Workman: Chapter Three - Part Four

5

I felt more than weird when I stepped out of Sangeeta’s beauty shop but I didn’t know exactly why. Not exactly.

The conversation for the rest of my visit had been generic – weather, shopping, holiday plans – but I’d enjoyed it. I felt like I really clicked with Sangeeta. The slight cultural differences that cropped up were interesting and she’d been in the UK long enough to get most of the references that cropped up.

I wandered away through the shopping centre, turning to look back before I turned out of sight.

Yes. I was troubled… almost as if… as if it had been a guilty pleasure spending time with her. I’d been spying on her in a way, in this disguise of mine. I shouldn’t have done; I shouldn’t have been interested in her. I didn’t fancy her. Not anymore. I was sure I didn’t. I just liked seeing her again.

I tried to put it out of my mind and distract myself with some clothes shopping. I walked round several different shops, just browsing, not searching for anything in particular. I tried a couple of dresses on but nothing caught my fancy enough to break my ban of spending (again). I went into one of the big department stores and wandered round, trying out a whole range of different things; perfume, jewellery, hats.

I ended up standing with a shirt held up against my chest, looking at myself in the mirror and it was only then, seeing the way it swamped me, that I realised I was in the men’s department.

I looked round, startled and a bit embarrassed.

I’d just been looking at it, wondering idly what it would look like on but it was gigantic against me. I couldn’t possibly wear it… unless…

I lowered it. Then raised it again. It was a nice shirt: more formal and flashy than the cheque one I’d been wearing the day before as a man. I wondered how it would look on if I were to change back into… him.

Except I wasn’t going to. Definitely not. Once – well twice – had been more than enough.

I wondered whether Sangeeta would like it.

I put it back on its rail, fingered the shoulder then turned and walked away.

I wasn’t changing back again. The ring was in the toilet. I should have waited and flushed again.

I picked up the shirt and carried it to the till, paid the money, blushing beetroot red then left the shop, telling myself I was an idiot, that I’d wasted my money, that I wasn’t changing back.

I walked back to the car feeling irritable, wishing I’d never bought that stupid ring.

 

6

When I got home I marched straight upstairs and pulled the handle on the toilet. Under the lid the sound of the churning water was muffled but unimpeded.

I folded my arms. That was it. Done.

I waited until it had finished then turned my back on it.

Paused.

Turned back.

I walked back to the toilet and reached for the edge of the lid, ready to lift it.

I didn’t. I walked out and went back downstairs grumpily.

I didn’t need to be a man to do this house up and I didn’t need a man to help me. I could do anything I wanted.

I went into the double garage attached to the side of the house. It was full of old boxes, pretty much all tat. I sighed, reaching for the pair of rubber gloves I’d discarded in there four days earlier when I’d tried to start this job. I put them on, resting the backs of my hands on my hips.

“Right. I can do this,” I said.

I started shifting boxes, checking through them at the same time, getting quickly hot and even more irritable. I had to be careful for fear of ruining the manicure Sangeeta had given me. It was painfully slow going.

Within twenty minutes I was hopelessly conflicted about whether to keep or throw away some of my old school books. Obviously I knew I should have got rid of them but it seemed so final. What if I wanted to look at them again? I might regret it for the rest of my life.

“Oh for God’s sake!”

I sat down on an old broken chair with no back that I’d also been unable to throw out and fumed quietly.

I just couldn’t do this! I wasn’t cut out for it! I was never going to clear this house; never going to get my life sorted! Why did I keep kidding myself I could? I was useless! I just wasn’t tough enough to get rid of old keepsakes, and the whole house was full of them! My back was aching! My arms were aching! I couldn’t do it!

I crossed my arms then fumed again. Then I looked up at the ceiling; through it, toward where the bathroom was.

“Alright,” I said. “Alright!”

I got up and marched back inside. I went up the stairs and into the bathroom. I lifted the toilet lid.

It was still there, lying at the bottom of the toilet, unmoving, looking up at me.

“Alright,” I said and knelt down, wrinkling my nose in disgust.

I was still wearing the rubber gloves. I lowered my fingers to the water then dipped them in. This was so gross; and stupid. But I didn’t stop. I reached deeper and deeper, afraid the water would go over the top of my glove and fill it up with disgusting toilet water.

It didn’t. I felt the ring with my fingertips and hooked it up, bringing it dripping from the water.

“Urgh!”

I shook it off and moved to the sink then I washed it, putting it on the porcelain edge. After that I washed my glove and pulled them both off.

The ring lay on the edge of the sink as though it were watching me; daring me.

I hesitated, went to get it, hesitated, then I picked it up and put it over the end of my finger.

“Just for a couple of hours,” I said. “Just until I’ve cleared the garage.”

Then I put it on.

The change overcame me faster this time, making me stagger back, then forwards, bending almost double. The flashes came, each one brighter, more intense, and then the final crashing one hit me with the shudder that shook my core.

I fell against the wall, panting for breath, then raised my big manly hands in front of my face and grinned.

I was really glad I’d done it, kind of mad at myself for being such a girl about putting it off. There was nothing wrong with being a man. It was nice. And now I could really get things done – no more fannying around wasting time.

