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Frederick was in his bedroom, having been made to sit on his father's bed instead of his own while the man went to grab something.
The boy wondered what it would be this time. A cane? A belt? He doubted it could be anything much harsher, considering blood would stain the carpet and bedding. The latest transgression Frederick had committed to be deserving of his approaching punishment was a bit of a mystery to even himself.
Henry Godfrey and his son had been attending a gathering to celebrate the engagement of one of the man's colleagues. Though, colleague was quite a strong word. Frederick knew better than anyone that his father was far from skilled at socializing.
Nonetheless, they were in attendance, and Frederick was told to not make an embarrassment of himself or their family. He never did, always well-behaved, more liked than his father ever was, not that it took much effort. The boy smiled, nodded, even added a little commentary of his own when need be. It was akin to playing the role of a well trained dog.
Drifting from his father's side, Frederick found himself talking with a man maybe ten years older than himself. Believing he was out of his aging father's earshot, he even let out a few snarky comments about some of the people in attendance at the party. He leaned more than he needed to on his cane to get himself closer to his peer, and smirked conspiratorially while they both judged the people they were forced to exchange niceties with.
The man was kind. Said his name was Jethro Johnston, and, perhaps a bit rudely, Frederick found himself bursting into a fit of giggles over simple alliteration. Mr. Johnston had laughed lightly himself, but clearly wasn't as amused as Frederick was. His head tilted forward, pale blond strands of hair moving from their neatly combed places and coming down to fall upon his slightly red face. He brought a thin hand to his mouth to suppress his laughter, delicate fingers covering parted pink lips that spilled out apologies between giggling.
It shouldn't have been a surprise that such an act would draw his father's attention. Within not forty-five seconds, Lord Godfrey had grabbed his son by the arm, made some paltry excuse as to why he was taking Mr. Johnston's talking partner away, and left the party as soon as he was able, not letting the boy away from his side again for a second.
Frederick's father's anger wasn't fully realized until the next day, a Sunday, as the boy was sitting on the man's bed, early enough in the morning that the sun had just began to prick its way into the bedroom. He'd been told he was going to be receiving quite the severe punishment, with no further elaboration as to why or what, leaving him guessing.
When Henry re-entered their room with an armful of what appeared to be clothing, the boy couldn't help but tilt his head in confusion. As he came closer, the boy was able to see that his father was holding one of his late mother's dresses, along with what he would soon see to be a corset, a heaping of petticoats, a chemise... and women's drawers, all of which presumably belonged to his mother as well, not that Frederick could recall.
The only reason he recognized the dress, especially without glasses, was that it was the same one that was in her portrait [now hidden away, as a few years ago Henry decided he wanted no traces of her to effect his son]. A pale, calming yellow made up most of the dress, accented with white on the sleeves, chest, and the ruffles at the hem. It was beautiful.
Why was his father bringing it to him?
Unceremoniously, Henry dumped the clothing at his son's side, grumbling to himself just low enough that Frederick couldn't hear. His father stood in front of him, and the boy tilted his head up to meet his eyes. It wouldn't do to show disrespect now when he was already being disciplined. Henry met his eyes for the briefest moment, then averted his gaze, spitting out a command.
"Undress yourself, be swift about it."
A bit of odd request, but certainly not one Frederick had never heard before. At times, his father wanted him without clothing so that during punishment, his blows could be more effective. But with the pile of his mother's clothes so glaringly near, the boy feared exactly why he was being made to undress now.
Nonetheless, he obeyed, like he always did. Stripping down to only his undergarments, which didn't take long as he hadn't even changed into his day clothes, Frederick turned back to his father. Being told to undress entirely was what really concerned the boy hesitated. A stern glare met his uncertain gaze, and he quickly followed his father's orders.
The boy stood in front of his father, completely bare. His hands clasped together in front of his crotch, a meager attempt to cover himself without offending his father. A feeling of undeniable dread seeped down his throat to his sternum and ribcage, encircling his lungs while Henry looked him up and down, a lack of emotion expressed in his gaze.
