Lady Ann's Holiday - Chapter Twenty One - Part One

Bred That Way

1

Burt was snatched cruelly from a deep sleep by Harry’s bellowing voice from outside at the front of the stables.

“BURT! Get down here now you ignorant fool!”

“What? Yes! Sorry sir!” He clambered out from under his blanket and got to his feet.

“Burt, you great wazzock! You’ve overslept! Get down here now and scrape this horse shit up before I tan yer ruddy hide and make ye do it without a shovel!”

Burt hurriedly put his clothes on, anxious to get out there and not anger Harry any more than he already was; but then he realised what he was doing he made himself stop.

First of all, he’d answered to Burt automatically, even straight from sleep, so ingrained was that identity to him now – another terrifying reminder of how tightly this transformation had gripped him. And secondly, he was racing to do as he was told without even questioning it! It wasn’t right! He should keep doing it! Let the repercussions be damned! If he kept acting as servile and obsequious as this then it would truly become part of his character – so much so that he might end up liking it! He might end up actually craving being told what to do and – as a worst case scenario – resist turning back.

The real… the original Burt hadn’t wanted to make the change – had found the whole thing perplexing and unpleasant. He’d only done it because he was ordered. What if Lady Ann got a taste for living her new life and returned only to ask if she could keep it? The way things were going, he was becoming so servile he might very well say she was welcome to it, just to ingratiate himself to one of his betters!

This had to stop now! He had to make a stand before it was too late or he might blithely give up the only part left to him that had the will to do it! If he went on following orders for much longer – each one underscoring his identity and solidifying its reality all the more – he might never be able to summon the willpower to get back!

“BURT!” roared Harry. “I know you’re up there! I can hear you moving around! Get down here NOW and muck out these chuffing horses!”

Burt made fists of his hands and refused to move, his face tightening, having to really concentrate to resist rushing down there. All he could think about was the punishment Harry might mete out on him if he didn’t do as he was told.

“Burt!”

What if he got thrown in the stocks again? What if he was flogged or even fired? He might end up working down the pit miles and miles away, forever out of reach of turning back.

“Burt! Get down here you great thick ape!”

The words from the sermons he’d attended ran in his head, reminding him of his responsibility to follow orders and work hard. He was Burt. He wasn’t Lady Ann no more. He was Burt. He was a servant. He had to do what he was told.

“BURT!!!!! If I have to come up there and get you then you’ll wish you’d never been born my lad!”

Sweat was breaking out on his forehead. His uncurled hands were shaking. 

If he gave up now then he might never stop following orders. But he was Burt now. He really was Burt. He had to do what he was told. Harry was his boss. It was his job. It was his job! He had a responsibility as a working man. He had his pride about working hard and following orders without complaint. It was only right. He had to do as he was told.

He was Burt. He was the stable hand. Harry was his boss.

“BURT!”

He grabbed his shirt and hurried out and down the steps, round to the front of the stable. “Yes sir! Sorry sir! It won’t happen again sir!”

“There you are, you great thick idiot! Get over here!”

“I’m sorry sir. I should have come quicker.”

Harry slapped him hard round the side of his head, knocking him for a second off balance. “Damn right you should have you moron! Now get in there and get that shite up! Now!”

Burt rushed toward the stable door but stopped when he heard Harry’s voice again. “And Burt?”

“Yes sir?”

“You obviously aren’t in a hurry this morning so I think you should use your hands. Not a shovel.”

“Sir?” Burt gaped in horror.

Harry’s face hardened. “Do it,” he snapped. “I’ll not have you disrespect me my lad. If need be I’ll have you always do it by hand from now on!”

“Please sir,” whimpered Burt, “Please. I’m sorry sir. Don’t make me do that.”

“You should have come down when I first called you,” leered Harry. “Now you have to learn some respect.”

“I’m so sorry,” whined Burt. “Please sir,” he begged. “Please don’t make me do it with me hands.”