This body felt comfortable. There was nothing weird about it. I definitely shouldn’t have been such a girl about making the change.

It was only for a little while after all.

Workman: Chapter Three - Part Two

3

 

As I drove into town I thought about the ring, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Being a man had felt good and natural – too natural if anything. I had a strong feeling that it had affected the way I thought while I looked that way. When I had been Geoff, had I been myself but with a man’s body, or was it more than that? Had my mind changed into a man’s mind?

I thought about the things I’d done; the different attitude I had to working on the house; the way I’d been able to stand up to Mr. Crabtree – and those national front hooligans. I’d been interested in the sports pages of the newspaper. Normally I hated sport with a passion. And in the steakhouse I’d been more interested in ogling the pictures of sexy women in the magazine than reading my usual articles.

It was disconcerting.

But it didn’t matter now. It was over and done with, The ring was in the toilet.

I wished I’d waited and flushed a second time but there would be chance enough for that later.

I drove on.

The fascinating part, I supposed, was actually the other effects – the tweaks to reality. This Geoff character had become a brother, to go by the full name on the credit cards. I wondered if the neighbours would still remember him now. Did he still exist? Would they forget him in time? Would I forget?

It was all just questions.

I parked in the multi-storey that backed onto Hurley Park and walked into the main shopping precinct. I was tempted to walk up into the Narrows and try to find the stall again where I’d bought the ring; ask the woman about it. I wondered if she knew about it. But surely not. She wouldn’t have sold it me for so little if it was that powerful. And why would she have done so without telling me what it did?

No, that made no sense at all.

I went into Tower Gate and wandered round the clothes stores, looking for something to cheer me up. I felt a little down and I didn’t know why. I fancied getting something really feminine. I even toyed with getting my nails done. But that made me remember Sangeeta and my mood pitched even lower.

I thought about seeing her for the first time the night before, of how proud I’d felt when I stood up to those thugs – how stupid I’d realised I was when they came toward me looking aggressive. But I remembered how good it had been afterwards, despite the bruises, to feel her gratitude and admiration. I’d never had anyone think of me that way – as a protector. It was lovely.

I considered… No. Bad idea.

I considered walking round to the end of the mall where her little parlour was.. just to look. Or even… I could go inside and have my nails done – by her.

Was that crazy?

Yes. It was. It was insane.

But… I was considering it.

How could it hurt?

I thought about it for a second; then two seconds.

Twelve seconds later I started walking, heading toward the furthest reaches of the mall.

 

4

 

Tower Gates was, on the whole, high street shops and giant glittering department stores filled with light. There were shopping centres like it all over Britain – maybe all over the world as far as I knew. It had the customary glass lifts and implausibly long escalators rising through vast open spaces. It had its food courts and too many shoppers. But it was highly extensive and in the farther reaches the units went for less money, encouraging a slightly gaudier shop front.

Here could be found discount stores and cheap bookshops, concession clothes stores and a few vacant slots, waiting for some young entrepreneur with a bright idea.

I wasn’t made of money. I had always been a girl with an eye for a bargain. I shopped in those out of reach passages regularly. Who could afford high street prices nowadays?

When Sangeeta had told me about her “Beauty Bower” I’d known exactly where it was.

It was a tiny slot between two larger shops, not much more than a booth really; room enough for two manicure stations and a screened off area in the back with a reclining chair. The poster on the window advertised manicures, pedicures, waxings and eyebrow threading.

I felt suddenly very nervous when I caught sight of her in the window. Sangeeta didn’t have a customer and she was the only one in there. She was sitting in the reclining chair, a magazine folded back on itself on her thigh, her legs crossed.

“What on earth am I doing here?” I muttered to myself. “This is a terrible idea.”

I loitered, unsure, then decided to leave. I shouldn’t have even come down there.

Before I could turn away, Sangeeta looked up. She saw me standing there and smiled broadly, giving me a little wave. Not sure what else to do, I smiled and waved back.

She came to the door. “Hiya. Come on in.”

I faltered.

“Come on. You can be my first customer of the day.” She flashed her lovely smile.

“Er, okay.” I let her draw me in, tingling as she took my arm in her hand, guiding me through.

“What do you fancy today?” she said, “I can tell you take good care of yourself. Your eyebrows are fabulous.”

I beamed at the compliment. “Oh, thank you. Do you think so?”

“I certainly do. Here. Sit down. How about a manicure?”

I let her guide me into position and shrugged mentally. “Okay.”

She was wearing a white short-sleeved beautician’s uniform and, if anything, looked more beautiful than she had the night before, her hair tied up in a flamboyant bun.

She did the prep work then set to task on my right hand.

“So, are you local?” she asked.

I nodded then realised she hadn’t seen me do it because she was concentrating on my nails. “Yes. Sort of. I used to be. And then I moved here again recently.”

“I’m new to town too.

I sat watching her, really unsure why I’d come. Was it just curiosity? I didn’t know. But part of me was inquisitive… about her; about the things she told me; about how genuine she was. I’d been lied to so many times by different men, I just wanted to know if…

This was stupid. I wasn’t going to change back into a male. I was never going to see her again. Why was I wasting my time?

“Are you married?” she asked.

“Uh, no. Never.”

