leg.
"Turn around." the girl told him curtly.
Everyone watched as he turned, and Fifi peering anxiously back over his shoulder. The tiny panties were no more than a G-string and left the whole of his bum cheeks uncovered, the fullness pushing insolently out under the lace and creasing in an intriguing line where his buttocks met his thighs. The narrow strip of nylon tucked intimately into the division of his bottom added the finishing touch to a charming pose.
