With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  “That is an excellent question.” A benevolent smile flooded her face. “Most prefer to rest it thusly.” She tucked the demi-spoon along the saucer’s gilded edge. “But we mustn’t rattle the utensil into place. No. No. Doing so would draw notice, and a lady must never draw attention to herself this way. Now, watch while I demonstrate how to elevate the teacup.”

  Pamela raised the china. Rose-painted porcelain met coral-tinted lips. She sipped, emitting no sound.

  “Now you try, my sweet. And remember, we always sip. We never slurp. Your objective is to produce no sound. More than any other activity, that displays true gentility. Well, other than knowing how to eat with manners and how to use the utensils, and a few other things. But we’ll work on all those later. Now go on.” She nodded. “Sip.”

  Callie tightened her finger around the teacup’s thread-thin handle. With Herculean effort, she emulated the process.

  The beverage slid down her throat in complete silence.

  Oh my gawd…I…I did it!

  Her heart soared along with Pamela’s encouraging words.

  “There! You see. You sipped perfectly. I’m so proud of you for—”

  “I’ll do it again…I mean, if you want me to,” Callie interrupted.

  “Absolutely. A lady can never practice enough.”

  This time Callie held out her pinkie, emulating what she’d seen her mother do so many times in the past. Another sip followed with equal perfection.

  “Well done, dearest. Well done. I’ve scored you one hundred percent.” Pamela giggled as she placed her teacup and saucer on the side table. “Let’s move on to the dessert, shall we?” She reached for a small plate. “Now…about table manners.” She inhaled, then eased out a soft sigh. “We all face challenges, but I’m confident you will master this part too. And no matter how recherché or sumptuous your carte du jour, if your guests are not suited to each other, your responsibility as hostess is to steer conversation toward more favorable topics.” She reached for a silver server, lifted a wedge of gingerbread, then placed it on the closest tiny plate. “When we are finished here, we must begin your preparations and clothing choices for tonight. After all, a woman is never a lady unless properly corseted.”

  A corset? Hell no. “I don’t think we need to go that far.”

  “Nonsense. If we’re going to all this work, we might as well see it through to the finish, don’t you think?” She returned the server to the cake and repeated the process. “And don’t you worry one bit, either. I have all the underpinnings and outerwear you’ll need to acquire the correct appearance.”

  Pamela settled a square of gingerbread upon the second plate. Callie frowned at the miniscule serving. Jeezus, she could eat the damn thing in one bite.

  “Besides, correct attitude comes with the correct curves,” her mentor chirred. “And of course, lessons on comportment, hygiene and presentation will follow later this afternoon.” She passed the gingerbread to Callie. “I am thrilled you came to me for help, darling. Truth be told, I’ve been so bored until now, and helping you become soft and ladylike will be my…my joie de vivre. Indeed, the highlight of my summer.” She caught Callie’s gaze. “Please allow me the privilege to dress you. It would be such an honor.”

  But…a corset?

  Sonofabitch.

  Callie dropped her gaze to the plate, then raised it back to Pamela’s face. Sincerity glowed bright in the woman’s eyes. On one hand, Callie was mortified to be a fully-grown woman so unsure of her own femininity, yet on the other hand, how could she deny such a plea?

  Oh, what the hell…

  “Fine,” she sighed. “Work your magic.” Anyway, traipsing down the rose-strewn path to gentility, if even for a little while, might not be so deplorable. Her fingers closed around the fork. For a fleeting moment, she became that little girl in St. Louis again, long before tragedy had buried her under many years of sadness.

  “I promise we shall have a delightful time,” Pamela whispered.

  Callie shoved a forkful of gingerbread into her mouth. The cake was moist and delicious. Around the food, she mumbled, “Whatever it takes to learn. I’m ready.” She scraped the plate, twisting the tines of the fork back and forth to capture each crumb. “Damn this tastes good.”

  Pamela’s head tipped sideways and she issued a reprimanding glare.

  “What?” Callie said, laughing. “It does.”