“Boyfriend?”

I shifted in my seat. “Not recently.”

“Sworn off men?”

“Not officially, but yeah. I guess. For now.”

“So there’s no one special,” she said.

I hesitated, thinking about the way she’d kissed me the night before and blushing furiously. I shouldn’t have been here. This was wrong in so many different ways.

She looked up at me. “Are you okay?”

“Er yes. No. I just feel… a bit poorly.”

“Oh dear. Can I get you a drink of water?”

“Uh… Yes. Please.”

She got up and went to a concealed sink in the back, returning quickly, and handing it to me, concern in her eyes. I took it and sipped some down, wishing I hadn’t come in.

“I thought for a minute you felt faint because I’d stumbled on some dark secret.” Sangeeta flashed her eyes and then giggled.

I giggled too. “Not hardly.” I cleared my throat then set the glass down and she went back to work.

“Do, er… Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

She paused, thinking, then screwed one eye shut and grinned. “Well… no. Not really. But!” She laughed.

“What?”

“I did… It wasn’t anything really… but I did meet a guy last night. Really gorgeous.”

“You… did?”

“It was nothing. I probably shouldn’t even…”

“What?” I asked.

She looked away, thinking again, then turned back to me. “I don’t like to kiss and tell.”

She went back to work on my nails. I should just let her finish, pay her the money and get out of there.

“So there was a kiss?” I asked.

She glanced up at me with those bright magical eyes, hiding her smile behind her fingertips.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I said.

She seemed to consider for a moment.

“He was…” She stopped as though she wouldn’t tell me anymore, then she beamed her smile again and I saw moisture in her eyes. “Have you ever been in a situation where you knew it was going to be bad? Worse than ever? And then… then a guy appears who’s just the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen? And he tries to help and makes a total mess of trying to save you… but that doesn’t matter. And then… then you think it’s too perfect – that he can’t be a great guy on top of all that, except he is. He’s warm and funny and earnest and kind; but he isn’t afraid to have a few beers. And…”

She stopped.

My eyes were moist too. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t say anything.

“And then he’s just gone,” she said. “And you don’t even know his full name.”

She wiped the side of her eye then just concentrated on my hands, saying nothing more.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She raised her head and now her eyes were perfectly clear. “Fairy stories aren’t true. Are they?”

I put my free hand on top of hers, trying to smile. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

She smiled, lifting her thumb to squeeze my hand back.

“But I hope they are,” I said.

More Workman on the Way!

Well I've been concentrating on setting up the sister site to this one:

Emma Finn's Thrillers

That's all but done now and I've just posted the second episode of Self Portrait.

I'll have the next exciting episode of Workman on here tomorrow.

Meanwhile I still have the ending of Lady Ann to write! I'd better get working!

And in other news, I came up with a new idea for a transformation story in bed last night that I'll probably write after (or maybe during) Workman. It involves an attractive but ruthless businesswoman. That's all I'm saying.

 

VERY Exciting News!

I've been writing since I was a child, and though I love and always will love writing transformation stories, I also enjoy writing thrillers without a transformation element.

You MAY be excited to learn that I've just started up another story site - a sister to this one - where I'll be publishing more serialised stories:

Emma Finn's Thrillers

I've just started a brand new epic serial over there: an international chase thriller called Self Portrait.

I'm planning to post episodes every other day, alternating with new stories here.

It ISN'T a transformation story but it IS a fast-paced adventure filled with murder, revenge, travel, romance and a tornado or two.

SO if you like thrillers and you like my writing style then head over there and read a couple of chapters.

What's the worst that could happen...?

Workman: Chapter Three - Part One

Never Again

1

 

I woke up feeling really refreshed and satisfied, if a little hung-over. I opened my eyes, lying on my back and scratched my chest.

Then I sat up in alarm, seeing the big muscular body, the quilt draped over it in my sleep. I threw the covers back and gaped down at my hairy legs; the big swollen trouser snake between my legs.

“Oh shit.”

I thought about the night before, the fight I’d gotten into, the drinks afterward with Sangeeta and then the slow wank I’d had when I got home.

What had possessed me to stay in this body for so long? Why had I let myself fall asleep in it?

I wasn’t a man! I didn’t want to be one! This was a nightmare!

I sprang off the bed, snatching at the ring. It wouldn’t come off. I pulled harder. Still it wouldn’t move.

“Oh shit,” I said. “Calm down. It’s okay. It’s going to come off. Just cool it.”

I twisted it, working it up the finger. It started to move.

“Oh, thank God.”

It started to really come and as it moved, the spiking pain started to spread from my finger. I got it half way and it jerked free, popping off the end as the first flash came, blinding me.

I closed my eyes, the queer pressure building again all over my body but especially in my abdomen. The Venetian blinds in the window clattered. I heard a deep long creak stretch through the house. Through my eyelids I caught the second flicker. I groaned, plopping down on the bed, clutching my face, feeling smooth cheeks, all stubble gone. Then the third flash came  and I was myself again, gasping for breath and resting my elbows on my knees, cradling my aching head.

“Oh God,” I whispered. “Oh my God. Never again.”

