The Costume
Looking over the table she verified everything was neatly laid out. There was a specific arrangement she had in mind, and the items intended for her adventure tonight must be carefully lined up in the sequence they would be used. It was important to her that everything should be organized in the proper order.
Perhaps that was what so fascinated her about the British Edwardian era, from the beginning of the twentieth century up to World War I. The rigid social structure and its precise, well-defined role for everyone, based on class, appealed to her own belief in how the world should work. The costume theme tonight would be drawn from that era. Fortunately, there were plenty of websites that offered period authentic (or nearly so) women’s clothing.
Her choice for the evening began with a pulled, twist-back hair style that piled her hair on top and behind her head. The long-sleeved blouse was ivory white, with the iconic “Gibson Girl” puffy shoulders and a high collar. The light brown, button-down skirt was high-waisted and extended to her ankles. The narrow, straight skirt wasn’t entirely authentic; being made of leather it was heavier than wool or cotton, but she liked the stiff feel when she walked around or knelt down. To finish the look, she wore patent leather knee-high, lace-up boots. The heels were just under three inches, which gave the ensemble an elegant, semi-formal appearance, suitable for a modern, upper-class lady on a chaperoned afternoon walk in the park, during a fine spring day in 1905.
Except she had no intention of concluding with a parade around the Strand, on a man’s arm. Nor was she finished dressing. She had a table full of “accessories” which had no place on a proper woman of that period. The first item was the belt to hold up her skirt, around her waist. The skirt had belt loops, which were ideal for what came next.
The belt she chose from the table was utilitarian rather than fashionable. It was tanned leather, with a large buckle at one end and holes punched in the other. In the center was a sturdy metal D-ring, sewn into the belt with reinforcing strips of leather, riveted for extra durability. Although an anachronism it was unobtrusive, except for the ring in front and buckle in back. The ring was a crucial addition to the evening’s activities.
Working from the front, the end with the locking buckle went through the right-side skirt loops, and the punched end through the left, until they met behind her back. Working by feel she threaded the leather belt through the buckle and pulled it tight. Then she backed off one belt notch so it would be snug but not uncomfortable. Grasping the ring in front she jerked on it. The belt held firm to her waist. There was no way she could slip out of it. Nor would the skirt slide down off her hips.
Satisfied with the fit she reached behind her back to push down on the locking button atop the buckle. This was no ordinary belt. Designed for use by the police, a key would be necessary to open it. The key wasn’t much, just a sliver of sheet metal, but that wasn’t what made it secure. If she couldn’t reach behind her back even a simple lock would prove to be a challenge.
Given the close fit popular for the period, her legs were trapped in what was nearly a hobble skirt. The buttons lined up diagonally down the side were purely decorative; the skirt did not open. It was designed for walking, but in a slow, feminine manner common to the era. For her purposes that wasn’t quite good enough. The extras still on the table would deal with that problem.
Although she was indoors, she placed the straw hat over her hair, pinning it in place. It was attractively tilted at a steep angle toward one side; in fashion for a modern young woman.
Opening a small box, she took out one of her treasures. Inside, resting on velvet, were a matching pair of late Victorian gold earrings, a family heirloom passed down generation to generation. This was her link to the past, not a reproduction but an actual piece of history. Carefully she inserted the hooks through each ear. They were small but heavy, being nearly pure 22 karat gold. Closing her eyes she thought of the long line of her ancestors who had been the custodians of the bequest over more than a century. She was only the latest, there would be more to follow.
For a lady to appear in public without gloves would be scandalous, so she slipped her hands into thin pigskin gloves, soft and pliable. These weren’t quite correct, with a rolled end overlapping the arm length sleeves of her blouse. Looking down she examined her hands, to ensure no bare skin from her arms was visible. It simply would not do, to be embarrassed by exposing her limbs.
By rights her maid should be dressing her, if she had a maid. If only she could roll back the clock to the age when servants were de rigueur, though there would be time for reminiscing later. She still had unfinished work to complete.
The Accessories
From the table she selected the period accurate leg irons. These were reproductions of what had been in use by the constabulary back then; a style known as a “Darby”, a U-shaped shackle with a bar held closed with a strong spring lock. This was a special model, reduced in size to fit a woman’s ankle and a connecting chain cut down to less than half the normal length. The cuff was cast out of nickel-plated brass, more decorative than secure, though it was functional and worked well enough for her purposes. Sitting in the chair she held up the edge of the skirt in order to fasten the left-side cuff around her boot, at the ankle. The leg irons were not adjustable, but with the added padding of her boots it was a snug fit. Still holding up the skirt she repeated the procedure with the right-side cuff.