Frederick had a very slight build. He was a bit short for a boy of his age, and the fat of youth had quickly worn off his growing body, leaving him lean, on the edge of scrawny. His skin was porcelain pale, and that was being generous. This was at least in part due to how little he went outside, save from when he went to school or was dragged to one of Henry's events that required a something young at his side. Seeing his odd gait, it was clear how much his left leg was weakened, his right side supporting him heavily. His facial features were soft, save for his pointed nose. Long lashes decorating deep green eyes, high cheek bones, soft and full pink lips, not yet a mark on his face. Had he been born a woman, any man would want to covet her, the absolute standard of beauty. His acquiescent and docile behaviour would've been better suited to one of the gentler sex.
However, this was not why Henry had chosen to bring his son Ophelia's clothes. The man's sole intent was punishment. Which is why he did nothing but scoff as the boy practically shivered at being handed women's drawers.
"Father, I'm not- I don't-" Frederick scrambled to find words to describe his distress, left a nonplus.
"Why do you continue to be disobedient?" Henry asked, his question not meant to be answered, but to warn.
Left uncertain, but with little other choice, Frederick took the undergarments from his father's hand, and shuffled them on awkwardly. They fit well, better yet when he tied the string meant to fasten the garment. His face flushed at how comfortably the clothing laid at his waist, as if he couldn't be humiliated enough by the sheer act of having to wear women's drawers, they had to fit perfectly as well.
Circumstances worsened as Henry dragged him about, pulling the boy closer to him so he could dress him. Frederick let him, malleable and yielding to whatever his father willed. A loose chemise was tugged onto his thin frame. It fit a bit more poorly than the other undergarments did, but just barely. He imagined that no one but himself would have been able to tell, only Frederick could feel the way he was slightly dwarfed by his mother's vestments.
His father pulled away, grabbing the corset off the bed and telling Frederick to raise his arms. As he did what was told, Henry put a hand on his waist, as if to steady him. A large hand felt the tremors of his breathing, more stuttered and rapid than usual. Anxiety-ridden, hardly befitting of the strong young man he was supposed to be. But perhaps...
Frederick kept his arms raised while his father set the corset on him, the top of it resting on his lowest ribs. Henry's breathing could be easily heard in his ear as the man leaned down to be able to lace the garment on properly. The boy was still so short, the onset of puberty a few years off. The tightening of the corset finally brought a verisimilitude to this being a punishment. Frederick regretted his sharp inhale at the first pull, as it just gave his father more room to tighten, restricting his breathing. The boning dug into his skin through the chemise and the more the garment was pulled taught, the more the fabric underneath pinched at his skin.
"H- hurts," Frederick shamefully stuttered out, immediately regretting his words as his father halted his actions, leaning further over him.
Henry's spoke into his son's ear, low and gruff, "Being a lady tends to hurt."
Frederick startled then, the meaning of this whole affair being spelled out so blatantly making him flush. This was a sort of peculiar humiliation ritual, then. The boy turned his head to meet his father's eyes. Even if he couldn't parse his expression through his blurry vision, he knew it must be one of disappointment.
"Why am I receiving this punishment?" He asked, as stiff and impassive as he could manage.
"You really don't know?" A groan, a pull, "If you want to act like your mother so badly," Another pull, "You can be her."
A wave of shame and confusion anew washed over the boy. When had he been acting like his mother? He thought he'd managed to kick most of her ingrained mannerisms, doing his best to act more doll than dame. Quiet, agreeable, and minimally feminine, despite the traits he embodied lending to such presumptions. He was still smart, strong of mind if not body, moreso than the bit of cleverness expected of a woman to keep up conversation. He tried everything to not resemble his late mother, not guided by her memory but by his father's scoldings. And at some point the previous evening, he had failed.
Henry tied off the corset and spun Frederick around to face him. Now, there was some sort of shape to his son's usually so stick-like form. The corset had forced his slim form slimmer at the waist and giving a mirage of wider hips. There still wasn't much to be said for the boy's chest, but the same was said for his mother in her earlier years. He'd fit into her dress, there was little doubt.
Most of the rest of Frederick's dressing was uneventful, aside from the boy hoping his irascible father wouldn't be bothered too much with having to wrestle with petticoats. Everything fit well, most disturbingly, a pair of his mother's kidskin gloves, in which he could feel a bit of wear on the inside of the thumb on the right hand, where her finger, and now his own, was ever so slightly cramped. Even the bosom of the gown didn't feel underfilled, making the boy think it must have been purchased in the first year of his mother and father's marriage, before she first took.