I felt such relief that I was back in my body. It was really me: my smooth hairless legs, my breasts, my soft arms, my long curly hair, my squidgy, slightly rounded stomach. I was wearing the sports bra and panties again that I’d had on when I changed. The discarded jeans and shirt of my masculine alter ego were gone from the floor, along with the boots.

I got up, made sure I was really myself, then looked down at the ring in my hand.

“Never again. I’m not doing that ever.” I closed it into my fist, marched through to the bathroom and tossed it into the toilet. I grabbed the flush handle and paused.

Did I really want to do this? It had been an incredible experience. And it had been so handy having so much strength to get the work done. And it had felt so good to kiss Sangeeta; to pump my cock while fantasizing about her.

I smiled, thinking about it.

Then I grimaced in fury and pulled down on the flush.

Instantly the toilet bowl filled with churning water, followed by a deep regret in my heart at such a terrible waste. Why had I done that? Why had I thrown it away? I should have at least kept it; locked it away somewhere. But no; I’d destroyed it forever. What a total waste!

I peered down into the gurgling water as it started to settle. No. The ring was gone.

Or was it?

The ripples calmed and I caught sight of it – still in there, lying right at the bottom.

Now I didn’t know how to feel. Regret after I knew it was gone was one thing. Seeing it there in reach again after all was worse.

I reached for the flush again but stopped, looked down, reached the rest of the way.

Was this the best idea? Had it really been so bad? What had been wrong with it?

It was just… It was just that it had felt so… normal… and comfortable. I had liked it too much; and that scared me.

I pulled down on the flush, cursing when it made only an ineffectual clunk. The cistern was still empty. I slammed the lid down in a fury and washed my hands, eyeing the toilet out of the corner of my eye as the stream of water inside slowly filled it up.

Then I went back into the bedroom, leaving it as it was.

 

2

 

I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror feeling a little odd, like I was faintly surprised to see a woman looking back at me.

After being so huge the day before and when I woke up, it was just a little weird to be so sleight and weedy all of a sudden. I squeezed the soft flesh at my middle, remembering how it had felt to have hard muscle there. My breasts looked… out of place somehow. It was silly.

I took out a dress and laid it on the bed, thought better of it and removed some faun trousers and a V-necked T-shirt. I changed my underwear and put them on.

I didn’t feel like working right away. The house could wait. I needed to just be myself for a while first; be a woman. I fancied a couple of hours at my spa, swimming and relaxing in the Jacuzzi. Knowing I was going to do that I didn’t bother to do my hair or put on make-up. I tied my hair back and put on some trainers.

My handbag was on the chair where I’d left the jeans the night before. The Geoff wallet was nowhere to be seen.

I went downstairs, still feeling a little off. I wasn’t sure why exactly; just not quite comfortable, maybe even slightly anxious. I shook it off and grabbed my coat in case the weather turned. It looked sunny enough outside for now.

I got in the car and drove down to my health club spa, the Artesian Well. It was in Wilder’s Pool, right on the edge of Nockton Vale, with lovely views down the valley from the Jacuzzi. It was a long way from my price range really but I couldn’t resist a bit of luxury when it came to pampering myself.

I felt rather better by the time I got there, not quite so uncomfortable. I got changed and went through to the pool; did a few lengths. I gave up at five, slightly irritated that I was tired, and dipped into the Jacuzzi, enjoying the view. The water was warm and the churning relaxed me… normally. Today it wasn’t working its usual magic. I felt restless after a couple of minutes and started to toy with getting out.

I was distracted from doing so when two girls came and got in too, sitting across from me. I watched them get into position and start chatting then decided to stay in and try a little harder to relax, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. I continued to look down the valley, watching a train cross the river at the bridge down there and trundle slowly toward town. Every so often, I stole a little glance at the two girls; their chests; their shoulders; their laughing faces. One stretched her arm along the edge of the pool. She had such tiny hands and fingers.

Eventually they got out and I decided to as well. They got into the pool but I couldn’t be bothered. I watched them swimming for a while then went through to get changed feeling slightly despondent – I wasn’t sure why.

I felt more inclined to do something with my appearance so I went through my usual regime of long shower and drying my hair, putting on my face. It seemed to drag on longer than usual but by the time I finished I was glad I’d done it. I looked spectacular. It was a shame I hadn’t chosen the dress. I wished I had now.

“Ah well.” It didn’t matter. I could change when I got home if I wanted to.

Lady Ann's Holiday: Chapter Thirty One - Part Three

5

The magistrate hammered his gavel down three times; hard controlled strokes. The crowd quieted slowly. He brought it down a fourth time and the last whispered titters ceased.

Burt gaped at him unhappily, knowing that the worst was yet to come, wishing again that he had just been happy with his servant’s life and willing to do anything to get it back and cling onto it forever.

“Burt Harper!” cried the magistrate. “You stand here accused of heinous and insidious crimes perpetrated against your betters; of violating their rules and betraying their care and generosity many times over. You are accused of brutal and willful violence against an innocent man for no reason but to satisfy your own wicked urges.” He paused. “And you stand for the most depraved and iniquitous crimes imaginable against two ladies of the gentry.”

There were hushed whispers. The magistrate went on.

“To all these crimes you have pleaded guilty, no doubt presuming a half-hearted show of remorse well after the fact will alleviate the severity of your punishment.”

