Adjustment School
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I was in despair about Henry. His older brother William was the very picture of responsibility. I had no doubt that he would perform his duty and rise to what his father and I expected of him. But Henry was the very opposite of him in so many ways. People asked where the red hair came from and I even heard it said that he could not be my husband’s son, but there is some “ginger” in my family, and I had no other men who might have conceived him, at least not until well after he was born. But the fact that I learned upon inquiry of my father, is that in my family red hair had proved to be associated with mischief.

I actually asked my father about what had been done in the past with those red-haired boys, and that was when he mentioned a special “school”. I use that word advisedly because it was simply a very isolated cluster of buildings surrounded by the Norfolk marshes which accommodated no more than a few pupils at a time. They were there to receive special instruction in a place that was naturally isolated – you might even call it a prison, but it was not intended to be that.

I was initially told that the purpose of this institution was the improvement of young men who were potentially destructive – of themselves and society in general. It was very small with only a staff of three – there was an academic for scholarly education, and somebody called Ned Talbot, ex-military man in charge of maintaining attendance and general discipline, and his wife who would serve as matron and teach manners and etiquette.

“I don’t think that boarding school and corporal punishment will work on Henry,” I told my father. “He seems to relish institutions that he can confront.”

“No, this school is something very different,” my father explained. “It is an all-boy girls’ school, you see. It is an extension of the old tradition of petticoat punishment, if you know what that is?”

I was aware of the concept, but I never really subscribed to it. I suppose that you might call it a means of adjusting behavior in boys by compelling them to wear girl’s clothes and to conduct themselves in a feminine manner. It is not uncommon in the higher classes at very young ages, and I am not sure how effective it is – perhaps effective enough that it is a continuing practice even as we entered the 20th century.

I was a little reticent at first, but when Henry exploded at me in a particularly nasty way, I found myself immediately writing to the address my father had provided, asking whether there was a place for my boy there. A few days later, Henry was continuing to be so unpleasant that I happily received the news that he could be taken immediately, and I dispatched Hursthouse to take him there in the gig with only very light baggage. I was advised that a uniform would be supplied and the cost of that would be added to tuition and victual fees.

He had upset me so much that I was not sad to see him go, but after a few weeks I found myself missing him, despite all his bad habits. I wrote to ask if I could visit to check his progress. The response was a rather abrupt discouragement, so I decided that I would simply have to steel myself and ask again at a later date. In the end it was a full four months before I finally took the journey out through the marshes to the school.

It was a beautiful summer day, and it was suggested that I take a seat in the garden while Matron went to fetch my son, and I was happy to do that. I had brought with me for the day, my black spaniel Muffy, who had been scampering around before she started barking at the approaching figure. At a distance it appeared to be a young woman wearing a long grey dress over a corseted waist. Above the white collar I could see that her hair was tied back, and that it was red. Muffy went straight to her and started to jump up to greet her.

It took some time before I realized that I was looking at my own son Henry, strutting gracefully towards me. His face was pale, smooth and soft, and I could see that a length of other chestnut colored hair had somehow been woven with his, so that it draped in a thick braid in front, to well below the starched white collar of the school uniform.

I could see from Henry’s face that he was pleased to see Muffy, but as the dog sat beside me, the smile was replaced by a very sad look, that was so unlike my boy. His common expression was one of rebelliousness or petulance, and sometimes to total derision. Now I saw a very different look on this feminine face. It was a look of resignation and submission. It was as if a wild horse now had to clamp its mouth shut over the steel bit – still magnificent, but under control.

It was just that there seemed to be no man in him – so much so that it seemed wrong to even call him “he”.

“Henry, is that you?” I said, although I could see it was.

“It is Henrietta now, mother,” she said. “Although the other girls call me Etta. Is this what you really wanted for me?” She spun around as if she was a debutante at a ball, so that I could see what a perfect lady she was.

“Well, I can see that it may well have improved the tidiness of your appearance,” I said. “Although your question makes me wonder if your attitude is changed enough.” I was determined to be strong, and I assured myself that this was all in the best interests of my child.

“They want me to stay until the end of the year,” she said. “But I fear that by then I may have gone to far.” There was a look of genuine horror, but I did not understand what she meant.

“How are your studies getting on?” I asked. “Have you made friends here?”

“Oh, you will be pleased that I am now quite good at French,” she said. “Mathematics is hardly taught here, and nature study consists of painting flowers and butterflies, but I am now quite skilled in needlework. As for friends, well do you remember David, the youngest of Lord Panchett? Now Diane is my best friend. She has older sisters, so has a huge range of beautiful dresses to choose from when she gets home. But I have nothing like that, do I mummy? Did you think of that?”

Henry had not called me “mummy” for years, and I had no idea why he would be talking about wearing dresses at home, but there was still an aggressive pout in his tone that caused me concern. As I saw Captain Talbot coming towards us, I decided that I would take my concern up with him.