When Henry left the room, insisting he stay put, Frederick did as he was told, his only movement being to grab his glasses from his bedside and placing them on his face, thinking his father wouldn't think it an offense to stop himself from being blind. He stared at the very tips of black shoes sticking out from layers of yellow and white fabric as he waited obediently.
The boy's father returned, bearing a comb and a small container that Frederick was unable to read the label of in his father's hand. He set them down, and then turned to the boy, his ever present frown deepening as he saw his son's face.
Without a word, Henry begun to remove his son's glasses before the boy put a small hand up to stop him.
"Father, I can't see without them," Frederick stated, as steady as he could manage with claws of wretchedness still gripping at his lungs.
The man looked down at him, as if he'd spoken some great offense. His hand still held the spectacles, frozen in place, fingers grazing Frederick's head. He looked to the side, and the boy assumed he was calculating if it was alright to let this go on. If it was alright for his son to wear something that his mother distinctly lacked. If the recreation of her image would be soiled.
"Fine," was all Henry spoke before moving onto adjusting Frederick's hair.
He took up the comb, brushing his son's short pale locks into place, a sigh of annoyance passing his lips when a small curl fell out of order. The same one that always did, at the most inconvenient of times. Before church or during formal events. He held his thumb in front of Frederick's already slightly agape mouth, and felt the boy's small tongue dart out to wet the pad of his finger. Quick, practiced, automatic. Henry ignored, or perhaps did not care, that his son cringed throughout the whole ordeal, especially while his broad digit slicked the hair back into place.
The boy's hair ended up looking the same as it usually did, parted neatly in the middle. The way his mother's hair was parted in her portrait. Unlike his mother, Frederick's hair was always kept neatly cut at the nape of his neck, his father forbade him to let it grow out even slightly. His reason varied, but it all had the same lingering undertone. There was a fine line he was expected to walk upon when it came to his mother.
Soon enough, Henry finished, and he plucked up the receptacle he brought in, which Frederick could now see held rouge. A deep, deep red. Despite his best efforts, the boy's face twisted as if suddenly afflicted with nausea. Henry had a brief upward twitch of his lips, before returning to his usual surly expression and brushing his index finger into the rouge.
"It's good to see I've taught you better than your mother," Henry spoke, taking his hand not dirtied with red to tip his son's chin up.
"Thank you, Father," Frederick said, lips barely parting.
Henry began to spread the rouge on his son's bottom lip, turning the pink of innocence to a marred red. His finger was large enough that he ended up smearing the colour on the edge of the boy's mouth. As he went to correct the mistake with a clean finger, he took in Frederick's visage. Wide eyed, obedient, and debauched.
"It took an inordinate amount of time to get her to stop wearing this," Henry muttered as he hastily finished applying the rouge to his son's slightly open lips, "It was almost as if she enjoyed looking like a courtesan instead of a wife."
Frederick nodded, as he didn't know how else to respond. He'd already heard all the stories about his mother's awful traits. Emotional, free-spirited, promiscuous, quick to cry. Frederick had mastered avoiding the first three, but still hadn't quite been able to break the way tears sprung to his eyes when his father delivered even a single blow.
With the final swipe of red, Frederick was fully dressed in his late mother's image. It would have been better if he felt stiff, but the clothes he wore fit near perfectly, if he ignored the press of the corset. The majority of Frederick's discomfort came from how his father was looking down at him, and how humiliating it felt to be reduced to the image of his mother.
A rough tug on Frederick's arm made him stumble toward his father, his weak leg not able to acclimate to the sudden movement fast enough. He quickly tilted his head up to his father once he regained his footing, being met with the expected look of disappointment. As Henry began guiding him out of the room, Frederick was forced to let himself be led, lest he fall without someone to support him, the boy began to feel panic creep up his throat.
"Father, what if someone sees? They might spread rumours," Frederick urged, attempting to mask his concern with his own dignity as worry for his father's reputation.
"None of my house staff would dare utter a word against me. I don't appreciate you implicating otherwise," Henry's grip on his son's arm tightened, before he let him go, leaving the boy to instinctually clutch onto his arm to hold himself up properly while he continued walking out of the room.
"I apologise for making a hostile assumption," was the soft murmur Frederick let out as his father opened the bedroom door.
