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Chapter 1. Representation of the People Lord Philip Harvey sat in his armchair before a roaring fire, frowning at his newspaper in disapproval. The first handful of articles he had perused were completely satisfactory and very much to his liking, but by the time he was half way down page four, he was in a foul mood. "One would think, would one not," he announced grandly, as if addressing the Lord Speaker of the upper house of parliament, "The Times would be above the printing of such scurrilous articles. Even to refute this poppycock is to give it undue credence." "Is it not true, my love, that even The Times has a duty to represent the fact of each matter as it arises, and treat all things in fairness?" Lady Jane Harvey looked steadily at her husband over the top of the novel she had been, until that moment, contentedly reading. She closed the book with her finger inside to mark her place and rested it on her lap while she awaited his response. Harvey regarded her with great satisfaction but little heed; she was indeed a beautiful woman, worthy of the title that his estate and privilege bestowed upon her by marriage; she was possessed of a steadfastness and confidence that would not have been misplaced in a man, but which in his beloved Jane, a woman, made her ideal for standing up to sharp-tongued Duchesses or perhaps young debutantes with a little too much opinion and much too little experience; she spoke to the servants with a refined detachment that neither belittled them, nor created too informal a relationship. However magnificent she might be, though, it did not mean her opinion should carry any weight outside the home, or a woman's social circles: she was a Lady, after all, not a Lord. "The Times," he replied coolly, "Has the same duty incumbent upon all, to uphold public order and protect the great institutions of our country. It should not demean itself by taking even the slightest notice of reprobates such as those herein described. The opinions of such men should not be repeated. Already do we see the results of the folly of suffrage, and the coming of these infernal social intellectuals rising like flotsam in its wake. Now must we suffer Mr. Gladstone and his fiendish plotting against the natural order of society. John Stuart Mill has been dead these past ten years, but still his hand can be felt in the corridors of power. "I curse the day that bedevilled Liberal Party came into existence to blight our political affairs with such envy and malcontent as is their wont." "Surely," Lady Jane replied, "It is only right, and to be expected, that one should wish to better oneself, and the lot of one's family. Do not you agree?" Harvey frowned, receiving her words with no little displeasure, and wondering that such a challenge should come from this handsome woman. Her deep brown locks, gathered loosely at the back of her head, were blessed with curls that graced her intelligent forehead, and tresses that fell behind her shoulders. She wore no cap: her coiffure was, as ever, immaculate; indoor headgear often being used (as noted in many a manual of etiquette and politeness) to disguise lazy or slovenly arrangement of the hair. Her slender neck was exposed in all its beauty, completing her appearance with an irresistible combination of delicacy and strength. The picture was finished off to perfection by the tasteful pale yellow house dress that adorned her figure. However even such loveliness could not disguise the defiance in her expression as she stared back at him; to his mind, the lovely image she presented was completely at odds with her words: words which her husband viewed as disrespectful: disrespectful both towards the class to which she belonged, and, since she had effectively gainsaid him, the opinion of her husband and Lord, and his right for that opinion to be respected and accepted as truth. Jane regarded her husband equally as steadily. He was a very handsome man; he had thick, almost black, hair, cut, according to fashion, not too short; a moustache that, although he was no more fond of it than she was, he tolerated because it made him look older than his twenty-seven years; his face was strong, with good, even features. "I do not believe one ought to seek to censor the press," she continued, "The freedom of speech, of which we as a nation are justly proud, would be undermined, nay, perhaps destroyed, by such inadvisable and undesirable interference." "It is also the solemn duty of the press, especially a respectable publication, to act with responsibility concerning what is printed, and to be careful not to spread scandalous and immoral gossip, based on fictitious assumptions, to wit, that the common man is in general possessed of the means to decide on his own behalf what is best. My dearest, it is the place of such people to be led, like the simple sheep they are." "I should hardly expect The Times to print gossip. What is scandalous and immoral enough that you should be outraged thus?" Harvey raised his newspaper and turned it to show her the page he had been reading, staring at her in anger as he did so. Jane knew him well enough to be aware that the look of ire was not directed at herself in particular, but rather was an expression reserved for such things as the newspaper