Young Bess Part One free porn video

I want to thank the great (and patient) Elaine for her valuable ideas and assistance in the early development of this story. Young Bess Part One By Jane Howard I was born on the second day of January 1701. It irritated me no end that I had not been born on the first of January 1700 and thus been the first baby born in the eighteenth century. I did not realize then, as I do now, that I was even closer to my goal than I had realized, because 1700 was actually nothing more than the last year of the previous century. Once I appreciated that fact, it was my conceit thereafter to think of myself as ?one? of the first babies of the new era. It seems a rather smug and self-satisfied idea, does it not? But I am really neither smug nor self-satisfied, as you shall come to realize as you grow to know me better. My fault then was that I was a child and that I still thought like a child. As I grew older, I came to understand that many people never stop thinking that way. My childhood was rather pleasant. And why shouldn?t it be? I had the good fortune to be born into a family that, while not rich, was certainly far from poor. What we may have lacked in the way of capital was more than compensated for in our lives by our place in the history of our country. I cannot give you my name, for reasons that will become quite clear to you later, but I can say that my line is at least as old as the Doomsday Book created during the reign of King John. Yes, the very same John who was so odious and evil a ruler that no king after him has ever been called by that name again. I fully expected to live an eventful life. I anticipated a classical education followed by marriage and a long career in government. I would then retire to the country and spend my last years improving my garden and, when in doors, in reading and contemplating the great writers and thinkers of the age. After that, I would probably die peacefully in my sleep, well advanced in years, leaving behind talented and beautiful children and grandchildren to carry on the traditions of our ancient and noble house. How naive I was to think that one?s future could be so predictable! I cannot imagine my current existence as being more different from the one I had pictured for myself in that earlier time. The events that were to change all of my expectations about my future took place on the most unlikely of days. I recall that it was a lovely summer afternoon in June, in the fifteenth year of my life, and that I had resolved to spend the time in reading. The warmth of the sun was so seductive and the hum of the heat in the air so soothing that I soon fell asleep in the gazebo with my copy of Samuel Richardson?s Clarissa lying in my lap with only a page or two read. Clarissa, as you may well know, is the story of a lovely, young, innocent girl seduced and destroyed by the clever schemes of a charming rogue. It was to become my most cherished book. I remember that I had been dreaming a most unusual dream. I dreamt that I was fleeing for my life from a man who threatened me in some way, I cannot say how but I was in great fear of him. Although he was behind me and I could not see him, I knew him to be dark and dangerous and very strong. My heart was beating so fast that my body shook even as I flew past trees thick with hanging vines of ivy. I heard crows cawing above me. I reached a stream far too wide to cross without wading. Perhaps it was even too deep for wading, and I knew in my dream that I could not swim. As I contemplated the dilemma of either drowning or being caught by my enemy, I looked down at the reflection cast back by the slow moving water. Instead of seeing my own familiar face, I saw the image of a young blonde female, wide-eyed with fright, and dressed in a gown of pale blue. ?She must be in front of me,? I thought, and I tried in vain to see myself behind her, but instead I saw only the shadow of my stalker drawing much nearer. Someone touched me then and I screamed in a most unmanly manner and awoke. ?Master James, you are called to the house,? said one of the footmen. He was a good fellow named Luther, who had been in the service of my family for many years. His hand was on my shoulder, and I deduced that it must have been his touch that I had felt in my dream. His look told me that he had been disturbed by my scream, but, knowing his place, and seeing that all was well with me, he said nothing about it. It only took me a few moments to collect myself. I became aware that I was soaking with perspiration, and I drew my handkerchief forth and pressed it against my face. ?Is anything amiss?? I asked, observing that our manservant?s demeanor suggested some urgency. ?There is news of your sister, Master James. I am afraid it is quite grave.? ?My sister, you say?? ?Indeed, sir. Her ladyship has requested your presence in the house at once.? As I followed Luther up the gentle slope that led to the conservatory entrance at the rear of our home, my mind worked as rapidly as a weaver?s shuttle. My sister had only recently married and it was a good match. Her husband, Richard Montford, was wealthy enough to offset the social deficit we incurred by aligning our name with his own modest lineage. He was good looking, as was my sister, and extremely bright?an attribute which I confess she did not share with him to the same degree. His character was also well suited to her, in that both of them were steady, even-tempered persons. Put another way, there are those amongst us who would eat life in one enormous bite, as if they were the horse and life were the apple. But there are others who would first peel, then slice, and then select the preferred