"I expect less insolence from here on, unless you wish for your punishment to worsen."
Frederick nodded quickly, not wishing to incur a beating along with being humiliated.
The boy held onto his father tightly as they walked down the hall. It was a given that today was a day where he wasn't permitted to use his cane. Frederick was forced to keep close, praying that any servant that walked by would be kind enough to avert their gaze from his shameful form. It was his luck that within a mere moment of leaving their bedroom, a young maid walked by, clearly having just risen, considering the way she at first groggily walked past the pair, before turning back to ogle.
"Do you need something?" Henry asked, the same stern, cold voice he used for nearly all his servants.
Quickly, the woman shook her head, mumbled out a quick apology, and rushed off, likely to tell the other staff about the sight. The master of the household's only son, dressed like a harlot. Frederick tried to keep the humiliation he felt off his face.
His father simply led him on, acting as if nothing was amiss, until they reached his office. Here, Frederick was made to sit on a chaise, where he subsequently tried to ignore how the action felt suffocating in the clutches of the corset. Henry handed him a book, and a pencil. The boy opened the book, finding its pages empty. He looked up to his father in confusion, who responded with exasperation.
"Don't look at me like a fool. Write."
Frederick's brows knitted, "What should I- ?"
"Whatever comes to mind, I care little. A wife should know better than to ask her husband needless questions," Henry sat down at his desk, turning away from Frederick, leaving the boy to ponder.
It was hard to think of much at all to write in this state, being made up to look like a woman. Not any woman, his own mother. His father's wife. Frederick looked back down at the empty book in his hands. He glanced at the longcase clock in the corner of the office, ornate carvings of greenery on the sides, a bronze pendulum swinging back and forth. If he didn't start writing soon, Father would be upset with him.
So that is how Frederick spent the next four hours in his father's office writing down an essay on the importance of honesty, an idea for a mystery novel, and part of a knock-off Shakespeare play. Occasionally the boy would glance up at his father. More often than not, he would find eyes gazing back at him. Whilst in response, he quickly turned his own gaze back downwards, Henry didn't seem to have such urgency. It made him paranoid to know he was being watched intently, though he was used to the feeling by now. He just wished he knew exactly what his father was looking for.
The clock read nearly a quarter to eleven when Henry stood, the sound of his father rising making Frederick snap his head up from his writings. Within a moment, the book was snatched from his hands, and in surprise, he dropped the now nearly dulled pencil to the floor, causing a soft clatter. Quickly, the boy attempted to bend down to grab the pencil, finding it difficult in his current dress. It ended up that he was unable to retrieve the object, and instead ignored it, not wanting to attempt to kneel down with the sorry state of his leg. He rose, wobbling slightly as he met his father's gaze in shoes he wasn't used to, even if well fitting.
Henry seemed uninterested in his son or his mistake at the moment, as he was flipping through his writing. Frederick tried not to let any fear show on his face. He supposed that he should have expected his writing to be read, and there was nothing offensive on the pages. But it wasn't his best work, and he said as such.
"You've written down meaningless drivel," Henry stated after a few minutes of glancing and gawking at his son's work.
"My apologies, I didn't know exactly what you wished for me to write, so I just... put down whatever came to mind," Frederick attempted to defend his work, though he knew it was rather pointless.
"Whatever came to mind," His father scoffed and walked past him, towards the hearth on the far wall of the office.
Frederick watched in silence as the book, which had really hardly been filled at all, even with the hours of writing, was dropped into the fireplace. Henry beckoned his son closer, and the boy limped forward, stumbling until he could grab onto his father's arm for support.
"This is what happens when you think your work matters, Ophelia," Henry murmured, eyes still on the fire.
For his own part, Frederick didn't even flinch at being referred to by his mother's name, accepting this strange role he'd been thrust into. He watched as the flames licked at the paper and the leather binding, how it consumed the book and turned it into a charred black, making a darker smoke rise up the chimney. He averted his gaze when the crackling noises stopped, waiting for Father to finish whatever display this was supposed to be.
Once the book had been thoroughly demolished, Henry then began to walk out of the room, making his son have no choice but to follow behind. They left the office, the smell of burnt paper still clinging to Frederick's nostrils. They turnt down hallways that the boy was so familiar with, but they all felt frightening when at any moment, someone could once again see him in this sorry state.