Harry folded his arms. “If you say one more word you’ll back in the stocks.”

Burt started to open his mouth.

“Just one word Burt. I am not joking,” snapped Harry. “You get in there and clear out that shit by hand or by God I will march you up to the manor house and tell the Earl what an ungrateful little pillock you are and he’ll lock you up before you can blink.”

Burt stared at the old man in disbelief. Then he looked into one of the open stable stalls where there was a great soggy steaming pile of dung. He looked down at his hands and then back at Harry.

He had to resist. He couldn’t keep doing what he was told. But the more he resisted the worse his punishment. He had to follow his commands. He just had to.

He hated how servile he was becoming but what other choice did he have?

With his head hanging down low he shambled indoors and walked into that first stall. There were several huge piles of dung, buzzing with flies. The stench coming off them pungent and strong. He looked back out at Harry who was still watching him, tapping his foot. He swallowed dryly then gazed at the shovel where it lent against the wall.

“With your hands Burt,” said Harry, “or it’ll be back in the stocks for you; do you understand?”

Burt pleaded with is eyes for a moment but when he met only the blank stony gaze of the old man he turned back to the horse shit, crouching down as he reached for one of the dung sacks. He hesitated again, asking himself if he could even do this without retching then poised his hand above it.

He’d wanted to resist. He’d done his best to avoid following the barked orders, and this was what it had come to. Any resistance jut made his life worse, made him get punished, treated more like a slave. He couldn’t resist anymore. He had to do what he was told. He had to work without complaint and do exactly what he was ordered the minute that they ordered him. This was his life now. This was who he was.

Cringing, he reached down to life the dung with his right hand, his fingers sinking into it, a cloud of disturbed flies rising up in his face. As he broke the surface the stench doubled and the first dry retch came, scratching his throat.

He glanced back out the doorway. Harry was still watching with a smirk on his face, his arms folded.

Burt dumped the first handful into the sack and withdrew his hand, looking at the sticky filth that was covering his fingers and palm.

He had to do what he was told. He couldn’t resist anymore. He was only Burt. He was a servant. He had no other choice. He looked at the other piles of dung and then across at the other stalls. It was a long and filthy job at the best of times. This way, it was going to take ages.

Nevertheless he pressed his lips tightly shut as he scooped up another handful, thrusting it into the sack.

He had no choice. He had to do what he was told.

2

Ann scowled silently as grandmamma told her all about the umpteenth tedious luncheon she was going to have to attend today.

She was sick of the repetitive and boring lunch dates with elderly cronies of the ancient woman; tired of the dull conversation and the predictable platitudes. She was starting to see why the former Lady Ann had been so anxious to avoid the trip. At first the novelty and pleasure of acting the refined woman had made the luncheons palatable enough. Now she simply couldn’t be bothered to do it anymore.

But she felt as though she couldn’t say anything because if she did she’d end of sounding just like the old Lady Ann and she didn’t want that. The former woman had been haughty and insulting. She was determined not to become a carbon copy of her, no matter how much she might enjoy slipping into other aspects of the lady’s character.

So Ann stewed quietly while the duchess jabbered on about the tedious visit until at last, the breakfast was over and she was able to get away and upstairs.

Gladys was in Ann’s bedroom folding freshly laundered clothes. Ann sneered at her in the doorway then charged in.

“What do you think you’re doing in here you odious heifer?”

“M’lady?”

“Don’t ‘m’lady’ me you stupid servant! Did I ask you to dirty up my room doing that?”

“No miss. I just thought—”

“You aren’t employed to think!” snapped Ann. “Clear those things away!”

Gladys started to hurry to do so but it wasn’t nearly fast enough.

“Now you stupid fat cow! Now! Get out of here! Go on! Get out!”

Gladys fled from the room, tears streaming down her cheeks, muttering apologies.