pieces with such deliberation that an entire hour might be consumed in the process, along with the apple. My sister and her husband were of the latter type. Knowing these things about them, it seemed impossible to me that their marriage could have become unraveled. It must be some accident, or perhaps the onset of illness that had caused our servant to refer to the news I was about to hear as ?grave.? And which of the newlyweds was the affected one? Having known my sister longer, and having formed a profound attachment to her despite her habit of occasionally tormenting me when I was a small child, I rather hoped that it was not her. I followed Luther into the main drawing room. My mother, who was dressed in a bright yellow gown that seemed entirely too gay for the occasion, considering that she was in tears, was seated in her favorite chair. My brother Edward, acting as head of household since my father was in London, was standing at the mantle with his hands clasped behind his back, looking terribly grown up for nineteen. I sensed that he had fully rehearsed what he was about to tell me. Since the ceiling in the room was quite high, and the furnishings rather spare owing to our family?s financial conservatism, his voice held the faintest trace of an echo as he spoke. ?Please sit down, James,? he said. ?You have news of Sheila and her husband?? I asked. ?You shall know all when I have done,? my brother replied. At those words, my mother burst into another wave of sobbing and beckoned to the maid for a fresh handkerchief. For myself, I took what Edward had said as an admonition that I should be silent until he was done speaking. That would be very difficult, since I am not inclined to be silent on any occasion, but given the apparent gravity of what he was about to relate, I resolved to obey as best I could. I sat with my ankles crossed and my hands clasped in my lap and focused on my brother with all my powers of concentration, which, according to the various governesses, tutors, catechists, and teachers who have attempted unsuccessfully to perfect them, are not considered to be very great. It was for that same reason (of my intellect having a tendency to wander all about like a butterfly in heat) that I had been removed from two of the best public schools in Britain to pursue my studies at home. Holding up the letter recently received from Richard, the very same letter that had caused all the consternation in our household, Edward announced that my sister Sheila was missing and nowhere to be found. She had not been seen for several days. Richard had deferred informing us until a thorough search of his estate had been undertaken and all other possible explanations for her disappearance had been explored. His agents were busy making discreet inquiries within the shire. Friends of my sister were being approached with all due delicacy on the matter of her whereabouts. Richard had been reluctant to post a reward until the immediate family had been informed and had agreed to it. The letter went to say that the authorities had also not been notified, and would not be, until we had an opportunity to consider the facts. In closing the letter, Richard apologized vigorously for not bringing us the news in person, but begged our understanding of his position. He was reluctant to quit the search for even so short a time, and vowed before heaven that he would not rest until his beloved Sheila had been restored to him and to us. By the time Edward had finished speaking, my head was positively spinning. ?It?s hideous! How can such a thing be true?? I exclaimed. ?Do be quiet, child! I see that you continue in your tendency to distract people from their thoughts!? scolded my mother who had never been particularly patient with my impulse to express myself. She had told me many times that children are better seen and not heard. Despite her consistent instruction to the contrary, I had persisted in interrupting older and wiser members of the family at table. And had done the same during our usual gatherings in the drawing room at evening, where our father reported the news from London as if he were some kind of human gazette. Most of his pronouncements were quite beyond me, or simply bored me, but on occasion the news was very striking, as it was on the night he told us of the death of that ghastly, troublesome French despot Louis XIV. One instance that I recall with a certain bittersweet satisfaction was the night our father stated his intention to seek a minor appointment for Edward at the Royal Embassy in the Netherlands. I had dared to suggest that Edward lacked the necessary tact to ever succeed at a career in diplomacy, and that with him at the helm, the Thirty Years War would probably have become known as The War That Is Still Going On. In fact, I believe I called him a silly fool too. On that occasion, my mother informed me that I was excused from the family?s society until I apologized to him. Truthfully, I never did apologize to Edward, and he, in turn, never got the appointment. This had also been the case only a year before, when the news of my sister Sheila?s forthcoming nuptials had caused me to interject that she, who was then barely seventeen, was entirely too young to take on the burdens and responsibilities of marriage. At that time, my mother had called me ?impudent,? and ?precocious,? and ?outspoken,? and had, in short, used a whole host of judgmental adjectives before dismissing me to another part of the house. It may have been that my dear mother was recalling that last incident when she became quite cross with me on this day, the day my story begins, the day we first became aware of Sheila?s disappearance. Say