article that had irked him so. At that distance, she was of course unable to read the main part of the article, but the headline was quite clear and she was fully aware of the controversy surrounding it. Gladstone's Liberal government, elected in 1880, and who were approaching the end of their third year in office, intended to introduce a new Representation of the People Act the following year. This would increase the number of people in the United Kingdom who were eligible to vote: under the terms of this new act, any man who owned land to the value of ten pounds sterling would be granted suffrage. Worse, however, was the intention to include those who rented property to the same value, which would mean, to the horror of men like Lord Philip Harvey, the act would give voting rights to men so common they owned no land at all! "The new Representation of the People Act is to be brought ... is to be forced before parliament next year. A third Reform Act, to the deuce with them! Why would anyone of sound mind deem it acceptable to give a voice to those too ignorant to use it wisely?" "There are many who are denied the right to vote," she replied, an edge of danger in her voice, "And not all those who are thus denied live in ignorance." They stared at each other for a few moments, he in surprise, she in indignation, before she continued, "If the advantage of a good education is the means by which one judges the worth of one's peers, it must follow there are many who are too unintelligent to use it wisely." Harvey sat in surprised contemplation for a few seconds before, with a sharp inhalation, he seemed to come back to life. "Why then, does the common man live in poverty? Why is he ignorant? Why does he suffer? It is God's appointment that those of worth shall be born into a wealthy estate and shall have the power to rule over the lower classes, while those of a mean, base nature are born into a situation more becoming of their own disposition. "As it is not the privilege of every man to rule, thus neither is it the right of every man to have a vote," he concluded decisively. "Nor any woman?" "I am pleased we are of like mind on that subject." "I am displeased we are not. I am of like mind to the Tynwald Court of The Isle of Man, where women were granted equal suffrage to men, in excess of two years past." "I say that dashed isle courts disaster. Naught but ill can come of such a fallacy. Mark my words, within another twelvemonth, the Isle of Man will have been driven to ruin by those who would allow their inferiors a say in the business of politics. That is the domain of men. No woman should presume she knows as well as her master." "Yet a woman is queen of this realm." "That may be, however Queen Victoria benefits from the direction of councillors and many other advisers. In short, she is guided by men, which is right and proper." "Say you, then, it is not the place of a woman to give council or make decisions?" "A woman may plead with her husband, should she see a course of action she wishes to be followed. It is her husband, though, who shall decide whether she is right. It is not a woman's place to make direction. It is her place, and her duty, to be beautiful, to be obedient, and to bear children." "I fear you reduce women to an inferiority that many would find insufferable." "My dearest Janet, a woman's mind and soul are inferior to that of a man. For what other reason would she be given an inferior body by God's appointment?" **** Jane closed the door of the library quietly and deliberately: she was so angry that to slam it would not satisfy her; she better felt the need to control each tiny movement of the door, something that was almost soothing. She had risen without another word, or indeed another glance at her husband, and left the morning room in exasperation. At eye level, immediately opposite where she stood, near the window, conveniently placed to lay on the table with her back to the sunlight, was the object from which she intended to take her solace. It had a thick, wooden cover, intricately shaped and carved, accounting for almost half the width of the book, and over the years the gradually yellowing pages had almost come to match the same shade of light brown as its unusual binding. Uncharacteristically (for it was a book she loved and was always gentle and careful with) she rapped it down harshly onto the table, immediately regretting her show of bad humour in expending her wrath on something she cared for, and she whispered, "Forgive me," laying her hand gently on the cover and stroking it. She opened the volume and began to skim the pages. It was a collection of writings from ancient Mesopotamia, collated by Persian scribes after their conquest of that land around 500 B.C. and dating from several centuries earlier; translated from Imperial Aramaic (the Mesopotamian language of the time, which was then adopted by the conquerors) to French by a tenth century Parisian named Jacques de Provence, then into English in the seventeenth by the English author Charles Beauregard. The original pages, which had consisted of papyrus, had long since disintegrated, leaving only a few traces, and both the French and English translations were fixed to the indigenous cover in place of the lost leaves. The book told of a society that had lived in