Burt raised his head in surprise, shaking his head dully.

“I see no reason to pamper to this obvious attempt to play the system. I have tried and sentenced many a criminal in my time and I have rarely seen a clearer example of abject villainy.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“As such, I see no reason not to follow the recommendation of the good Earl and make an example of you to show in the plainest possible terms what a life of such moral repugnance can and will lead to. You will be sentenced to the maximum penalty allowed by law.”

Burt shook his head again, his mouth dry.

“I hereby sentence you to be taken from this courthouse and transported to Wakefield maximum security prison, there to be imprisoned for no less than sixteen years.”

Burt felt dizzy. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to fall. But he didn’t. He went on standing there, staring at this man as the full implication of this sentence settled over his mind.

He was going to prison.

He was never going back to his life as a servant.

He would be branded a criminal forever.

There would never be a chance to trade lives with Lady Ann ever again.

His life was over.

There was no way out.

The crowd erupted into intense chatter, almost everyone present jabbering in excitement or shock.

Burt caught Mavis’s eye but instead of condemnation there for what he had done there was only regret and sorrow for his predicament.

“Order!” cried the magistrate. “Order!” He hammered down his gavel over and over again. The noise of the crowd dimmed but went on and the magistrate ended up raising his voice above it. “Bailiff, remove the prisoner for transport!”

The hunched man who’d stood on guard throughout the proceedings stepped up and took hold of Burt’s arm, jerking him to his right and leading him.

It was happening so fast. There was no time to think or even fully comprehend that his life was disintegrating around him.

Surely Lady Ann could still come! She could still save him!

But the door remained closed. She wasn’t coming. She would be far too late for that.

Burt was jerked again toward the door. The crowd was standing, the chatter swelling even louder. The jailer stood back, his arms folded, laughing loudly.

Burt’s vision was blurry. He couldn’t quite understand what was happening to him. His dim brain couldn’t comprehend the enormity of the impact this was going to have on his life.

Sixteen years!

He’d be an old man!

An ex-convict with no prospects and no skills!

And that was after years and years and years of life in a tiny cell with no freedom and no companionship.

He had been a lady! He had been one of the gentry! How could it come to this? How could he have been so stupid to make the choices he had made, falling further and further into the life he was now trapped in?

He had been a beautiful elegant lady living in the hall, a life of opulence and wealth ahead of her! Why had he given it all so willingly away in return for this life of abject misery?

All just to escape a dull holiday! And instead he was trapped in the body of a brainless peasant – a petty criminal – a convict!

Oh he would pay for his careless foolishness. He would pay a thousand times over!

“Stop!”

Burt abruptly came to a halt.

The crowd went quiet.

The bailiff turned round and Burt turned with him.

Every face in the hall looked toward where the exclamation had come from, looking directly into the face of the Earl.

The old man stood strong and proud, head tilted up, eyes blazing at Burt.

“What is the meaning of this delay?” asked the magistrate.

The Earl paused then turned to the fleshless man. “I wish to withdraw the charges against this man.”

“What? After sentencing? That is preposterous! For what possible reason?”

“Because…” The Earl stepped forward. “This man, on the whole, has committed crimes against my daughter, Ann, not present here today.” He looked slowly round at the crowd. “I spoke to her about these matters on the telephone yesterday and she told me she bore no enmity against this man. She bid me to let him go free.” He shook his head. “But instead, enraged by his insolence I chose to pursue his punishment as vehemently as I could manage.” He paused for a long time. “I choose now to withdraw that. After some introspection, I believe that the course of mercy my daughter encouraged should be followed. I want him to go free.”

The crowd broke out once more in excited gossip, the sound reaching the highest volume it had yet achieved.

“Order!” cried the magistrate. “Order! Please! Order!”

The cried and whispers died slowly away.

With eyes like steel ball bearings, the magistrate scrutinised the Earl. Utterly bewildered, Burt looked from one man to the other, barely able to follow what was happening with his slow-witted grey matter.

“You summon me here with all expediency to conduct this trial at a rate of knots,” said the magistrate, “and now, with the verdict you pressurized me into pronouncing, you seek to overturn my decision… and make a mockery of these proceedings?”

The Earl stood his ground. “Not a mockery sir. I wish to act out of mercy in respect for the wishes of the wronged party.”

The magistrate looked at Burt then back at the Earl. He checked the papers on the desk before him and then fixed his eyes once more on the older gentleman. “I am afraid the verdict has been given. It is far too late for thoughts of mercy. You may be powerful here in Griply Valley my lord but there is an authority that I represent that is higher than yours. That is the law of the land! You invoked that power when you called me here and now you must live with the consequences.” He smiled his skull-like smile. “More specifically, this base immoral criminal must live with the consequences.”

“Now just wait a minute—” began the Earl.

“Take him away!” declared the magistrate. “Immediately! These proceedings are complete!”

 

6

Burt put one step in front of the other, the bailiff pulling at his arm, the crowd filling the hall watching him as he hung his head in shame and sorrow.