what one will, it was apparent that Sheila would be home right now, all safe and sound, if my elders had but heeded my opinion. Nevertheless, I did not want my mother to be more upset than she already was, and I sought to pacify her. ?Please forgive me, mother. I only spoke out of concern for my lost sister, whom I dearly love,? I said. It was true. Despite her proclivities to torture me, I did love Sheila very much, and I was feeling suddenly ill with worry for her safety. ?As do we all love her,? said my brother in an attempt to regain control of his small audience. ?But what are we to do?? I asked. A pall of silence fell over the drawing room as we considered the alternatives. During this lull, and despite my best efforts to avoid it, my mind began to succumb to its aforementioned tendency to serendipity. I noted a faint odor of wisteria in the air. I heard the ticking of the Dresden clock on the mantle, and the almost imperceptible noises coming from below stairs as the servants prepared our afternoon tea. Then my mother?s voice cut through my wool gathering like a pair of shears to the coats of the Spring sheep, and brought me firmly back to the problem at hand. ?We must wait for your father to return,? said my mother, addressing her words directly at Edward. ?Although I am her mother and heartsick at this most distressing news, I feel it would be best to delay taking any course of action until his approval is obtained.? Edward harrumphed. ?In my judgement it would be imprudent to wait upon father?s return. He will not return until tomorrow evening at the earliest and a full day will have been lost. Richard writes that he has been cautioned that the trail goes cold very quickly in cases like this. Therefore, it is my recommendation that we post a message to father immediately, in which we state our concurrence with Richard?s plan to offer a reward.? Edward?s nose was forever running, and he paused to press at his nostrils with an upturned fist and snort before continuing. ?Of course, I presume Montfort is referring to his own money being used to that purpose and not ours.? I?m sure that last statement would sound quite callous to those outside our family circle, but since we were indebted far beyond our means, it made perfect sense. A mere pound less in the accounts than we could muster on any given day, and we faced bankruptcy and ruin should my father?s bankers fail to cover his drafts. Please do not misunderstand me. If all of our assets were to be liquidated at a fair price, and not at auction, and our debts paid, there would be a substantial sum left over, I assure you. But since most of those assets were tied up in land and livestock and buildings and the like, and produced only modest revenues, and most of those only seasonally, we had a chronic shortage of ready cash with which to meet our daily expenses. ?But think of the scandal, Edward? my mother complained. Edward was puzzled. ?I don?t believe I understand you, mother.? ?Suppose for a moment that your sister has merely run away. Perhaps she has found marriage not to be to her taste. Perhaps she has taken a lover!? My mother?s face showed traces of repugnance at that last possibility. ?Some women are prone to do such a thing, although I never would. It is possible that she will reappear at any time, or write to us from the colonies to declare that she has made a new life for herself and that she is sharing it with some hairy adventurer. The more we call attention to our situation, the more vulnerable we shall become to the potential exposure of secrets that ought not to see the light of day. We would be hard pressed to maintain our position in society in a case like that!? I knew my sister well and to my own best belief, she would not be inclined to run off with a rake, no matter how fashionable or handsome or commanding of her attentions he might be. At the risk of becoming tedious, I repeat a point that I made earlier about her character, namely that she was more like a cow at graze than a fickle coquette. Therefore, it was my conclusion that she was most likely in real danger. As for our dear father and what his own conclusions might be, I feel it necessary to mention that he had made an entire career out of avoiding even the smallest decision. Indeed, it had long been his custom to take the most trivial of issues under advisement until they either went away, or, better yet, until another individual who was less caring for his career than my father was for his own had settled it for him. This strategy, which he called ?exercising prudent judgement,? had served him well, and had allowed him to survive in government far longer than many of his political rivals. His true genius lay in his extraordinary ability to write and deliver speeches to Parliament in which he would, according to the appropriateness of the situation, predict the disastrous consequences of his rivals? mistakes or somehow draw the credit to himself when these same men made good decisions. Since he invariably did this after the fact, rather than before, his reputation for infallibility had prospered. I can think of no better illustration of my father?s approach in action than when he brought the House of Lords to their feet with huzzahs and all manner of clapping and cheering. Then he delivered a speech in which he condemned the recalcitrant Papist King James the Second, and called for the succession of good Queen Anne, a full five years after the traitor James? exile and Anne?s coronation. Unfortunately, my father?s indecisiveness extended to his private life as well, and he was as likely to cogitate mightily over kippers with his eggs or no kippers with his eggs, as he