LADY ANN'S FOLLY: Bonus Maid Chapter!

As a special treat to my loyal fans, here is an extra chapter I have gone back and inserted into Chapter Ten.

This is an additional episode featuring the Earl in his new womanly body, trapped in the life of one of his own maids. I agree with you guys that I have neglected this plot thread so I'm going back to weave in some more.

This part fits in just before the Countess and Reggie swap bodies, shortly after breakfast. 

There's going to be one more of these additional episodes before we proceed with the normal chronology which, by coincidence, featues the Earl again. For male to female maid transformation fans, that means you're going to get three doses in a row! Hope that makes up for skiping them up to now.

Howard Neville stood in his rightful bedroom and felt for the first time in fifty years the desire to burst into tears.

The door was closed and he realised that he could actually do that; break down and cry. Perhaps he had long enough that no one would see him, and if they did then they would think little of it. He was after all only a girl and as a servant, his feelings were inconsequential.

But no. He was Lord Howard Neville by gum. He wasn’t really this weak and feeble woman; not on the inside. He wasn’t going to let this defeat him.

For now he had to go along with it – there was no escaping that – but he wasn’t going to let it defeat him in any way that mattered. Until he could get the chance to confront the imposter face-to-face he could play the part but he wouldn’t lower himself to thinking like a simpering girl.

He had been told to make the bed. The covers were thrown back in a tangle. He sighed, shaking his head in sorrow, and made himself get to work. It was a dreadful humiliation to have to do such a task. Such activity was beneath him. Worse was the fact that he was effectively making the bed for the man who had stolen his life. If anything he wanted to fill the bed with vipers!

Though of course that would do him no good. What if the imposter were actually to die? Surely that would leave him stranded in this undesirable form! What option would he have then but to kill himself?

He frowned dourly.

Do the work. Get it done. Find an opening to speak to the doppelganger alone.

He hurriedly did the bed. He had never made a bed in his life but it proved easier than he thought. Of course it had to be to be trusted to idiot maids.

Thinking that brought the frown back to his face though.

I am the idiot maid now, he thought, and as he did so felt an odd tingle he didn’t recognise at the back of his neck. After that it suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad to be doing what he was doing.

He moved as quickly as he could, making it neat and tidy, but as he did so he was hyperaware of his feminine body: his slim hands and long fingers; his thin arms; the way his long black dress enclosed his legs and brushed up against the side of the bed; the slight redistribution of weight in his chest as he tipped forward to smooth the sheets.

Lord help me, I’m really a woman, he said to himself, and again, paradoxically, it made him feel better to say it; generated the same gentle warmth in the back of his head.

Once the bed was complete he regarded it for a moment, feeling a conflicting series of emotions. That he should feel frustrated and humiliated was to be expected, but there was also a unanticipated level of pride at the surprisingly good job he had made of it. That was pure rot obviously. He shouldn’t feel better at succeeding at such a trifling and obedient task, but he did nonetheless.

He didn’t like it though.

His men’s pyjamas were on the floor in a heap and the dressing table was cluttered where his wife had got ready. Her clothes were also discarded, over a chair in the corner. Grumbling to himself he set about clearing it all up too, worried that the butler would come back and find it not done and more, that his double would catch him in the act. The humiliation of that was deplorable to consider.

But suddenly the door disengaged and Howard’s heart flopped. He stood in a panic, a handful of his wife’s clothes in his hand, and saw her standing there in the doorway.

There was an instant of surprise and then her expression became one of mild disdain and impatience. “Oh. You’re in here.”

Howard’s face fell. All he wanted to do was tell Elizabeth who he really was and illicit her help to get his real body back but the humiliation he felt being caught by her was even worse than it would have been to be seen by the imposter. This was his wife, to whom he had always been manly, confident and, quite frankly, superior. He couldn’t bear the idea of been shown up in this way in front of her; to look as he did, dressed as he was; to speak with his new timorous voice. And he was terrified he might blurt out something else with a provincial accent. What if he tried to tell her but the accent cut in and she didn’t believe him? The result of that truly could be horrible.

Instead he said nothing, gaping at her in dim panic.

“Well don’t just stand there you idiot girl! Get to work or I’ll have the butler tan your hide!”

Howard jerked into action, darting first one way and then the other, then stopping in confusion.

“Look at you!” snapped Elizabeth. “Look at the way you’re treating my clothes!”

“I beg ye pardon m’lady,” responded Howard in thick Yorkshire. “I’m all in a tiz. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“I should say so you ignorant girl. Put the pyjamas in the bed and get out. I need to change for the picnic and there is still much to organise.”

Howard blushed brightly, currying to do as he was told. He couldn’t believe the words that had popped out of him and the direness of his accent. He couldn’t countenance acting this way in front of his wife, but he couldn’t help it. She could be vicious with wayward servants and it was already far too late to reveal who he really was. He had already ruined his chance. The true Earl would never do chores or follow commands; would never speak as he had or quake with fear. She would probably never help him now – even in the future. And how much worse might his dialect get if he remained like this? It had already gotten noticeably worse since waking up.

Elizabeth went on scowling at him as he finished up. Howard’s heart rate was painfully high, his chest aching from it. He felt mortified and scared: feelings previously unknown to him.

“Well don’t dawdle! Get out!” exclaimed his wife, hurrying him even faster along.

He practically ran to the door and shut it behind him, leaning on the wood and gasping for air.

How much worse could this experience get?

“Nellie!”

He looked in the direction of the voice. The housekeeper was coming out of one of the opposite rooms.

“Get down to the kitchen now cloth-ears! There’s work to be done to get the picnic ready. You don’t live here to rest. You’re here to work!”

Howard gaped at her but did as he was told, head hung low.

It was never going to end and now he felt he’d burned his bridges with the one person he might have been able to rely on to be his ally.

He was likely stuck in this form now for good!