Ann kicked the door closed violently and folded her arms sharply. “What a stupid girl! Why can’t she ever do anything right!?”

She caught sight of her reflection; of the scowl of petulant fury emblazoned there; but this time the sight of it didn’t jar her out of her anger. She just went on scowling at herself, feeling entirely justified in her treatment of the humble well-meaning girl.

She had every right to speak to her any way that she liked. Ann was one of the gentry and that girl’s feelings didn’t matter one whit.

She didn’t empathise with the servant in any way.

3

Burt hefted yet another heavy crate off the cart and staggered into the barn to add it to the pile that was developing.

He had no idea what was inside the crates – Harry hadn’t deemed it knowledge that was worthwhile imparting – but it was heavy, whatever it was. Burt had already made three vertical towers against the wall in there and he started a fourth with that crate, rubbing his back as he stretched back up to standing, wondering for the thousandth time when Lady Ann would come back to take his place.

Then he scratched his head, thinking about the beautiful elegant lady with her soft skin and pretty eyes; those sensual lips and pretty feminine tones. He looked down at his muscular arms and wiry body; his hairy limbs, the dirty, roughly bitten fingernails, the filthy clothes.

He knew it was the way it should be – that it was only a return to the way things were, but he found it almost impossible to imagine that wonderful lady trading places with him – becoming a dirty man like him. She was so different; so much… better than him… Burt found it hard to picture such a beautiful woman turning into a peasant like him; giving up all that wealth… going from a clean and cultured intelligent heiress to a dirty ignorant man with low intelligence and a life of submissive servitude.

Why would she want to?

He didn’t know why…

“Bloody eck!” Burt gazed off stupidly.

He didn’t remember what had made him want to swap in the first place. The reason was totally gone from his mind. He remembered… He remembered Lady Ann coming to see him in the stables while he was shoveling hay; telling him about a magic necklace… but… He shook his head. She hadn’t mentioned why she’d wanted to swap places; she’d just ordered him to do it. And surely that must have been – yes. That had to be a false Burt memory because it was from before the swap!

“God!” he said, rubbing his head in wonderment and revulsion at the power of this magic to transform his very mind like this and to go on doing it even now, weeks after the actual swap. “I don’t remember why I wanted to do it.”

And for the life of him he couldn’t imagine why such a gorgeous woman would want to sully herself with this dirty body and life. It gave him an awful sinking feeling in his stomach that Lady Ann would return and take one look at him then refuse to go through with it. She’d want to keep that obviously superior body and life! It made him quake with adrenaline to think of it, to imagine the look of scorn in her face as she looked at him and the musical laughter when he begged her to switch bag and she laughed at how ridiculous that would be. Of course she wouldn’t choose to be him!

He pressed his hands into his eye sockets, getting a deep throbbing migraine.

And a huge part of him didn’t think that would be such a shock. He knew that he was really Burt and he had a growing mass of memories of always having been Burt. In that sense, not turning into Lady Ann again would be the simplest of matters. He was Burt. He felt he’d always been Burt. How would it be any different if he just went on being Burt?

If anything, suddenly changing into Lady Ann would be a shocking turn of events that didn’t feel right at all. He felt like he’d give anything to be kissed by such a beautiful and high class woman, but to actually become her – it was a ridiculous and unpleasant thought!

“Burt!”

He snapped round to see Harry coming in. “Yes sir?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Resting for a minute,” he said “Sorry.”

“Not that,” said the old man. He pointed at the crates. “Them. You’ve stacked them all wrong. If you leave them like that they’ll fall. I told you to overlap them like bricks when you stacked them. Here. Like this. Don’t you remember?”

Burt looked blank, his lips working soundlessly.

“Oh for chuff’s sake! Get here and start restacking them.”

Burt shambled forward to follow Harry’s orders, grumbling to himself but shaking his head at his own forgetfulness and wondering if Harry was right – that this way was better.