was to matters affecting the Exchequer. We could hardly afford to put Sheila?s fate into the hands of that compulsively deliberating man! For the first time in my life, I found myself in full agreement with Edward. But as much as I was resolved to assist my brother in persuading my mother of the rectitude of his stance, I also realized that her almost instinctive antipathy to my opinions might have an opposite effect on her. I therefore maintained a prudent silence, although it took tremendous effort to do so. Another lull filled the room like so much mist, as each of us busied ourselves with our own thoughts regarding the fate of our dearest Sheila. The pensive silence lasted for some minutes, and was only disrupted by Luther who came in from the entry hall and gave a gentleman?s card to my mother. She glanced at the name on it and promptly put her fingers to her lips in dismay. ?It is Isaac! I shall send him away.? How typical of my uncle?s eccentricity that he should do that! It was not the custom for a close relative, well known to all in the house, to announce himself in that way. Mother had just begun to tell the servant to present Uncle Isaac with her regrets, but that she was indisposed with an illness that prevented her from entertaining him, when he burst most uncivilly into the room. The man was a genius of science but quite uncontainable and well known for his utter lack of patience. ?My Lady!? he said, bowing deeply before my mother. That they were siblings endowed him with the feeling that his visits ought never to be declined by the house?s inhabitants, card or not, and he ought to be able to enter her home whenever he wished. For her part, their relationship made her rather forgiving of his bad manners. ?Isaac! You are quite impossible!? she cried, rising to embrace him. Holding her at arms? length, her brother immediately saw the distress in his sister?s face. ?What?s this?? he asked. There was nothing for it, but that my mother would burst into yet another wave of weeping, and when done with that, and after having made the proper reparations to her appearance, to then relate all the details she knew of my sister Sheila?s situation. Uncle Isaac listened to the story with tremendous gravity. Putting his fist under his chin as he sat in my father?s chair, he pondered the facts of it for some time while the both of us looked on with keen interest. After all, it isn?t every day that one gets to observe one of the finest scientific minds cogitating over a serious problem. At last, he arose and announced that since he did his best thinking out of doors he intended to retire to the garden where he would give the mystery his best consideration. Looking at me as I sat mutely biting my lower lip, Uncle Isaac said gently, ?Would you like to accompany me, dear boy?? I stood at once. ?Oh, my! Yes, if it pleases you dear Uncle!? Then remembering my place as the youngest and least favored son, I added, ?May I, mother? May I, Edward?? ?Of course, child!? My mother was, I am sure, quite glad to be rid of me, as was my brother, who also nodded his assent. Uncle Isaac was extremely fond of me. I think he saw something of himself in me. And I believe that he had high hopes that someday, like himself, I might have the good fortune to be conked by an apple, or peach, or something, and discover, well, not gravity, since he had already discovered that -- but perhaps something akin to it, like magnetism. I might even discover the existence of another planet in the solar system to add to the seven that we already knew orbited the sun. We began our walk in mother?s garden, with Uncle Isaac?s right arm draped around my shoulders in a comforting gesture. Our boots made crunching noises on the white gravel path that took us under enormous arched trellises bursting forth with red and pink shrub roses. At last, Uncle Isaac and I sat down on a marble bench. I stared at the rolling fields that fell away from the house in billows, like so many green and golden sails. The late afternoon summer sun was exaggerating the shadows around the bushes and trees that formed the boundary lines which separated our estate from our farms. It was all quite lovely. It seemed rather cruel to me that nature would display so much beauty while my dear sister might be in the gravest distress or even worse. I confess, to my great embarrassment, that in a sudden surge of emotion, I threw myself in a very ungentlemanly way onto my uncle?s chest and wept for Sheila with all my heart. Uncle Isaac was a very kind and understanding man. He patiently allowed me to soak his linen shirt with tears, and petted me until I had regained some control over my emotions. ?What are we to do, dear Uncle?? I asked at last. ?We can do nothing for now,? he replied soberly, daubing at my face with his handkerchief. ?We lack sufficient information to know what to do.? Like a true scientist, he added, ?We need facts before we can form a hypothesis.? ?And where shall we get those facts, uncle?? ?By spying, of course. The logical place to start would be with your sister?s servants. Much of what we learn will be idle gossip, but some of it will be useful, I have no doubt.? Having grown up with servants all around me, I understood the potential flaw in my uncle?s plan immediately. ?But they won?t be candid with us! They?ve already been questioned by Richard and he?s learned nothing!? ?Precisely. That is why we need to set a spy among them. A person whom they perceive to be their equal.? I thought about the idea. There were problems with it. ?And who are we to send on such a mission? It would require someone with extraordinary qualities. The person must be clever, trustworthy, completely