His worries came to fruition when his father's valet practically bumped into them, head tilting for a moment, before recognition flickered over his gaze, and a closed-lip smile graced his face.
"Master Godfrey, good morning," The man bowed lightly, a sign less of respect, and moreso of proving he looked more respectful than any other servant.
"Paul, have you been keeping everything sorted?" Henry asked. It seemed he'd indeed cleared up most work as to instead oversee his son's discipline.
"I have, as always," A light chuckle left Paul's lips, and Frederick scrunched his nose at the scent of tobacco. He'd been smoking in the greenhouse again, the boy was sure of it. Margaretha would have a fit when she found out.
"Good, good," Henry spoke, and then went on about some political business that Frederick could hardly care less about. He and Paul kept on talking for a while, completely ignoring him, save for quick glances that the valet would throw his way, somewhere between amusement and pity. How embarrassing.
It was only when Father said his name that he began to pay attention, and as he did, he regretted it.
"Frederick behaved quite out of line last night, as I told you. As such, I thought the only way to nail in his head how much he didn't want to act like his mother, was to have him emulate her role proper," Henry slipped a hand around Frederick's waist, constrained by corsetry, and pulled him closer. The boy complied, like the doll he was destined to be until adulthood.
"It's certainly a creative sort of punishment," Paul mused, leaning down slightly to get a better look at Frederick.
"Is that a judgement?" Henry spoke, pushing at his servant's words.
"Not at all, more a compliment than anything else. You know I'd never speak poorly of you," A grin of only slightly crooked teeth.
"He does bear quite a resemblance to the late Ophelia," Paul muttered in continuation, narrowing his eyes down at the boy.
Frederick narrowed his own gaze back, offering a slight frown before going back to his blank expression. The man would tease him about this later, surely, but he'd also give him an opiate to help the aching that would surely be left after wearing a corset all day, at the expense of not telling Father that he smoked inside his property. Ever since the boy had found out of his little 'secret', they'd fallen into some sort of strange truce. Bandages and laudanum for his wounds, and both of them would keep secrets from the man who owned them.
Still, the reassurance that he'd get an odd sort of comfort for his pain didn't help the flush on his cheeks from embarrassment, especially as his father continued to talk about him as if he wasn't by his side. Something he had a habit of doing, but in this case, it was especially humiliating. Left to be gawked at and nothing more.
Conversation spun on, talk of Frederick's close resemblance to his mother, something he was quite used to hearing, and his punishment, thankfully didn't last the whole time. Apparently, one of his father's peers had gotten heavily drunk at a party, a topic which Paul seemed much more amused by than Henry, who simply listened and groaned, turning the topic back to his son by the end.
After one of the most degrading fifteen minutes of Frederick's young life, his father told Paul that he and 'Ophelia' ought to be off to an early lunch. The other man nodded, and passed them by, giving a light pat to the boy's shoulder as he did so. What a bastard.
Frederick was sat across from his father, as per usual. Their meal was normal as well, save for servants staring at him a touch too long. It became starkly clear that many of them at first mistook him for a courtesan. The thought brought the taste of bile to his mouth, just hardly overpowered by his food.
"How lucky you are to benefit from my riches. Why, some wives would have to cook entire meals for their husbands," Henry murmured, eyes trained over the table at his son's blank face.
"Yes, sir. I'm very blessed," Frederick responded, and put more fruit in his mouth, hoping it would prolong the time he had before he was going forced to respond to another odd, cruel comment.
"Your voice even sounds right, when it hits a certain range," His father's tone couldn't quite be identified by the boy, though he had heard it before. Frederick cherished the last taste of plum before the taste of sick returned to his mouth, and he had to speak.
"I'm sorry I resemble her so," Frederick apologized, unable to meet his father's prying eyes.
"Today, you shouldn't apologize for such a thing. Your punishment is to emulate her being in full," Henry then rose from his chair, slowly stalking over to Frederick's side in a stilted manner.
The boy watched him in the corner of his eye. His gait was strange, as if he was injured. Was this a sort of mockery? Frederick's lips turned down a twitch, and barely a few seconds later, as if in response to his disobedience, Henry grabbed his chin, forcing his son to look him in the eyes.
He knew his grip was harsh. It had to be, a wife was not made from kindness and care. Wives were carved out and forced into shape. Fifteen years had passed by since he did it for the first time. Now, the Lord found it fit for him to correct his mistakes.
