LADY ANN'S FOLLY: Chapter Nine - Part Nine

Lord Howard Neville was still so staggered by the inexplicable quality of his situation that he could do little but go along with it with a dazed expression on his face.

He wasn’t a man anymore! He was a woman! And not only a woman: a maid! One of his own maids!

On his knees in the dining room, he was building a fire. He’d already cleaned out the grate, following the instructions of the butler! But what else could he do? Everything that made him who he was; gave him the confidence to exert his authority; had been stripped away, most noticeably his physical stature. He was terrified of being hurt by the overbearing butler.

He worked has quickly as he could, but the panic that was on him made him fumble. He wasn’t used to his thin fingers and weak arms. Everything was so hard! But what else could he do? He couldn’t refuse to do it. He knew the likely result of that. He had to play along long enough to find out why this was happening.

The only thing he could think of was that this was a punishment for his behaviour. He had shouted at the maid he had become the day before. This had to be some kind of curse that she had levied on him to get her own back. She was obviously a witch. The only logical answer was that she had stolen his body and he had to confront her and make her switch them back.

To get to his real body he had to stay in the house. To stay in the house he had to go on pretending to be this maid! It was terrible!

Finally, he got the spark to take on the kindling and blew to increase the flame. Starting a fire was much harder than he thought it would be. He’d seen it done many times by servants over the years, never imagining he would end up being a servant himself.

It made him want to scream in fury and rage.

He got up, hating the long dress and apron he was wearing, and worst of all: the frilly cap. He regarded his womanly body despondently and trudged back through to the kitchen to get his next instructions.

“Ah, Nellie. There you are!” said the cook grumpily. “Get over here and help me and pick those feet up or Mister Powell will be having another word with you.”

Howard hurried over, feeling anxious and hating that he did. He had never been so out of control in his life!

The cook made him assist her with the breakfast. Him: a titled lord, reduced to pitiful women’s work! It was degrading! He had no idea what to do and the doughty woman was horribly patronising, barking orders as though he were an imbecile. He wanted to tell her she couldn’t speak to him like that, but whenever he said anything his new female voice was so reedy. It had no power behind it and he knew how preposterous it would sound if he started shouting back. He was barely more than a child. He had no authority at all. As the breakfast came together, all he could do was stick out and then hope to appeal to the pretender who had presumably taken his place.

“Well don’t just stand there girl!” snapped Powell as he entered the kitchen. “Make yourself useful. Start bringing the breakfast things through. The family are waiting.”

The family. He should have been through there waiting with them! He shouldn’t have to be serving instead!

“Nellie!” snapped Powell. “Now girl!”

“Beggin yer pardon sir,” replied Howard, rushing to pick up some of the breakfast things; then he froze rigid, realising what he’d said, and the lowborn, yokel accent he’d said it with.

Good God no, he thought. Up to now, he’d barely spoken, hating the sound of his voice but he hadn’t had a peasant accent – he was sure of that. And he would never have chosen to use such a phrase. Never!

“Nellie!” shouted Powell.

“Sorry sir,” stammered Howard, rushing past the old man with the plates, relieved that there was no sign then of the Yorkshire brogue.

He went along the back corridor toward the dining room feeling increasingly anxious, especially when he heard the chatter coming from inside there. He could hear the jocular voice of his brother, Patrick, and sister-in-law Geraldine. He hated the idea of coming face to face with them looking like this; being so diminished in front of them. His only solace was that they wouldn’t know him. And that was nothing compared to his wife and daughter seeing him as nothing but a servant girl.

He hated this. He hated it so much.

Then Howard got to the doorway and he stood there carrying the breakfast things with a look of numb shock across his homely features. For sitting at the head of the table was the imposter, just as he’d hoped and feared. This Earl looked exactly like he was meant to. Exactly like. But worse, nothing untoward was visible. His posture was clean and crisp. His expression fit his patriarchal features. Nobody here seemed to have any objection to his presence; to be able to detect the slightest flaw in his diabolical disguise.

Then the doppelganger spotted Howard standing there in the doorway and looked him directly in the eye. They were locked eyeball to eyeball for several long seconds as Howard felt the strength falter in his legs, then this sham Earl raised his chin and opened his mouth and in a plum voice that sounded exactly as it should he said, “Well don’t just stand there you idiot girl. Serve out the breakfast. I’m famished!”

Howard’s face fell but he jerked to do so, his mind reeling, for his theory couldn’t be right. No simple-minded maid could have assumed his likeness so perfectly in such a short time; mastered his well-bred accent. It was impossible.

And that realisation was truly horrifying, because it meant he had been wrong, surely.

That really did seem to be Howard Neville at the end of the table. But if that was Howard Neville then who was he?