  Her mentor shook her head and then laughed. “Yes, it does. And I suppose now is as good a time as any to learn how a proper lady consumes her food. Now, hold out your plate and I’ll serve another piece.”

  Callie nodded and shoved the dish forward.

  Forty-five minutes later, and to Pamela’s satisfaction, Callie had completed lessons on how to eat like a lady, how to hold the utensils, how to sit and stand, and the expected comportment while entertaining in the parlor.

  Now she stood naked and alone in the woman’s shade-darkened bedroom. Before Callie, curlicues of steam rose from the water inside a massive copper hip tub three Navaho servants had filled earlier.

  Rose-scented oil coalesced on top in a glistening sheet.

  Taking a real bath in the colonel’s home wasn’t anywhere on Callie’s list of things that needed doing, but Pamela had glared at her and insisted she strip from her filthy duds. Callie’s thoughts replayed the scene that had brought her to this incommodious moment.

  “You will have a half hour to bathe,” Pamela instructed. “And use the soap in lavish abandon to scrub away the embedded dirt and grime.” She pointed to Callie’s fingernails, then swept her gaze upward. “And I want you to unbraid your hair and scrub your scalp with equal fervor. Use beneficial friction when drying to send a glow over your entire body.” She stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. “And do not force me to re-bathe you like I’m some scullery maid, Miss Cutteridge. I would find that detestable.” Stepping back, her smile returned. “Now, I’ll just go write our invitations for this evening.”

  Click…the door had closed behind her.

  A lady’s body is supposed to glow?

  Callie shuddered. She’d already lost valuable minutes unbraiding her hair, stripping and staring at the damn water. She inched toward the tub. The contraption looked comfortable enough, what with its high back and all. But she hadn’t slid into a full bath, naked, in years. She preferred standing on the oilcloth and splashing water from her washbasin. As far as she was concerned, that process worked just fine. And every now and again, especially during her monthly flow, she included a brisk dip in the Angel. Nobody had complained thus far.

  ’Sides, Gus smells worse than I do.

  On the other hand, Pamela smelled like roses, and Jackson obviously liked women to smell that way. Therefore, if something as absurd as taking a full bath would get him to talk about why he threw the race, Callie could wallow in the water for a little while.

  She gripped the side of the metal, lifted her right foot off the floor and brought her leg over the tub’s edge. When her toe touched the water, a tingle zipped straight through her body to settle on her scalp.

  She plunged her foot to the bottom. The scent of roses coiled upward, floating into her nostrils. Callie inhaled, drawing the fragrance deeper. A heartbeat later, she slid into the center of the heavenly oasis. An exaggerated sigh escaped as she leaned against the metal.

  I forgot how good this feels.

  Her eyelids closed as the water enveloped her within a slick cocoon. She reveled in the sensation for long minutes, losing track of time. Liquid pooled across her stomach. She rose and lowered her fingers, tapping the shiny surface. The past several days had evoked a cyclone of unwanted sensations, and the combination of events proved once more how unstable she was when it came to confronting her emotions.

  Callie lifted her hands and stared as water droplets formed on her fingertips. Each prism glistened in the light that
spilled from the lamp on a side table near the bed. She slowly brought her finger upward and smoothed the silky liquid across her lower lip. An instantaneous ache pulsed through her as she recalled the heat of Jackson’s mouth.

  Warmth billowed across her chest and past her stomach like a hot wind. Her thoughts spun on a cyclone of imagination. Naked in body and mind, Callie dropped her emotional barrier. Willingly, she allowed the image of her broad-shouldered partner to enter the bedchamber of her mind.

  He gently raised her leg out of the tub and rested the sole of her foot against his bare chest. Water darkened his hair into a mat beside his dusky nipple and then sluiced downward to soak the waistband of his pants. The air vibrated around her. A deep moan caught in her throat as his hand stroked the limb’s length, working ever upward, moving closer and closer to…

  A knock on the door startled Callie. She swooshed upward with such force the water cascaded over the sides of the tub. Her spine stiffened.