He introduced himself stiffly. He had the air of a man who had worked had to achieve some sort of status, and would fight to keep it, but there was also a vicious look in his eye – I had seen it before in another soldier friend of my husband’s – a man with a reputation for being a ruthless killer. I did not doubt that this man would be feared by his pupils, probably quelling them with a mere glance.

“Miss Henry still has a way to go,” he said. “But she has taken to dresses with more gusto that some of the others. I have seen this phenomenon before. It can cause permanent and immediate maladjustment, but it is more inclined to result in occasional bouts of feminine oriented behaviors, sometimes lasting for a lifetime. I don’t think that there need be any cause for concern. Petticoat punishment and extension of it, is a proven behavioral modifier, and it is our specialty.”

“I am finding it difficult for you to call Henry “Miss” and refer to him by the feminine pronoun,” I said, simply because there seemed to be no other comment to make.

“Madam, without wishing to offend or to disparage your sex in any way, I should explain that we regard mischievous behavior as being indicative of a mind that has not learned the capacity to submit to authority in the way that women are bound to,” said Captain Talbot. “Our pupils are treated like little girls and young women who need to be instructed to respond to the direction of men. Once they can do that, and only until they can, they should aspire to a return to that dominant sex. As I said, this is effective.”

Much as I did not like the man, I found it hard to argue his last point. Some of the finest leaders of Great Britain had endured some form of petticoat punishment as a child, even if only by being kept in dresses and curls a little longer than most. None of those showed any sign of “maladjustment”, but that word hung around in my mind, even as I left that place, promising Henry that he would be home for Christmas.

He seemed resigned to staying there for the rest of the year. I had expected howls of protest – in fact, I was perhaps a little disappointed that the most unlikable thing about my son was no longer present in this youth. It seemed that if he was not quite ready to submit to authority then he was able to accept it.

I have to say that I missed him, but autumn is a busy time on our estate, so I had other things on my mind. I had arranged for Henry to be collected on the 15th of December, but it was earlier in that month that I received a very troubling letter from Captain Talbot:

“Madam, I regret to advise that my concerns about possible maladjustment of your son Henry, have proven to be so. The boy and one other or our pupils, have requested that they be gelded so that they will no longer be able to live as men. This is a disturbing outcome, but as I mentioned, can occur in a small minority of young men who seemed pre-disposed to this odd condition. It is not so much that our instruction has caused this disease of the mind, but simply revealed it. We do offer an effective, and largely painless, gelding service, but for obvious reasons, the consent of parents is required. Henry will be returning to you shortly, so you need not reply immediately. Yours sincerely, N.M. Talbot (Capt. Ret.)”

I knew exactly what Henry had requested and it seemed unbelievable. Why would any young man want to mutilate their body in this way? Not only that, but as all must know, there can be no progeny from a gelding, and no hope of marriage for the boy. It simply made no sense.

I simply wrote a brief note to Talbot demanding that our boy be available for collection the following day “intact”. I sent Hursthouse off that afternoon to give the post time to reach that “school” - he could rest up at an inn on the way and collect Henry in the morning.

I was called down when the carriage arrived and the sight that greeted me made me feel quite faint. Alighting from the coach was a young lady wearing a beautiful dress in primrose yellow, decorated with white lace. Her long red hair was pulled up in the French manner, with curls atop that I knew were not of her own scalp. Her face was lightly painted, again in the French style, with her delicate features looking as pretty as a China doll. She held out a delicate hand so that Hursthouse could help her down and he should any woman.

“Hello Mummy,” she said, because this was no man – not anymore, even if the gelding had not yet happened.

“What are you wearing?” was all I could say. I had sent male attire with my driver, but that was still in its case as I would later learn.

“I made it myself, Mummy. Do you like it? We learnt many useful skills at school. I didn’t like it much at first, but now I understand that it has opened up for me a brand new future – a very happy one.” The voice was of a young woman, even if a trace of lower notes was slightly apparent.

“Henry, dressing up like this might amuse you and shock me, but it presents no future, I can tell you,” I announced in as severe a tone as I could muster.

“That’s where you are wrong mother,” came back the firm reply. “Diana feels the same was as I do. We were meant to be women, not back-ups to our titled brothers. We want to have fulfilling lives, and that means that we need to prepare ourselves for the spring debutante ball coming up, and re-enter society as we were meant to be.”

I was horrified … at least when the words were said. But the mention of the coming out ball and the memories of my own excitement caused me to ponder and slowly the excitement of having a daughter to be presented in court, started to build.

“Welcome home, Sweetheart,” I said.

The End

(c) Maryanne Peters 2025

Author’s Note:
This story comes from a vignette I wrote based on a captioned image by “Jennifer” about a boy sent to a special girls’ school and accompanied by this wonderful image of Victorian times. The red hair, the black dog and the concerned mother, are all in the story.