There was a hush now. The severity of the sentence had shocked every one of them to the core. Each member of the crowd reflected on how close they all were to such a penance for so little crime. And more, their own Earl, the absolute authority in the valley, had been denied completely. Such an action was hithertofore entirely unheard of and not one among the assemblage could have predicted it.

The Earl himself looked stunned by the powerlessness of his word in the face of the magistrate’s faith in justice.

There was no turning back of the clock now. It was too late for any kind of appeal for clemency.

Burt approached the main exit doors and it was there that his and Mavis’s eyes met for one last time. She looked panicked and afraid, like an animal awaiting the axe. Her cheeks were wet with tears but there was nothing she could do for him and a moment later he was yanked out of her view and into the cold glaring daylight outside.

There was no sun. The sky was blank featureless grey. It wasn’t raining but the ground was wet and there was a heavy chilling moisture in the air. Burt shivered, his hair and clothes becoming immediately damp.

The prison coach was waiting, the back door open and ready, the interior black. There was one guard and a driver, both sternly watching for him. The guard stepped forward as he approached and in a sudden burst of fear, Burt struggled backward, trying to get free. The bailiff clamped on him, wrenching hard and the guard ran to grab his other arm.

“Let me go! Please!” cried Burt. “I can’t go to prison! It ain’t fair!”

They dragged him forward, ignoring his flailing elbows, wrists caught by the shackles. The ground was mud and his feet slithered, failing to gain purchase as he pushed ineffectually backwards. The coach drew closer and closer, the darkened rectangle of the back door growing perceptually in size.

“No!” cried Burt. You can’t! It ain’t right!”

The crowds inside were seething out after them and twisting, Burt saw them. I saw the bland eyes of the watchers, the condemnation, the sympathy, the shock. He saw Harry, his face curled into a frown of disappointment and pity.

Then Burt was shoved forward and he fell against the steps at the back of the coach, banging his knees and forearms and rippling pain up his scarred back where the lash had bitten. He tried to draw breath but couldn’t.  His chest felt like two gigantic hands were gripping it from behind tighter than was safe, preventing the expansion of his lungs.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. All his life he’d been a lady – one of the gentry. How could events have constricted into this terrible path to hurl him into this abhorrent situation? How could life have come to this that he was going to prison for sixteen years – that he would be punished so harshly for so little?

Rough hands grabbed the back of his shirt and ripped him up, throwing him up the steps and through the door of the prison coach. He hammered down on the floor inside, the blackness closing around him, his face cracking against one of the flanking benches with a brief exhalation of pain.

He tried to roll over, to get up, but he was stunned. He couldn’t quite gather his wits. He put all his strength into it and dropped onto his side. He had to get up – get out of there before they closed the door. Once that was closed he was finished. The key would be turned in the lock and he would never know true freedom again.

Burt flopped over onto his side and creased at the waist, reaching toward the open doorway. “No!” he cried. Then the door slammed shut. The rattle of the key came in to lock; the click as the bold slid inexorably into place.

There were muffled cried outside and then shouting to quell them. The coach lurched, creaking, as the driver clambered on board. Burt still could quite get up but he forced himself to. He used his arms to pull himself onto the bench.

He still couldn’t believe this was really happening.

There were more cries from the street and more shouted demands for silence. The coach shuddered. Burt held his breath.

The coach jerked. Burt swayed. It stopped. “Oh God, no,” he whispered. “Don’t let this ‘appen to me. Please. I’m begging ye.”

The coach lurched again and this time it started moving.

It was really happening. There really was no escape.

Cries went up from all around but Burt could already tell they were falling behind.

He was going to prison. He was going to be a convict. His life was over. He would never ever be Lady Ann again.

The coach shook gently from side to side. It was really going. It really was too late.

Then it lurched again, the other way this time, and Burt cracked his head against the inner front wall.

The coach stopped moving.

There was silence outside. No sign of movement. A minute went by; then a second. A shudder ran through the coach as the driver moved and then descended.

Burt still hadn’t caught a breath. With no way of seeing outside, his eyes darted left and right, up and down. He could hear nothing, then quietly, almost inaudibly, he heard words being spoken some way off. Calls came from further off, blocking the sound of it. He missed any sense of meaning.

He angled his head: nothing. He pressed his ear to the back door: nothing.

Then there! Footsteps! He heard them distinctly, coming closer. He strained, trying to listen. No sound of dialogue reached him. Then the key rattled again in the lock and he jerked back. The back door of the prison coach swung open, the light outside dazzling him.

He squinted, trying to see what was going on and made out two figures in silhouette who almost instantly became clearly visible: the driver of the coach and Old Harry!

Old Harry!

“Get out o’there Burt,” he said, slightly breathlessly. “Quick now or they’ll drag you off yet.”

“What’s goin on?” he stammered.

“Don’t ask questions; just get out.”

Burt staggered down the steps, still in his shackles and Harry took his arm. “Harry?”

“Shhh.”

Back down the way they’d come, a hundred yards away, stood the village hall and the crowd of onlookers. Outside of it the Earl was standing with the magistrate. Burt looked back at Harry as the guard unlocked the shackles round his wrists and let him free.