dedicated to the task, and free of any suspicion. Oh, where are we to find such a person in such a short time?? My uncle Isaac gave me a questioning look. It confounded me for a minute or two, until I realized what he was thinking. But, I still needed to be certain. ?I take it that it is your belief that I am the one best suited for this mission, uncle?? Sir Isaac smiled and touched my cheek. ?Of course it must be you, James. No other could do it. But you must make the decision on your own. I will not order you to put yourself in danger, although I do not think you will ever truly be in any real danger. Nonetheless, it is you who must decide for yourself.? My confidence in Uncle Isaac was absolute. While it was true that I was not very hardy, quite the opposite in fact, I was a very determined boy when I set my mind to it. And while I was not very brave, and hated physical confrontation, I was a most spirited lad, and enjoyed challenges which engaged my mind. I was adaptable, and had inherited a very quick, if somewhat disorderly intellect, as has been previously detailed herein. If Uncle Isaac was sure that I could succeed, then I was equally sure that he was right. ?I will do it. What is your plan, uncle?? Uncle Isaac smiled, crossed his legs and folded his arms on his chest. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as his agile mind raced through a plausible strategy. ?First, we must have an explanation for your absence from your family. I shall ask your mother?s permission to have you stay with me for a short time. I shall ask this of her under the pretext that I am lonely, and that I am fond of your company. I will add a further inducement by stating that I feel that it is not beyond the realm of possibility that you, as Sheila?s sibling, may also be at some risk. That removing you from this locale temporarily is merely a prudent and proper precaution to ensure your personal safety. I am sure that your mother will agree. ?Then we shall arrange for you to write a series of innocuous letters about your activities while at my home. Each will bear a future date. I will post them as needed. Those letters will stifle any curiosity about your whereabouts.? ?She will agree,? I confirmed, certain that my mother would be quite pleased to have me away and safe with Uncle Isaac. Uncle Isaac continued. ?Next, I shall write a letter of introduction to Richard?s housekeeper, Mrs. Norris. I have known Mrs. Norris for a very long time. In point of fact, it was my pleasure to secure the position of housekeeper for her with Richard?s father, long before your sister ever set eyes on her future husband. ?For that reason, Mrs. Norris? cooperation in what I will ask her to do is assured. And what I shall outline in my letter to her is that I am introducing her to a certain child who was the fruit of a casual indiscretion I committed some fifteen years ago. You, of course, are to be that child. I shall state that you are badly in need of a livelihood, your mother having died only recently? Mrs. Norton will then find a place for you amongst the house servants. It will be from your relationship with them that we shall gather the best information of which we can avail ourselves regarding Sheila?s fate.? ?Uncle?? I asked. ?Yes?? he replied, quite languidly, as if he were anticipating that I might challenge him and had already prepared his answer. Despite his apparent confidence and the great esteem in which I had always held him, the outline of Uncle Isaac?s plan seemed impossible. I voiced my objection. ?How am I to carry off this charade? As Sheila?s brother I have been a visitor there more than once. I shall easily be discovered.? ?Not so,? said my uncle in a reassuring tone. ?Not after I have sent you on a visit to Goody Whitfield. ? ?Goody Whitfield?? I asked incredulously. ?Surely you cannot mean?? ?Yes, I do,? replied my uncle. ?But?? My confusion was quite apparent. ?Yes?? ?But, dearest Uncle, Goody Whitfield is said to be ?? ??Said to be a witch?? Sir Isaac finished the sentence I was reluctant to finish myself. ?Quite so, uncle.? ?Nonsense! She has certain powers. I would readily agree to that. Dear boy, please understand that the difference between science and magic is only this: that when we have no explanation for why something works we call it magic. The rest of what we may think of magic is all superstitious rot! ?Goody Whitfield is as much a scientist as I am. I daresay that someday all the wonders of magic, whether it is the power to fly, the power to speak and hear and see across great distances, the power to destroy and create, or the power to transform will all be understood. The use of all these powers will be, ultimately, quite ordinary?despite the certainty that anyone who possesses them now will be accused of witchcraft!? I was not the visionary my uncle was. With some anxiety, I asked him what he planned to ask Goody Whitfield to do to me. ?Why, to change your appearance, of course!? But what he meant by this, he would not say, only adding that she herself would make that determination. And thus it was that a few nights later, aided only by the light of the full moon, I made my way carefully through the bracken down a barely visible path to the cottage set deep in the woods that was well known in the neighborhood as Goody Whitfield?s house. The crickets chirped and an owl hooted nearby. I heard also the bubbling of water in a stream still swollen from the excessive spring rains. Despite the heat of the night, I saw white smoke rising from the chimney of Goody Whitfield?s little house. She was expecting me. I knew it in my very heart. ?What is to become of me here?? I murmured to myself as I