Henry leaned down, drawing closer to his son's face. The rouge had been slightly smeared, from messy eating, no doubt. A broken facade of what a woman should be, just like his departed Ophelia. His thumb rose to his son's bottom lip, worsening the smear under the false presumption of fixing it.
Frederick's breath was quickening. The boy was not yet truly scared, thought unable to process that his feelings were that of fear even if he wished to. Father was close, but that was normal. His closeness being rough wasn't out of the ordinary either, he should really feel lucky that he wasn't being beaten.
Father's breath could now be felt mingling with his own. He was breathing him in, each inhale was him letting his father consume him, take him. Like he always had, and always will. Even here, his hand shall lead him, and his hand shall hold him.
Their lips were nearly brushing as Henry spoke.
"This is all you will be to me if you keep being a disappointment."
Frederick wouldn't be able to recall much of the day past that. Everything seemed to go by in a daze. They encountered other servants and maids, to which Henry paused to talk to them more than he usually would. Speaking the whole time about how Frederick was being made in Ophelia's image, how, after a few hours, he was enduring his punishment without complaint. The boy nodded and stayed silent, like a good wife should.
They spent the afternoon in his father's office, where he was made to write again, though his mind hardly permitted him to put down much of anything. This too, was burnt. Frederick couldn't find it in himself to flinch. His mother's corset made him ache and he continued to pray without meaning.
Evening fell, the only lights being the fireplace and oil lamps. Frederick held his father's arm as he was guided back to their bedroom. Each piece of his mother's clothing was taken off with the utmost care, until he was once again laid entirely bare. He was much too tired to even think of covering himself. As such, it was very easy for his father to tug a night gown over his head. An even softer yellow than his day dress. It made him feel dizzy.
Frederick moved to his own bed, feeling the slightest twinge of relief that the day would be over, before Henry grabbed his arm. He looked up, glasses crooked, eyelids drooping. The day had felt so, so long.
"A proper wife sleeps at her husband's side," His father spoke. Frederick supposed it made sense, he was in his mother's night gown. Punishment wasn't over just yet.
The boy got into bed with his father, something he hadn't done since age six. To his surprise, he was tugged close, face pushed against his father's chest, his own weedy frame intermeshed with a broad, thicker body. He felt far younger than twelve, despite playing the role of a grown bride.
Tears welled up that he knew soaked through his father's clothes. Utter weakness. He was continuing to prove he was a desecrated woman, fragile and unkempt. Even worse than his mother. Perhaps this was the true punishment, humiliation in front of not others, but Father alone.
As he drifted off, tears hardly having dried, silent sobs still wracking his body, held by his father's arms, one last thought came to Frederick's mind. A reflection that he'd wonder upon for weeks. For decades.
Was he worth any more than a wife?
---
Charles was having difficulty sleeping. It had been an exciting day, after all. His master had given him a sip of his ale for the good work he had done, and he'd been able to grab food off of one of the older boy's plates without getting caught and knocked around for it. And, most excitingly, his master had told him that in a few weeks time, they'd be going to the countryside to sweep for a wealthy man. The boy rarely left the city, so the prospect of doing so was a thrill, even if he'd certainly be tired after cleaning the many chimneys of a mansion.
He looked at the ceiling, or rather, the darkness where Charles supposed the ceiling should be, as in the day time, the ceiling tended to be above his head. For a time, the boy wondered what could make a better day than the one he'd had? If he had haven the time to visit Raphael, surely he'd be even more cheery. Perhaps if he was given a bed of his own, he thought as he had to sleep beneath a sack in between the other boys, who'd not hesitate to give him a beating if he awoke them. Or maybe if he'd gotten a sweet? It was rare he could afford such a thing.
But, if he dreamed for a moment, far from his sordid reality, perhaps one day, he could live in a grand house. He'd become a great master himself when he grew up, that's what Tom had told him, after all. A great master with a greater house, perhaps like the one Raphael lives at. And in such a home he could store many sweets, and have a bed of his own, with clean white linens and soft pillows. And how he would brag to the other boys, older and taller but less talented than he, while they still lived in hovels, unlike him.
Yes, one day Charles would step into a fine home, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. And quite everyone would see his worth then.