In the following days, the Sergeant instructed me on my Colt. The kick of my Patterson was quite tolerable compared to the Sergeant’s horse pistol. Besides marksmanship, I learned to cast balls, to load and cap the chambers, and to change the cylinders blindfolded – no easy task as it involved disassembling and reassembling the pistol. I drilled on this until could do it in 29 seconds. I would have thought this pure foolishness if the man in grey did not still haunt my dreams.

Once I was proficient, I carried my revolver, extra cylinder, and changing key everywhere in my purse. Meanwhile, the Sergeant continued to school me in self-defense.

I wore my tongs and shirt for these exercises and put my hair up, out of the way. In the beginning, I wore my dress to breakfast, then changed into tongs, but Karl and the Sergeant convinced me this was foolish. So, I dressed in tongs on rising, and put on my dress to give Alexander his lessons. This seemed to confuse him.

“Miss, why are you a man in the morning?”

“I am not a man in the morning, I just dress like a man for my lessons with the Sergeant – I am still a woman underneath.”

“So, women can dress like men?”

“Well, many would say we should not, but yes, we can.”

“So, can boys dress like girls?”

“Again, many would say they should not, but yes they can – and some do.”

He did not carry the conversation further. I did not to press him, but left him to his reflections.

Frequently, I took Alexander on an outing – to the square to play with other children or along Hudson to commune with nature. In town, he generally played graces and hop scotch with the girls. I tried teaching him to play ball so he could play with the boys, but he could not catch or hit for the life of him. The very ball seemed to scare him – just as it did Little Edward.

One day the boys particularly rounded on him. The girls defended him, saying “Stop teasing Sandy! She’s a tomboy in her brother’s old clothes – that’s all.”

Walking back to the house, he asked, “What kind of boy is a tomboy, Miss?”

“No kind of boy at all – rather a girl that dresses or acts like a boy.”

“Oh,” he blushed.

“The town girls are not the first to take you for a girl. Peggy on the train did as well. Maybe if I cut your curls, you would not be taken for a girl.”

He looked up at me in horror. “Mummy said my curls are so pretty, Miss. I don’t want to lose them!”

“Yes, they are a most becoming frame for your face. We could go the other way.”

“‘The other way,’ Miss?”

“Yes, since the girls think you a lass, the boys would not round on you if you wore a dress. Would you like one? You have already worn a skirt, a corset and my chemises.”

It was hard to interpret his expression – perhaps a mixture of excitement and fear.

“Well?”

“I don’t know, Miss.”

While not an affirmation, this was far from an objection. “I will let you think about it.”

“Uncle Karl would be mad.”

“I assure you, he would not be.”

“Also, the seamstress will laugh at me.”

“I could make you a dress.”

“What color would it be?” These were not words of reluctance.

“You could choose. We could go to the dry goods, and you could pick a fabric for your dress.”

“I don’t know, Miss.”

“Well, just remember: you would have far less trouble with the town boys if they thought you a girl.”

That night I wrote to Paula, telling her what happened and asking her advice.

Thursday, I received reply from Caroline. She would meet the train Saturday morning and show me to her rooms, where she promised to provide luncheon.

Paula’s response came the next morning. She approved my methods and progress, saying that it is hard for epicene boys to admit they prefer dresses, and it is a kindness to “make them” be more feminine. She also offered suggestions to lessen Alexander’s embarrassment at acknowledging his nature – among them that he receive a feminine name. As the girls already thought him a “Sandy,” I decided to see how he would respond to being called “Alexandria.”

“Alexandria, let’s go into town and pick out a fabric for your dress.”

“For my dress?” He did not balk at the femininization of his name.

“Yes, as we discussed. Then I can make you pretty one. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

He said nothing, but his face grew flush.

“Come along, then – before the day grows warm.”

We walked in silence, which was unusual for the boy, who was usually full of chatter and questions. When we got to the cottages marking the edge of town, he stopped.

“People will laugh at me.”

“Why?”

“Because boys don’t wear the same kind of cloth as girls.”

“I have the cure for that.” I took a blue ribbon out of my bag and tied a bow in his hair.

He raised a hand to feel it.

“Now there is no doubt that you are a tom boy.”

His body relaxed a bit, and he smiled slightly.

“But, I am a boy.” He said quietly.

“That is only a tiny part of you. What is more important – your body or your soul?”

“My soul.”

“And do you have a boy’s soul of or a girl’s?”

“A girl’s.”

“Finally! So, let’s forget all the nonsense and dress you as you should be.”

She smiled broadly.

That afternoon, I put Sandy back in her corset, lacing it snugly, but not tightly, and measured her for her first dress – in a style she had found in Peterson’s Magazine.