He started shifting the crates and as he did so he asked himself whether maybe Harry really did know better than he did.

He was just smart enough to know what a dimwit he was but he’d still kidded himself that he knew as much as the old groundsman – why wouldn’t he – he’d been educated to the highest standard in his… former life?

But now he realised that this didn’t mean anything anymore. He did need Harry to tell him exactly what to do and when to do it because the old man was much cleverer than he was.

Then he froze, realizing which way his haphazard thoughts had been taking him.

Oh my Lord, he thought to himself, I have to stop this transformation from going any further! I have to stop it now before it’s too late!

4

Lady Ann was still fuming by the time she reached the house of her grandmamma’s elderly friends. She sat demurely but said little as the servants served tea and scones and the old ladies nattered on.

She wished she’d arranged to meet Richard for lunch but he had business dealings – genuine ones this time – that he couldn’t get away from. Instead she was stuck here wasting her time. She was running out of days she could enjoy the riches and position of being Lady Ann Neville and she had to throw hours away listening to this rot.

One of the old ladies held a plate of scones out to her. “You’re not eating my dear,” she said.

“How can I eat when I’m being bored to death?” Ann snapped out in reply.

“Ann!” said the duchess sharply.

“Well I’m tired of this grandmamma. I’d rather have stayed back at the house reading my novel to be quite frank.”

All three of the old people stared up at her as she stood.

“Well what’s wrong with that?” she said. “I’m only speaking my mind.”

She looked at their gaping faces, then thought about what she was saying and for one instant it gave her pause, hearing the petulant tone and nasty attitude of the original Lady Ann in perfect replication. It was the last way she’d wanted to turn out and she faltered, suddenly very unsure of herself.

She flushed, unable to face their gaze anymore, then sat back down. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “That was unforgivably rude of me. I don’t know what came over me.”

“No. Neither do I,” said grandmamma sardonically.

Ann took the offered scone, still blushing furiously. “Please accept my profuse apologies,” she said. “I don’t know who I thought I was.”

5

The first chance he got, Burt ran up to his room above the stables and went to the mirror, his hands either side of it on the bare wooden wall, palms flat, so that he was staring into his own muddled eyes.

He was becoming far too much like the original Burt. The transformation had gone on far longer than it should have. He was in danger of losing himself entirely to this dirty shabby life. He had to stop it now. And he knew exactly how.

He had accelerated the changes by telling himself he was Burt and by visualizing that as his real role. All he had to do to stop that and reverse it was to do the opposite – to tell himself he wasn’t Burt – that he was Ann.

He looked at his man’s face and said, “Me name ain’t Burt. It’s… It’s Lady Ann… It’s Lady Ann Neville ain’t it.” He glanced toward the door, feeling embarrassed and awkward, worried somebody would overhear and rib him for it.

“I ain’t a man. I ain’t a servant, me. I’m a right posh and stuck up bird who—”

God, this felt wrong. He felt like a complete twonk doing it. It didn’t feel right at all. He knew intellectually that he used to be Lady Ann but every particle of his mind and body told him that he wasn’t her anymore. A huge biological compulsion wanted him to think that he never had been her. After all, that was exactly what he’d been telling himself all this time. He was Burt and he always had been. He was a servant. He wasn’t Lady Ann Neville and he never had been.

He groaned then gritted his teeth and forced himself to meet his reflected gaze once more, sweating profusely.

“I’m ‘er ladyship, the Lady Ann, the darter of the earl, Lord Neville, me boss.”

But that wasn’t right. He had it all wrong. He was still thinking of Lady Ann as someone separate of himself, referring to her in the third person.

“But she is someone separate from me,” he muttered. “She’s er and I’m me. I’m Burt.” He pressed his eyes closed. “But no! I’m not Burt! I’m… I’m er ladyship. She ain’t er. She’s me. And I’m er. Or… No.” He was getting confused and again this felt completely wrong. He couldn’t even really believe this could work. He simply didn’t feel any different. He knew he was a man. He knew he was Burt. Of course he wasn’t a woman. Of course he wasn’t Lady Ann.