“What’s goin on?” asked Burt, stepping away, looking back in wonder at the prison coach, uncomprehending of how he’d managed to seemingly break free from that onrushing fate. The guard and driver withdrew, not even looking at him. One of them closed the door in the back of the coach. The old man still wasn’t talking but Burt had never seen the likes of the expression on his whiskery features.

“Harry,” he said. “Tell me what’s what. Ow is it that I’m free?”

Harry looked at him with hard eyes and just for a moment his cheeks brightened with mirth. “You’ve got a guardian angel my boy,” he said, “and I never would’ve believed it.” 

“What?”

Harry took his arm and started leading him back into the centre of the village. “The Earl,” he said. “I don’t know what made him change his mind about pressing charges but when the magistrate said you was goin to prison anyway and ‘ad you dragged outta there he just about blew his top.”

Burt looked at Harry in surprise. “Over me?”

Harry chuckled. “Not over you. Not as such. I doubt he cares one whit about what happens to you… but he don’t like bein told no, not here in Griply in front of the whole town. He just about ripped that magistrate’s head clean off after you was loaded into that coach. You shoulda seen it.”

There was fifty yards left now between the pair of them and the villagers; the waiting Earl.

“But what what does this mean for me?” asked Burt. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

The old man didn’t answer.

“Harry?”

He slowed for a minute and looked into Burt’s eyes. “Damned if I know boy. But you’re about to find out.”

Lady Ann's Holiday: Chapter Thirty One - Part Two

3

 

Being put on trial was far worse than Burt had anticipated.

He had shackles on his wrists and ankles as though he were a hardened criminal – the jailer had seen to that as he leered and cackled away before the procession had began. And the procession had been awful as well: led through the muddy streets of the village with the side of the road lined by gawping villagers, staring or pointing and laughing. The children ran alongside him as he was led, circling him and the jailer.

He had thought being in the stock to be the crowning humiliation once upon a time. That had been surpassed by his flogging in the village square. Now this topped them both because this took place now in the cold light of day, without the shock and panic of the whipping. And now he had no illusions left about his lack of power or station. He knew how hopeless his situation was. His humiliation was complete.

They dragged him to the corner and onto the main road, passing the Dog & Pony where Mavis stood alongside her father and brothers, wringing her apron in her hands.

Their eyes found one another but there was no further communication. There couldn’t be. Even Mavis now knew that Burt was beyond her reach.

He saw the village hall up ahead, converted for the day to the use of a courthouse. Every step closer he went was another nail in coffin of his freedom. But why quibble? His freedom had been taken from him days earlier. He wasn’t a free man now and wouldn’t be again until years had gone by.

Outside the village hall, a secure prison coach was stood waiting in anticipation of a guilty verdict. There would be no delay. Burt would be locked up in that, staring out through the barred windows as they drew him away and transported him to prison. He eyed it forlornly as he drew closer, then level with it.

For an instant he imagined it was a normal coach, an opulent marvel of beauty and comfort, come to carry him off to a ball as Lady Ann.

But he wasn’t Lady Ann no more. Those days were totally out of reach now. The best he could hope for was to return to his servant’s life for the rest of his days and even that was hopelessly out of reach.

He reached the grand doorway to the village hall and took one last look back across the diagonal to Mavis’ face. It looked so full of pain and yearning. He wanted so much to be with her one more time, even if only for a moment.

But the jailer jabbed him in the back, forcing him through the door and into the darkness and she was gone.

He was led into an antechamber and made to wait. Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Finally he was led through into the main hall and gasped to see the arrayed people, the entirely new layout.

He was led to a temporarily erected barrier and made to stand. The magistrate, an elderly man with a face like death himself sat at a desk near the back of the room. The rest of the space was filled with chairs, benches and then standing room. The Earl wanted an example to be made and that meant witnesses. The hall was full to bursting. Everyone wanted to see his humiliating fall and Burt spied many faces he knew. The Earl and Countess were there, his… former parents – employers now really. Lady Harriet sat with them, still looking rather shaken by the proceedings.

Old Harry was near the back alongside Jeb. Mavis and her father were near the door, the lass’s face a picture of tender but pessimistic concern.

In moments the magistrate started the proceedings and it instantly took a turn for the worse.

He was a cold and officious man, hard faced and hard eyed. He glared at Burt as he ran through the preliminary sections. He had no understanding in his pose or expression. He would clearly have sentenced Burt to hang if it had been allowed by the law.

Burt just stood in a bewildered daze as the first witness was called – the Earl himself.

The old man stood and answered the questions he was posed, painting a picture of the events the night before last. Throughout he glared in clear anger at Burt but Burt couldn’t face him. He hung his head in shame as his crimes were laid out; activities he now fully realised had been wrong for someone of his meager station.

If only he’d accepted he was never going to be quality again before this, this would never have happened. If only he’d stopped fighting against what he knew now was his undisputed destiny – the life of a peasant. He felt he would give anything now to go back to that simple life and never try to break from it again.

The Earl finished by saying, “I have never been so disappointed and disgusted by a man in my employ. This blackguard is nothing but a diabolical criminal and I recommend he be punished to the full extent of the law.

The magistrate thanked him, smiling for the first time with a lion’s smile. The Earl withdrew and took his seat.

Next Lady Harriet was called, looking unhappy and uncomfortable.