made my way reluctantly down the small rise of a hill and prepared to knock on the weather beaten red door of the cottage. No sooner had I asked myself that question than a chill came over me the like of which I had never felt before. From the other side of the door, I heard the soft sound of someone laughing. ?Hello?? I said quietly, secretly hoping that I would not be heard and could then turn around, take to my heels and flee as fast and as far from that place as ever I might. It was a dishonorable thought in view of the reason why I had come. After all, I was there as the first step in a plan to rescue my sister from a terrible fate. This was no time to be faint of heart. My feeling of shame at having such cowardly thoughts made me resolute once more in the undertaking of my adventure. I took a deep breath. ?Hello?? I called, this time in a louder voice. ?Enter!? replied a voice from within. I turned the knob and entered. It has always been difficult for me to absorb the details of something totally new. For some reason completely unknown to me, new faces, new objects, new experiences, all things that I am seeing and feeling for the first time somehow overwhelm me and confuse me. As a result my memory of such things can be deceiving, as when in one instance my father brought home a new hunting dog and I mistook it for a goat. I shall try to describe the interior of Goody Whitfield?s single room house as best I can. The first thing that caught my eye was a surprisingly cheery fire. A cauldron hung above it, in which something pea green in color was bubbling away. I hoped it was soup. A few pewter cups and plates were set on the mantle along with a pair of yellow eyes that, as I became accustomed to the light, turned out to belong to a cat with a deep gray coat. The cat was gazing at me in a most insolent manner. The furnishings were sparse: a table, two chairs, a bed filled with straw and covered with a blanket, which, though threadbare, seemed quite clean. An old spinning wheel stood in the corner. Of Goody Whitfield?s appearance, I am even less certain. She was tall, that I clearly remember. Although she was of a great age, her hair was plentiful and as black as night, piled up on top of her head as if it had been swept there with a broom to keep it out of the way. It was tied all round with something, like the sheaves of corn at harvest time so that the top of it spilled back down again like the branches of a willow tree. That hair, and her piercing gray eyes, gray as the cat?s coat, are the things I remember best about her. She smiled at me quite pleasantly and said, ?Welcome young James. I?ve been expecting you.? All that followed after that seems no more than a dream to me. I do not think she spoke so much as put her thoughts into my head. Her eyes pierced me and read my soul. I recall being given something to drink that tasted faintly of ginger, but also of other more mysterious ingredients. After that, I swooned. I had the sensation of falling, as if down into the depths of the deepest well, only to find myself lying on the humble bed I had observed when I first arrived. After that, there were periods of complete blackness followed by bizarre images that made no sense to me followed by more blackness. My clothing melted away. I heard a whirring sound coming from the spindle and assumed that she was spinning wool on her wheel, but she corrected me and said that she was spinning the golden hair that would soon adorn my head. She reached inside me with both of her hands and rearranged me. There was no pain but I lost consciousness again as her nimble hands subtracted from me and added to me as if I was an exercise in arithmetic. A thick gray fog, gray as the cat, floated up from the floor and bathed me in its exotic scent. I heard the sounds of violins. I dreamt that I was at a ball and that a most handsome gentleman kissed my hand. I roused myself, much agitated, complaining that rose was not my color, although why I said that, I cannot remember. I was upset and demanded to know what had become of my blue gown. I heard myself speak in a voice that was no longer my own, but had become instead like the melody played by the violins. I was restrained. More than one pair of cool hands caressed my fevered face and soothing words were spoken to me until I fell backwards into the void for the last time. When I awoke it was morning and the air in the little cottage had cleared. Rays of light shot through the chinks in the walls and I spent some minutes contemplating the dust motes that floated lazily about in the lines of sun that crisscrossed the room before I rose unsteadily to my feet. Although I was able to stand upright, my legs were quite numb and I lost my footing immediately and sat down again on the bed. I was grateful to be alive. Gradually my limbs recovered some degree of sensation and I tried standing once more. This second effort was successful, although I felt as if I was sustaining a great weight upon my legs. Driven by intense thirst, I stumbled forward to seek something to drink but there was nothing to be found save for an empty bucket. Recalling that I had heard the sound of the rushing waters of a brook as I had neared the cottage the previous evening, I made my way outside with the bucket slung over my arm. I found the stream with no difficulty. It lay only a few yards east of the door. My thirst was so great and my arms in such a weakened state that I discarded the bucket as too cumbersome, and I knelt to drink the water directly from my hand. How refreshing it was! So marvelous was the taste of it, that I wondered if the old witch hadn?t enchanted it. I drank until I could drink no