  “Y-Yes?” she rasped, struggling to quell the erratic beat of her heart. Her breath came in deep pants. Bloody hell. I’m thinking about him again! Her body still hummed with anticipated pleasure, and a strange flip-flop fluttered deep in her belly…and below.

  From the other side of the door Pamela’s muffled voice reached out to her. “Did you find the soap, darling?”

  Callie swept the area around the tub in a maddened search, looking for the lye bar. Her gaze fell on a nearby chair. Several flower-shaped soaps rested atop the toweling.

  “Y-Yes,” she stammered, wrapping her fingers around a silky rosette. “I found them.” She plunged the diminutive piece into the water beside her right hip. “I’m latherin’ up right now.”

  “Good. Now just enjoy your bath and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Enjoy my bath? While becoming a lady, I must’ve lost my damn mind. Callie shoved aside the all-too-vivid image of her half-naked partner. Her head felt ready to burst from the pressure blossoming behind her right eye. But the ache in her head could not quite equal the ache still nestling…down there.

  She bent her knees and slipped down the back of the tub until her head completely submerged. Seconds later she surfaced, sputtering as she brought the soap to her tresses and lathered her hair. Her fingers dug into her scalp in an effort to wash away the prior image. The bubbles built. The glorious fragrance swirled around her again. Callie slowed her efforts and allowed the richness of the suds to slick through her fingers. The unwanted reflection of Jackson was not going to make her rush through this event.

  The rich, creamy soap amazed her.

  She immersed herself again and rinsed, then sat upright, wiping the water from her eyes. Laughing, she gripped the little rosette tighter between her palms and quickly rubbed to produce another foamy cloud. The suds weren’t harsh, certainly not as abrasive as the lye soap she used back home. In fact, her skin wasn’t irritated one bit.

  I’ve got to get me some of this.

  Moments later, she glided her hands over her arms and legs, around her breasts and hips and down farther into her secret place. Not only did she wash away the grime and sweat, but also any lingering resistance. Aside from the momentary loss of sanity in dreaming about Jackson, so far nothing had surprised her more than her enjoyment of this bath. But the lessons weren’t over, and there was little time to waste. Callie glanced at the door. Pamela would return any moment.

  Cupping her hands, she scooped water over her shoulders and then climbed to her feet. She stepped from the tub and reached for the towel, her fingers folding into the long nap of thick, soft cotton. Was this a Turkish towel? She’d seen advertisements in an occasional periodical, but she’d never actually touched one. Regardless, a splendid item like this would soon replace the scrap of huckaback linen she ordinarily used.

  She dried off until her body tingled. Surely that was the expected glow.

  A moment later, a knock upon the door preceded Pamela’s announcement. “I’m going to enter now, so do not be startled.”

  Callie wrapped the towel around her and tucked it into place over her breasts, then turned to face her mentor. “I did as you asked,” she announced as a part of her heart rejoiced. “I scrubbed away all the grime. See?” She extended her hands for Pamela’s inspection.

  A quick survey later, the woman proclaimed, “Wonderful, my pet! Now let’s keep going, for there’s much left to do.” Pamela moved toward an armoire nestled against the far wall and opened wide the mahogany doors.

  A wardrobe full of silks and satins greeted Callie.

  A sidestep later, Pamela tossed back the lids on three steamer trunks to reveal a mysterious collection of items made of cotton and linen. Callie had no clue what they were. All she knew was soft…and ladylike beckoned.

  Gone was her earlier unease. She now stood with bated breath, her hands clasped, her heart lodged in her throat.

  In one outstretched hand, Pamela fluttered a pair of ivory lace stockings, and in the other hand, two matching grosgrain ribbons. “Now sit there and draw these on, then tie them just above your knees.” Callie obeyed. The stockings slipped up her legs in a whisper of silk. A quick twist secured them. Pamela handed her a pair of silky split-crouch under drawers and a long chemise. Callie dropped her bath towel and then donned the items, marveling when the smooth textiles caressed her skin. These underthings were so different from the usual cotton drawers and battered camisoles she wore, and a quick glance toward the pile of dirty laundry crumpled in a heap near the tub revealed the extreme difference. Embarrassment blazed across her cheeks, but a rustling sound brought her gaze back to her teacher.