The magistrate began his questioning based, clearly on information he had received previously from the Earl.

Initially Hattie was evasive but when pressed she started to confirm the full details of Burt’s unlawful entry to the Hall and his attempted theft of the pendant; his “filthy and morally vacuous groping through her ladyship’s drawers.”

The questioning rounded out and despite himself, Burt almost quivered with relief when the jailer’s vicious forebodings didn’t come to pass regarding his ill-fated attempt to woo Hattie on Griply Mount.

Then the magistrate said, “And now tell us about the attempted sexual assault on your person by the prisoner.”

Burt’s mouth slid flaccidly open and a cold draught crept up his spine from his belt to his neck.

Again Hattie was evasive and vague but the Earl cleared his throat loudly and her eyes danced fearfully over to him and starting quietly, she said, “That man there; the prisoner; approached me after dark well away from other eyes up on the hill near the hall.”

The magistrate checked his notes. “Griply Mount?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he propositioned me in a sexual manner, suggesting that he and I might…”

There was a long and hungry pause.

“That you might… have intercourse?” asked the magistrate.

There was a ripple of whispers from the crowd. Burt hung his head further, unable to bear the thought of seeing Mavis’s expression.

Hattie squirmed, unwilling to confirm the severity of the accusation. All mischief and playfulness was gone from her manner. She fully understood now the impact of her words and actions.

“I don’t think it is necessary for my daughter to be forced to relive the brutality of this obscene incident,” said the Earl loudly. “Her silence speaks as loudly as her words would.”

Burt looked at the magistrate. It seemed he would disagree, but instead he said, “Indeed. You may step down Lady Harriet.”

Hattie went back to her seat, her eyes brimming with tears. The Countess enfolded her in her arms.

There was a long silent minute while the magistrate sorted through his papers, then he addressed Burt directly.

“Burt Harper, you have heard the accusations made against you and, despite your lack of education and retarded intelligence, you understand the seriousness of your crimes. Is that correct?”

Burt nodded. “Yes sir.”

“To the crime of theft, how do you plead?”

Burt looked back at the gaunt uncaring man. He knew that an admittance of guilt would send him to prison, but what else could he give. He accepted now that the pendant didn’t belong to him. It was Lady Ann’s. To take it without permission was theft; it was as simple as that. He wished he could lie to the man, do anything to squirm out of it, but this was one of his betters. He didn’t dare lie to a direct question.

“I’m guilty sir,” he said.

A furor of whispers ran round the crowd. The magistrate allowed time for them to settle.

“And to the crime of unlawfully entering a dwelling house and, in a most insidious way, riffling through the undergarments of a titled lady?”

Burt swallowed, sweating profusely. It was all such a terrible misunderstanding, but again, he had done this. It wasn’t his home. He had no right to be there. He had gone in against all knowledge and instinct that he should remain outside. And he had riffled through her ladyship’s things. The intention had been to find the pendant but he knew in his hear that he’d gained a dirty sexual pleasure from doing so.

“I’m guilty your honour.”

This time the chatter was loud enough for the magistrate to bang his gavel to bring the room to order. He made a second note on the paper before him and then levelled his cold eyes on Burt once more.

“You are accused of brutally beating one of your fellow men with the intentions to cause grievous bodily harm.”

Burt thought of the man in the alley; Mavis screaming at him to stop; the Earl catching him in the act; the night in the stocks.

“How do you plead?”

“Guilty sir,” replied Burt. There was no use denying that and he had no wish for Mavis to be called as a witness.

The crowd remained silent.

“To the crime of indecently harassing Lady Harriet Neville for the express purpose of instigating sexual relations… how do you plead?”

Burt’s face turned a dark and simmering red. He felt all eyes in the court on him; condemning him. He looked down at his boots, knowing that with this accusation more than any other he should keep his mouth shut. But he had propositioned her ladyship, entirely inappropriately. She was infinitely superior to him and he had approached her with lewd and coarse suggestions. He had wanted nothing more than to engage with her in sexual intercourse. He was guilty of this and everything else they had accused him off and he was going to go to prison for it.

“I’m guilty your honour,” he said and now the entire hall erupted in chatter and cries of horror.

Burt turned a still deeper shade of red.

He knew now that he was entirely doomed. There was no way out of this. His only hope was that Lady Ann might walk into the hall in the next few minutes to forgive him of the crimes against her at least, somehow mitigate the accusations levelled at him and reduce the inevitable sentence.

He looked to the door, hoping against all hope that it would open right now and admit her entrance.

Lady Ann was the only one who could save him now.

4

Over two hundred miles away to the south, Lady Ann sat beside Richard on the train as it pulled slowly through the outskirts of London.

She looked sadly across the soot black buildings and slate roofs, wishing she didn’t have to leave the splendour of the capital but yearning still for the beauty of the country. As both Ann and Burt she had lived the better part of her life in Griply and the memories were so seamlessly intermingled now, it was impossible without introspection to judge which belonged to whom.

All she knew was that she wanted to go home and as quickly as possible.

It was a shame there were so many hours of travel merely to get to York. Changing trains there was bound to delay them further and the train to Griply was even slower. In all likelihood they would end up staying the night in York.

But what did it matter really? What harm could there be in delaying?