Dropping her skirt she stood up. The leg irons were concealed by the fall of the hemline, as she planned. Carefully she tried a tentative step. Her right boot jerked to a stop when the connecting chain pulled taut, the heel next to the pointed toe of her left boot. Perfect, exactly what she sought. The skirt by itself was still loose around her ankles, but underneath she had reached her limit. She walked back and forth, testing the limitations imposed by the sturdy chain between her feet and the inflexible leather surrounding her legs. She could move about, sit or stand, but any attempt to run and she’d be flat on the ground. When she sat down, she discovered crossing her legs was also out of the question.
Before she selected the next bit of decorative jewelry, she reached up to straighten the collar of her blouse, to make sure it was up to her chin. From the table she chose the necklace for the evening. Using both hands she slowly closed the glossy black metal band around her neck, until she heard the click of the lock in the back. A heart-shaped cameo of Queen Victoria, an authentic piece well over a hundred years old, was suspended in the front.
She centered the cameo so it pointed down, directing the eye to her prominent female attributes hidden beneath the blouse. From a distance it appeared as if she wore a stylish black velvet choker. On close inspection the choker turned out to be a sturdy metal collar, one that required a key to remove. To her mind it represented a symbol of ownership, an affirmation of loyalty and obedience to her man.
That left one last task to complete her preparations. On the table she stared at the handcuffs. Like the leg irons they were reproductions, copied from the type of Darby cuff favored by British constables. Also cast from brass, the handcuffs were heavy but just as functional. The bright nickel plating gleamed in the light. No one would ever mistake them for decorative bracelets though. The large locking bar left no doubt their purpose was functional rather than ornamental.
One end of the handcuff went around the narrow part of her right wrist, over the glove. Like the leg irons these were sized for women. The fit was close but not too tight or uncomfortable. She squeezed the locking bar against the shackle until the clunk of the engaged spring lock prevented removal without the key. Working the open end of the left cuff through the ring at her waist, she placed her free hand in its grasp and closed the lock. The rolled edge of the gloves would ensure they didn’t slip out of the embrace of her bracelets.
Her hands were now bound close to her waist by the belt. A couple of sharp jerks in different directions confirmed she was now strictly restrained in her movements.
She stood up to examine her handiwork. Aside from the presence of the chains she would be at home anywhere in a fashionable London neighborhood. Slowly she walked over to the full-length mirror in one corner of the room. Her pointed boots were visible below the skirt, but revealed little else. The long, straight lines of the skirt, from waist to the floor, with only the slightest of flare over the hips, created the ideal silhouette. The light brown color offset the bright white of her blouse.
This is who I am. These are the rules society dictates I must follow; a proper attitude for a good Edwardian woman, she thought. She didn’t see a contradiction with her love of bondage. In a way it was ironic. She was a product of the modern age, the liberated woman, independent, free to choose her own path in life, yet she longed for a time when none of that applied. Structure, discipline, an inflexible code of conduct applied to gender-specific roles, that was her secret desire. Far from feeling oppressed, she would have thrived back then.
Traveling Through Time
Feeling restless she headed for the back door. It was late afternoon, the sun low on the horizon. She stepped out onto the back porch. She wasn’t concerned about being spotted. The house was located outside a small, rural Kansas town. Her nearest neighbor lived nearly half a mile away, on the other side of the county road which ran past the front yard.
Over the top of the backyard fence she could see the fields of milo and barley, extending out to the flat horizon in all directions, waving back and forth in the breeze. It was a far cry from the gently rolling hills of an English estate in Berkshire, west of London, but that didn’t detract from her imaginary trip back in time. In her role as lady of the manor she wouldn’t be concerned with the vulgar details of business. Her duties were to run the household and handle the social obligations demanded of the landed gentry.
Turning sideways so she could reach the handrail she worked her way down the porch steps to the concrete pathway around the fenced in backyard. It wasn’t a full-sized park but, considering how slowly she could make her way, it served her as a substitute for the tranquility of estate gardens.
She began her stroll, pausing when she reached the rose bed. There were a few blooms already. She started to reach for one, until quickly brought to a halt by the handcuffs and transport belt. She sighed, frustrated yet oddly pleased she was being forcibly reminded to respect her self-imposed boundaries.
The sound of the back door opening reached her ears. Looking over her shoulder she saw her husband, the lord of the manor, standing in the doorway. She stood still, back to him, as he approached.
“Time traveling again? What year are we visiting today?” Still looking over her shoulder she saw his eyes sweep up and down, trying to guess the time period. A thrill went through her as he lingered on the lines of her skirt as it passed over her hips.