  Pamela held out an exquisite slip. “Underskirts, even those of fine muslin, should always be gored. Any gathers about the hips spoil the effect.” She shook the item, and the lamplight caught the embroidery’s sheen.

  The only reference to goring Callie knew involved animals, horns and tusks, but willingly she accepted the garment. Coolness whisked up her stockinged legs as she settled the cloth on her hips and secured the ribbon.

  “It is broderie anglaise,” Pamela stated matter-of-factly, yet Callie only saw the beauty of the needlework. A repeated eyelet pattern scampered around row upon row of white satin-stitched hollyhocks dancing merrily around the material.

  Why would anyone cover up such a breathtaking garment? She whirled in a circle before the standing mirror. Underwear or not, she could wear this to any damn tea party and feel just like a princess.

  A giggle escaped Callie’s lips as the soft clearing of Pamela’s throat met her ears. Her gaze darted back to her teacher.

  The woman held out a corset.

  Oh, no…not that. Already her chest hurt. She’d seen the contraptions before in myriad catalogs and at the mercantile in Tucson, but she had never considered donning one. How could she work the horses when such a device forbade the lungs to expand, robbing her of life-giving air?

  Pamela jiggled the item and narrowed her eyes. “This is designed to enhance our female figure, reshaping us into a more fashionable silhouette. A lady should never be without this article of clothing.”

  “If I put that thing on, it’ll probably kill me.”

  “Nonsense,” Pamela said. Before Callie could draw her next breath, she was wrapped inside a silken sheath. The steel basque up the front of the piece pushed her breasts upward into mounds of surprising lushness.

  Good Lord…what if they flop out onto Jackson’s gingerbread?

  Callie burst out laughing, but abruptly stopped when Pamela jerked the laces that crisscrossed her back. Breathing became a series of short inhales and exhales, but a few moments later, Callie surprised herself by adjusting to the change.

  Stepping sideways, she glanced at her reflection. Twisting in both directions, Callie marveled at the transformation. She didn’t possess an ounce of excess weight, yet the garment did enhance her figure.

  Wit
h a rattling sound, Pamela collapsed an apparatus onto the floor beside her. “Now step in the middle here, darling.” She pointed to the small opening in the set of graduated steel hoops, six rings held together by cotton tabbing. “Pull it over your hips and into place around your waist, then tie off the casing strings. And make a bow or we’ll be here forever getting the knot untied. This is the newest Boulevard-style crinoline. It’s flatter in the front and is a vast improvement over those full balmorals we wore during the war.”

  Callie had no idea what any of that meant, but she nonetheless nodded and dutifully obeyed. Despite its extreme size, the contraption was light, not at all cumbersome, and swayed as she rocked from side to side.

  “Good heavens, Callie. Stand still,” Pamela chided, wrapping her hands around the corset-covered waist to stop her movement. “A lady must never swing her crinolines, and when she walks she must glide across the floor.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I promise not to do that ever again.” Her mentor smiled and squeezed her waist, but as soon as her back was turned, Callie swayed three more times, resembling the bell inside the church tower at Father Miguel’s orphanage.

  She stifled another giggle.

  Seconds later, Pamela returned with a corset cover and overslip and dropped them over Callie’s head into their proper place. Awed, Callie stared at the stitching on the camisole…so delicate. So unlike her. Dressing up as a lady took a long time…yet for some bewildering reason, she didn’t mind. Besides, this entire afternoon had proved to be enjoyable—not that she wanted to do this daily, but for right now…she could endure.

  A rustling whisper caught her attention. Pamela carried an evening gown toward her from the armoire. “I’ve chosen this one for your debut tonight. It’s a John Redfern creation, and other than Charles Worth, I usually prefer this British designer’s dresses. The color will transform your pale hair into spun gold. You’ll see.” She reverently lifted the garment over Callie’s head, and all sixteen yards of emerald silk damask drifted down her body.