the Mesopotamian region so long ago that even the earliest version of the text had been unable to say how long, and was only able to broach it using vague expressions such as, "Countless lives of men," or, "An unknown number of summers." What was unusual about the people of that era, however, was that they believed in equality in all walks of life: there were no divisions of class; there were three main religions, and no bigoted rivalry; most surprising (and most admirable to Jane's mind) was that men and women were regarded as equal in all ways. In addition, the people of that land believed universally in reincarnation, and that any person could be reborn as either sex, with no preference or prejudice associated with something regarded by all as mere chance. The society's enlightened attitude towards gender was perfectly illustrated by one of the tales contained in the volume. It told of a young man, Urhamsi (meaning, "Water lover") who was making a journey with his friend, Dagan, and on their travels they came upon a lake. Being hot and fatigued, the friends decided to bathe before they continued the journey home. Urhamsi was first to submerge himself, but found, upon rising, that the water had changed him into a young woman. She immediately called out to Dagan to warn him not to enter the lake, lest he suffer the same fate. Dagan was surprised and dismayed at Urhamsi's transformation, and did not approach. He urged Urhamsi to re-enter the lake in the hope it would reverse its effect; she did, but on emerging, was disappointed to find that she remained a woman. The two friends then resolved they could do nothing other than return to their village, and Urhamsi would have no choice but to go there as she now was. Since females were not regarded as inferior to men, there was no shame in Urhamsi's new status, but there was great distress, because as a man she had been betrothed. Her intended bride, Anatu, was overcome with grief, and at once urged her lover to come with her and seek the wise woman of the village, to beg her advice. The old woman told them not to despair. The enchanted lake she knew well, she said, and thrice had she herself bathed there and been transformed. A person who immerses more than half of their self will find he or she is changed into a person of the other sex, and will be endowed with an appearance in the image of their most beloved. Despite their anguish at the loss of Urhamsi's manhood, she and Anatu gazed at each other and smiled sadly, for they were as alike to each other as sisters. However, the wise woman continued, there were two provisions that governed the power of the water: the first of these was that, with each cycle of the moon, the magic would work only once. Therefore, although Urhamsi would be forced to accept a woman's form for the present time, she need only wait until the end of the celestial wheel, which would be a little over three weeks hence, and with the arrival of the new moon she could return to the lake and once more become a man. The second was more serious, and bore a warning: if a transformed man or woman should lie as husband or wife, the act of union would demonstrate acceptance of their changed sex, and confirm their new self without prospect of deliverance. Therefore should Urhamsi take a man to her bed, never could the lake restore her to manhood. Anatu and Urhamsi were heartened by the words of the wise woman, and resigned themselves to wait until that time had passed; over the coming weeks they spent many hours of every day in each other's company, becoming closer friends even than before. They agreed that, while she retained the form of a woman, Urhamsi would go by the girl's name, Ni (meaning, "I came from myself") and she and Anatu were often to be seen in the company of Dagan also. Day after day passed, and soon the time approached when Dagan would accompany Ni to the enchanted lake, where she would be restored to Urhamsi's form. The night before she and Dagan were to set forth on their journey, Ni came to Anatu's dwelling and begged to speak with her. Anatu wondered at this, as they had already made their farewells and she had not expected to see her betrothed in female form again; also Ni seemed embarrassed and bashful, which surprised Anatu, because Ni had always been as comfortable with her changed self as was any other woman. However when she heard the reason for her friend's agitation, she understood. The bond of friendship between the two had not formed alone: just as she and Anatu had come to love each other as woman and woman, Dagan and Ni had come to love each other as man and woman. That very day, Dagan had professed to Ni that he worshipped her, and would suffer a thousand pains worse than death, should she permit the lake to take from him the woman that he adored more than life itself. When he professed his love, he knew, from the delight he saw in her eyes, that his feelings were returned, and thereupon he asked Ni to be his bride. She accepted gladly, without doubt and without hesitation, but was then taken by sadness, for she knew Anatu was still in love with the man she had once been, and was eagerly awaiting the time they would be reunited. Anatu was at first despondent to hear of the loss of her betrothed, and wept bitterly for her intended husband, but over the