more. Satisfied, I stared idly down into the water. The stream must truly have been enchanted because the face I saw in the broken reflection of the rapidly moving floss was certainly not my own. In place of my face was the face of a young girl, dressed in the clothing of a servant such as I might find in my own house. There was a flowing homespun skirt, underneath a plain cotton shift with a pleated bodice and a white kerchief atop her long, blond hair. I brought my hand back to my mouth again, this time in astonishment. Simultaneously, I heard myself squeak in surprise at the sight of myself. How could this be so? My mind demanded an explanation. I grasped the bucket by the handle and returned with it to the cottage to ferret out such clues as might explain the extraordinary change in my appearance. Was it a disguise imposed on me by the old trickster while I reposed in a state of helplessness? Worse still, had the witch in fact truly succeeded in transforming me into the female that I now appeared to be? Clearly, the quickest route to an answer would have been to lift my skirt and shift and examine what was beneath them. I gripped the hems, but fearing what I might discover, I had not the courage to complete this simple act. Instead, I searched the room. I found two letters lying on the table. One of the letters was addressed to Mrs. Norris. Clearly, that was my uncle?s letter of introduction to her. The other, also written in my uncle?s hand writing, was addressed to a certain ?Miss Elizabeth Radcliff.? I deduced from all that had happened to this point that I was the intended recipient of this second letter, and that Miss Radcliff was none other than myself. I tore the letter from the envelope and read it aloud in my new melodious voice. As I spoke, I listened to myself. To my dismay, every tone sounded as if I was inviting the listener to a tryst. I tried different registers and different inflections to no avail. Everything I said presented itself as alluring and enticing and seductive. The letter fell from my unknowing hands. I tried speaking utter nonsense, I tried screaming and ranting, but all resulted in the same effect. I recited the alphabet and called out random numbers into the air but the message my voice conveyed still promised the hearer ardent kisses and nights of wild abandon. That old bitch had cast a spell on me, indeed! It was humiliating! How could I be taken seriously if my every phrase sounded like a mating call? Damn Goody Whitfield! I had always been so fond of a good, intelligent conversation but now that I had become such as those depicted in Homer?s epic. I would only be seen as a tender bit of mutton to be nibbled, a dessert to be savored on the tongue. No one would take me seriously anymore. For, you see, I confess that I had already gazed at myself briefly in the small looking glass that hung on the wall over the mantle. That quick assessment had assured me that this ?Elizabeth? that I had become had in addition to her sultry voice, all of the other endowments so much in favor with the male sex. I saw the heart shaped face of a coquette framed with abundant hair the color of spun gold just as the witch had declared. My defiant eyes were the color of amethyst, and my pouting lips as red as carmine; my abundant snow-white bosom was punctuated with rosy upturned nipples which pressed persistently against the wide weave of the linen in the upper half of my shift that served as a blouse. I had only seen such a bosom once before in my life, in a book of Renaissance prints which my father, reverent Protestant that he was, had purchased for his personal entertainment, but then judiciously hidden on a high shelf in his library when he was done with his diversion. My height was as it had always been?a few inches shorter than that of the average male. Thank God I had not shrunk! My waist was hardly wider than the span of two hands, but my hips were more than ample, and my irresistible posteriors might as well have borne a sign that read ?All Gentlemen Are Free to Place Either One Or Both of Your Hands Here Just As You Wish.? It was difficult to break away from this self-examination, but at last I remembered that this condition I was in was intended to be only temporary and I recovered enough of my composure to turn my attention back to Uncle Isaac?s letter, which was brief and succinct. ?My Dear James, From henceforth you shall be called Elizabeth Radcliff. I have asked Goody Whitfield to make you in all ways completely irresistible to men. By this means, you will achieve a happy conclusion to your intended task with the utmost efficiency. Utterly reject the temptation to despair. Now that you have read it, burn this letter! Fondly, Uncle Isaac? I lost all desire to look under my skirt after that, because upon reading my uncle?s stated intentions for my body, I knew very well what I would encounter there. I did not care for uncle?s last sentence??Utterly reject the temptation to despair.? There was a suggestion of finality in it that I found distasteful. I reread the letter many times hoping to find something more in the way of meaning than it actually contained. For example, where in uncle?s words was the assurance that I would someday be restored to my former sex? There was none. How was I to combat the importunities of the men to whom I was intended to be ?irresistible?? Apparently, this was to be left up to me. In point of fact, it was conceivable that in order to gain their confidence, I was being instructed not to discourage their attentions at all! But then to what end would such familiarities carry me? Was I being charged with the duty to become the vessel of every man?s lust? Apparently, I