Every time he tried to tell himself he was, his instinct rebounded with a heartfelt reaffirmation that he wasn’t.

“I don’t afta talk like an idiot yokel,” he said. “I can talk proppa whenever I want.” But the Yorkshire accent betrayed the real truth to the lie he was saying. And it was a lie, really; he knew it was. It was one thing to tell himself he was Burt when he looked like Burt for all to see. It was another to say he was her ladyship when he very clearly wasn’t. He didn’t look anything like her, from his dull-witted eyes to his bushy moustache.

He tried to picture her face looking back at him in the mirror but he couldn’t summon an image. As Lady Ann he must have looked at his reflection a hundred thousand times but he couldn’t recall doing it once anymore. All that came to mind were memory images of his face now; his man’s face.

Burt’s face.

His face.

It was no use looking at himself. It was too distracting. The moustache was too visible a sign of his masculinity. He had no chance to do this as long as he had it. He had to shave it off!

He’s left his shaving bowl and cutthroat razor untidily out that morning and it was still there. He hurried over to it and lathered up over his thick hairy upper lip then took the razor and positioned himself in front of the mirror.

He had to do it – just get rid of it. It was the only way to help him visualize himself as a woman. But standing there now, poised to do it, he couldn’t touch the blade to it. Because… Because he liked it. He loved his tache. He loved how manly it made him look. And that hit right to the heart of it. He loved being a man! He didn’t want to be a woman. He really didn’t! No real man would! That kind of thinking was perverse!

He wanted his old life back somehow, contradiction though that was – he wanted his riches and luxury, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove this symbol of his masculine virility – of everything that made him proud to be who he was – a good honest hard grafting working man.

He couldn’t bear to say it again – to act like a pansy pretending he was a soppy woman. It felt absurd and silly and he was humiliated and ashamed to say those words out loud. But the consuming contradiction of his emotions cluttered his mind, tearing him in all different directions, making him hate himself and hate who he was and wish none of this had ever happened.

Then suddenly a dirty thought stole over him that teetered briefly on the tip of his tongue, filling him with dread as well as a tantalizing tawdry excitement. He knew he shouldn’t utter it aloud – that it was grossly foolish and might ruin everything but he couldn’t stop himself. He let himself say it.

“I wish I didn’t have to feel this way. I love being a man. I just wish I’d always been Burt and didn’t have to be so angry and depressed like this all the time. I wish I’d never been her ladyship in the first place and that I didn’t know different; that I was just satisfied with who I am.”

He wiped the lather off his beautiful thick moustache and stared into his eyes, knowing exactly what to do to make that weak and desperate fantasy come close to being true. Knowing that it was an awful mistake, even as he did it, but not caring anymore because he just wanted to stop being scared, he said, “I’m Burt ‘Arper. I’ve always been Burt ‘Arper. I never was Lady Ann Neville. I couldn’t ave been. I remember all about me life as a man. I don’t know ardly nothin about being a woman.”

He smiled a little at himself, feeling the warm tingling in his skull rise up, stroking his brain, taking away his anxiousness, relaxing him as the magic set about its work at sapping his intelligence still further and undermining his willpower, coaxing him toward an ever more obsequious submissiveness.

He knew exactly what it was doing to him but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t keep fighting this awful losing battle. He just wanted to be at peace – to be content with who he was.

“I’m Burt ‘Arper. I’ve never been Lady Ann. That’s impossible. She’s me mistress. I’m ‘er servant and I’ve been one of the lower classes since the day I was born a little boy. I grew up a boy with me mam and da and me brothers and sisters. I remember all about it. I never was a woman. I’ve always been a man.”

And still the tingling continued as the power of the amulet worked its slow insidious spell.