coming days she searched her heart and found she was consoled, for having only brothers, she now saw she would always have a friend who was as a sister to her; she knew that sisters was what many had come to believe the two women to be, so alike to his beloved had Urhamsi been made by his transformation. Anatu saw how joyful Ni had become with her espousal to Dagan, and herself took great pleasure in her friend's happiness. Ni and Anatu declared their undying friendship; the wedding of Ni to Dagan was arranged; Anatu would be her attendant. The evening before the wedding, Ni and Anatu sat and talked long into the night, for they had now come to the last hours where it was yet possible for the two former lovers to be reunited. Once her nuptials had passed, Ni would be unable to return to Anatu as as man. Anatu and Ni remained lifelong, devoted friends, often in each other's companionship, and often in each other's embrace; Ni lived to a great age: she was blessed with six children, and had the pleasure of cradling four of her great-grandchildren in her arms before she finally departed this world. **** Jane sighed happily and looked in admiration at the words she had just finished reading; this story always comforted her, although she wondered if a society like the one described in her book would ever exist again. It was at that point that she was distracted from her thoughts when she noticed something that took her by surprise: a tiny trickle of liquid on the table-top at the corner of the book's wooden cover. Puzzled, she lifted the book and, to her surprise, water was slowly dripping from the edge. She laid the book flat again and bent to peer closely at it, pushing and prodding at the edges and along the flat sides. After about a minute's searching, she discovered something she had never noticed before: cleverly concealed, and very skilfully crafted, was a little recess that could be accessed by sliding back a small, thin cover, invisible to the naked eye when closed. The slot behind it was so tiny she was unable to see inside, or to probe it with her finger, so she quickly fetched a button-hook and slid that from side to side. There was a soft click, and the inside of the wooden cover seemed to shift slightly. Jane gasped in amazement; she lifted the pages of the book, tugging them gently and carefully to avoid damaging them, to find that she had pulled the inside of the wooden cover clear, leaving behind on the table what looked like two shallow boxes. Each of these was hollowed out into about a dozen chambers, and every one contained a small glass vial. The neck of the one in the bottom right hand corner had suffered a hairline fracture; presumably it had been weaker than the others and when she had harshly thumped the book down, it had cracked. She picked it up: only the neck was damaged; if held upright no more of its contents escaped; more than three quarters still remained. The other box, in addition to its own dozen bottles, contained a sheet of papyrus, yellowed and folded. This she opened gingerly to find what looked like an ancient script, one which she was unable to read. The cracked vial she concealed on one of the bookshelves; the papyrus she carefully placed between the pages of another book. Then she reassembled the cover and put that volume onto the shelf from which she had first taken it. The very next day, she announced she was going out on a visit and, without further explanation, directed her driver towards King's College at the University of London. Once arrived, she made use of her title as Lady Jane Harvey to gain an audience with Jacob Huxley, a lecturer in classical languages in the college's Senior Department. When she opened the book and carefully offered him the delicate papyrus, he took it, slowly opened it, and then looked up at her and frowned. "Where did you discover this document, Lady Harvey?" he requested in a hushed voice, "This is most unusual and most rare." "That piece I came upon by accident, when I opened the volume I hold now." She showed him the book in her hand, but he was uninterested. Clearly it had been placed there after its removal from its original home. Jane did not disclose that it had been she who had moved it, and that only the previous day. "Can you decipher the contents?" "I believe I can," he replied, "Though it is written in a hand I have not had the pleasure of seeing for many years. It is an ancient Mesopotamian script, of a variant used by the Persians who conquered that land twenty-five centuries ago." He then fell silent, while he scanned the page. Jane sat and waited patiently; it was over a minute before Huxley again spoke. "Was this writing accompanied by any material objects?" "Objects of what nature?" "Perhaps a number of containers, each holding a quantity of water." "It was not." "This record tells of an enchanted lake, and warns the reader to be careful of the water in the flasks that accompany it, for their contents were drawn from that lake. It claims that the water can change anyone who bathes in it, and will transform a man into a woman, or a woman into a man. The enchantment will only take effect one time during each cycle of the moon. If any person thus transformed ... er ..." Huxley faltered and visibly reddened; Jane smiled to herself at the man's embarrassment when he