might be. But I was completely na?ve in these matters. I had never even touched myself, and now was I expected to touch all classes of men in ways I did not yet understand. Good Heavens! I began to swoon as I envisioned the heretofore hidden implications of my mission. Turning my attention back to the table, I took and read the letter to Mrs. Norton next to ensure myself that there was nothing in its contents to put me at a disadvantage with her. As one can well understand, my trust in everything and everyone?even my loving uncle? had been badly damaged since awakening that morning, and I proceeded from that time onward with the greatest caution. Uncle?s letter to Mrs. Norton was most persuasive and very earnest. He implored Mrs. Norris to give me her protection and to find useful work for me in the household as repayment for his past generosity. He was wise to write so convincingly, because a lass with my appearance was usually considered unfit for domestic service and might otherwise be turned away as too disruptive an influence among the staff. For not only would I be viewed as a possible distraction to the male servants who might compete for my favors at the expense of their normal duties, but also a disruption among the gentlemen upstairs?who would, no doubt, also attempt to seduce me. It was common sport for wealthy gentlemen to trifle with the prettier serving girls as much as it was for them to hunt the fox. Upon first sight, the women of the house would probably all hate me for a saucy wench whose sole purpose in life was the undoing of their marital equilibrium. To be honest, my newfound beauty was better suited to the theatre or to the brothels (both the same thing, really) than to a career in domestic service. Sadly, such are the realities of the century in which I live that virtue goes unrewarded. Hard times and even starvation are the likeliest alternatives for a girl as lovely and provocative as I had become. Unless she had a family or a husband to protect her, any girl who insisted on retaining her virtue and her independence faced a bleak future. One had only to look at the starving faces of the pretty women who sold flowers or begged their living on the streets of London to know that what I say is true. The first phase of my uncle?s plan had been completed?although not in the way I would have expected. There was nothing more to be gained by remaining at the cottage, and I felt a strong urgency to begin my journey to the Montfort Estate. I also felt a strong urgency to pee which brought about my first observation of the many differences between the sexes, females pee more and differently. I draped my skirt carefully over Goody Whitfield?s bucket, squatted in an incredibly awkward manner and most happily used my new orifice to transfer into it the water I had drunk from her brook earlier. I then poured the contents of the bucket into her cauldron and lit the fire under it in mischievous appreciation for all she had done for me as well as to dutifully comply with Uncle Isaac?s instructions to burn the first letter, which I cautiously cast into the flames. The rapidly heating pot caused the room to begin to fill with the most noxious odor, and I hastened to the door of the cottage, anxious to replace it with the much sweeter smells of the English countryside in late Spring. I began my journey with the realization that I would have to create a fictitious history for my new persona?this Elizabeth Radcliff I had so unwittingly become. It was five miles to the Montfort estate, and as I began the immense task of creating my imaginary biography, I hardly thought it possible that I could be done in time. Never before having been much inclined to self-exertion, I half-regretted that my travels would not take me a mile or two further along, thus granting the extra time needed to better to prepare the story of my humble upbringing ?below stairs.? I knew there would be questions aplenty regarding my background, my religious and moral beliefs, and especially what skills I would be able to contribute in service to the Montfort family. My skills! Heaven knows that I had precious few to advertise! While it was true that I had spent enough of my childhood in the scullery to find my way around it, and that I had lived my life surrounded by servants sufficient that I should know how to act like one, it was equally true that I had no more direct experience of how to iron the linens without scorching them than I had to raise a heifer over my head with my bare hands! To mask these deficiencies, I resolved to claim that I had been serving as companion to a young lady of substantial means who had regrettably died recently of a severe paralysis. Since I knew at first hand all the details of such a case actually occurring (it was my own cousin Charlotte, in fact), my confidence began to grow. It is well known that companions to invalided aristocrats are quite useless to know how to do anything other than to read romances aloud to their charges, and, perhaps, to empty the occasional chamber pot. Thus, my total ignorance of more practical tasks such as filleting the trout would be forgiven. My mind began to rest easier. As I held my skirts high to avoid spoiling them with dust from the road and continued my journey to Montfort, I began to sing one of Henry Purcell?s songs to myself?I fancy it was his ?My Heart Wherever You Appear.? And it came upon me suddenly that the day was beautiful and that I was beautiful, and that I was actually beginning to enjoy my new found girlhood?in a very small way, of course?as if I had won a consolation prize?which seemed to me a better outcome than having won no prize at all. END OF PART ONE