“London, 1905 and King Edward VII,” she replied. “And our estate in Berkshire, as you well know, sir.”
“Post-Victorian Britain, the loosening of morals, can the Empire long survive?” He laughed. Then his eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side, while folding his arms. “Turn around and let me see the results of your efforts.” There was an edge to the tone of his voice.
She tried to cover the handcuffs with her gloved hands before facing him. He wasn’t fooled. “I thought so. I saw the keys on your bedroom side table. Careless of you to leave them like that.” He patted the pocket of his shirt. “Not to worry though; they are quite safe in the hands of a responsible party.”
“Might you keep me company on a journey through our garden, sir? As a married woman it would be more acceptable if accompanied by my husband.”
He took hold of her arm, wrapping his large hand around one of those puffy sleeves. “It would be my pleasure, madam.” He leaned back and looked down at her boots. “Did you…” he asked.
“Yes sir, the short one, heel to toe. I was just starting out. I trust you will be patient with me? It may take some time to reach the end of the path.”
Verbal Pas de Deux
Ideally, she would take hold of his arm while he escorted her. However, there were certain impediments that rendered custom impractical, notably the handcuffs which bound her wrists in an unbreakable grip. His hand on her arm was a pragmatic solution, offering a way to initiate personal contact, as well as helping to keep her steady if she stumbled.
“The straw hat, is that new?” he asked. “I don’t recognize it. Quite a bold statement, breaking from the traditional look.”
“I found a picture, from 1905 in fact, portraying a young woman wearing a nearly identical hat. Truth is, I hate those gigantic Victorian and Edwardian hats, covered in cloth flowers and feathers. I still have no idea how they managed to keep them in place if subjected to a gust of wind, even with a handful of pins. Today I decided to be more practical.”
He nodded in understanding. “I see your point. So progressive though, it concerns me. What’s next, joining that Pankhurst woman and her suffragette movement? Will I have to come to the police station to bail you out?”
She held out her hands. “Won’t you rescue a damsel in distress? Surely you will save me from transportation to Australia?” Which was a jest on her part; the practice of shipping criminals to a penal colony had long been abandoned.
He started laughing. “Seeing as how you’re so well prepared, I would have to give the prospective verdict every consideration.”
She shook her head. “Sir! I can assure you I am in no way sympathetic to Mrs. Pankhurst and her advocacy of giving women the right to vote. If the late Queen opposed it, who am I to question our royal monarch? Politics is a dirty business. I am content with you and the men discussing matters of the world after dinner, over whiskey and cigars, while we ladies retire to the sitting room.”
“You are my girl! Have no fear, the only trip to Down Under will be on vacation.” He patted they keys in his shirt pocket again. “I think you should wear those reminders a while longer though; to keep you on our straight and narrow path, so to speak.” He pointed to the concrete sidewalk that circled the yard.
“Whatever you believe is best for me, sir.” Those were not idle words. Her world was based on a now archaic vision of the dutiful wife, ever obedient and deferential to her husband. Moments like this walk in the backyard, when he was totally in charge, were precious memories to her. She lived for the times when she was both physically bound in his chains, and mentally bound to his overpowering will. Maybe it wasn’t healthy, by twenty-first century standards, but the relationship worked well for both of them.
“Do you really believe you’d do so well in 1905, as opposed to today? Even the idea of allowing you to own property was a radical change. For the most part you still were regarded as belonging to your husband.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” She held up her chin. “Let the whole world see who owns me. Yes, sir, I’m convinced I’m a product of the times, except my calendar is off by over a hundred years.”
He stopped, turned her to face him, and placed his hands on her hips, where the leather skirt was at its tightest. “Sir!” she exclaimed in alarm. “Such liberties are not the measure of a true gentleman. Remove your hands this instant!”
He made no move to comply. Nor did she try to pull away. “And what if, in the privacy of your garden, your husband turns out to be no gentleman at all?”
“Help! Help!” she cried out, in a voice so low it guaranteed no one would hear. “This beast intends to ravish me! Will no one come to my assistance?” He saw the barest of smiles cross her upturned face. For someone in distress she seemed to be remarkably unconcerned as to her fate.
“Such insolence! To the house, woman! I have lost patience with you. Quickly now, I will brook no further delay.”
She ran to the back porch at breakneck speed. Or would have, if not for that nagging chain between her ankles that so insistently forced her to the same slow shuffle. He made no effort to remove her impediments. Of course not, he enjoys seeing me struggle. She counted the day a success when it ended in seduction, Edwardian style.