read of the means by which someone could be permanently fixed in their changed form, and his mortification at the prospect of mentioning such an act in the presence of a lady. "You need read no further," she said gently. Huxley, visibly relieved, folded the paper and gladly returned it; she replaced it in the book she carried. "I am most grateful, Mr. Huxley," said she, rising, and he immediately jumped to his feet. He shook her hand, holding only her fingertips, and bowed politely as he opened the door for her: her driver was waiting in the corridor outside to escort her back to her chaise and four. **** Two days later, Lord and Lady Harvey sat in the drawing room at home; both were reading. When Harvey rose and exited, Jane knew he was about to retreat to his chamber, and there he would bathe. Deciding to take her chance immediately, she embarked on an experiment she had been determined to carry out since she had found the hidden vials of water that had come, it would seem, from the enchanted lake in the story of Ni. From the library she retrieved the flask she had earlier concealed, and then repaired to her own rooms. She broke the neck where it was cracked and laid it carefully aside. She had her maid help her undress, then dismissed her once her bath was filled and she was clad only in her dressing gown. Instead of bathing, though, she took up the glass vial, peered from her bedroom door into the hallway and, finding it to be empty, quickly made her way to her husband's room, which was unbolted, as he was not in the habit of securing it while he was awake. Her husband's bathroom door was slightly ajar and he was in his bath; he was surprised and shocked to find his wife intruding on his privacy. "My love!" he exclaimed, "This is most untoward. What brings you here at this time?" Initially he began to pull his limbs in front of himself, instinctively trying to hide behind them, but quickly thought better of it and instead attempted to dismiss her with a disdainful, challenging expression. Without a word, Jane stepped forward and poured the contents of the vial into her husband's bathwater. He gasped when he saw what she was doing, but his momentary surprise was nothing compared to the shock experienced by both at what followed. The next exclamation of astonishment came simultaneously from each mouth, but was carried on identical voices, as Jane found herself looking down at a woman, naked and frightened, staring wide-eyed back at her with her own face. **** Chapter 2. Pemborough Manor Philip's superior attitude changed as completely and as quickly as her body. Quite visibly she began to lose her challenging manner, her confidence, and her anger turned to fear. Her arms and legs she now did begin to wrap around herself as best she could, but to much less effect than she wanted. "What devilry is this?" she gasped in a reluctant squeal, being no more able to stop her voice rising in distress than she was able to roar in a dominant, manly tone. "By what arts of the deuce have you woven this evil?" Jane turned her back and walked slowly towards the window, holding up the empty flask and staring at it in wonder. Philip, being now unobserved, temporarily recovered a tiny spark of confidence, raised herself from the bathtub and strode as purposefully as she could towards her wife, but her new-found mettle quickly evaporated at the feeling of her body as it moved, and the lack of masculine authority in her light footsteps as she padded barefoot across the tiled floor. She did, though, make one last attempt at speaking assertively as husband to wife: "Answer me, woman, in the name of God!" Jane smiled to herself at the irony of the changed Lord Harvey addressing her thus, but that smile she had suppressed by the time she had turned to face her. The two women regarded each other steadily for several moments, each thinking different thoughts: the former husband did her best to stare haughtily at her wife and assume a dominating expression to make it clear how displeased she was, but it was a facade she found herself unable to maintain: she was no longer any taller than Jane; she was distressed and conscious of herself; however much she wished to stand erect and appear in control, she was being assaulted by an instinctive need to try to cover her nudity, but with only her arms to shield herself, it was hopeless to expect she could salvage any dignity from her situation; her new sex was making it impossible to use her stature to intimidate her wife and demand she be answered with respect. Jane, on the other hand, had a very different quandary: her plans she had laid only as far as testing the water from the vial; anything further was only a vague notion, and in particular, she had never given a thought to how she could explain her actions to her spouse without revealing her true ambition. "Take this," Jane said commandingly, "Cover yourself." She pulled open her own gown and slipped it from her shoulders; Philip gasped in shock at seeing her wife suddenly denuded, but she eagerly grasped at the robe being offered to her; she thrust her arms into the sleeves and gratefully pulled it around her body, not bothering to tie the cord and instead holding it closed with her arms around herself. Her left hand, spread over her upper chest just below her shoulder, pressed itself in amazement into the softness above her right breast, while her right hand, which was behind her elbow, was in constant motion, cradling her left breast and exploring its gentle curves. Her face was drawn and her features trembled, as if she could barely hold her composure. She began to speak, "Why have you done ..." but broke into a cross between a sob and a gasp of surprise as she watched Jane walk over to the now unoccupied bath and place first one foot, then the other into the water as she stepped in. "What in God's name are you ..." Jane lowered herself into the water and drew a long, slow breath of shock, throwing back her head as she felt the most incredible feeling wash over her. Inhaling deeply a few times, Lord Philip Harvey raised himself from the bath and turned to look at his wife. **** "Do not despair, and do not fear, I beseech you," the new Philip said, fetching his own dressing gown from where it had been hung, and wrapping himself in it. Jane, as she now was, had by that point backed herself against the wall and was staring, wide-eyed with terror; her first sight, as a woman, of a man standing naked before her, and of his manhood hardening and rising, horrified her and made her feel certain she was about to be assaulted: his reaction of surprise and wonder she mistook for lust. In truth, both were experiencing natural feelings of arousal at each other's presence, but both felt slightly perturbed by the assault of their new emotions, as neither were accustomed to the gender they now found themselves to be. Philip was wise enough not to approach his new wife too suddenly or too closely; he walked slowly towards the centre of the room, where he stopped and looked at her as kindly as he could, doing his best to avoid threatening her. Jane was slowly regaining her senses: her upset and her sense of injustice had by no means subsided, but she was now at least able to remonstrate coherently with her new husband. "My Lady, my love," she said, "Why have you done this thing to me? By what underhand means have you achieved it?" Philip chose not to answer her directly. "Come," he said, "Sit, and talk." He began to walk from the bathroom through into his bedroom, but she stood rooted to the spot. "Talk?" she replied, sounding once again outraged, "This is no time for idle prattle! The only acceptable action is to undo this curse you have unleashed upon us, and restore me to my rightful place." "I must explain," Philip replied coolly, "And you must listen." He turned his back on her and walked off, leaving Jane to realise to her consternation that she was pouting at his retreating figure. She followed into the bedroom, where he was already seated on the bed, to which Jane gave as wide a berth as she could. Her rapid movement caused her dressing gown to flap open at the bottom, revealing her knee, and when she felt the cold air tell her she was being exposed, she reacted by pulling it shut in frustration. She then walked more slowly, one arm across her chest and the other, far closer to the top of her thighs than she felt comfortable with, attempting to hold the bottom of her gown in place. She lowered herself into a chair at the far side of the room, wincing at the feeling, took a moment to compose herself, then stared hard at her husband, looking as angry and forceful as her lovely features would allow. "Speak," she commanded. Philip began his explanation. He related the story he had read in the tales of Mesopotamia, about the enchanted lake and how it had transformed Urhamsi into Ni, how Ni's friendships with both Anatu and Dagan had developed along unexpected lines, leading to Ni's decision to remain a woman. Of how he had managed to obtain water from that lake, Philip would not say. Jane's face was completely expressionless as she listened to the conclusion of the tale. "Humbug!" she countered after a few moment's thought, "I have no words but reproach for this story you tell, which is nonsense and cannot be otherwise." "On the contrary, my dear, there is a proof manifest in our very selves, that what I have said is not only quite possible, but has indeed become fact." "I refer not to the possibility of enchantment, which, implausible as I would have said it to be not one hour past, I now find myself forced to accept. I refute, rather, the determination made by the principal of your tale. It is unthinkable that any man would freely assume the demeaning status of a woman. I do not accept this. "It is known that men are superior in all ways, and, therefore it is a crime against God's appointment that we should be thus transfigured. You have no more right to the status of manhood than do I deserve to be degraded by a woman's form, for just as my mind and soul are superior to yours, it follows that my mind and soul have no place in a body of the female sex. "You have no claim on my virility or my title. I therefore demand that you rescind this outrage forthwith, and without further delay." "I cannot." "Tell me you jest!" "I do not." "This cannot be!" "Just as the woman in the tale could not be restored to manhood until the coming of the new moon, so must we ourselves wait for that celestial event." Jane immediately flew to the small writing-desk in the corner and pulled open one of the drawers. From it, she withdrew a small book, an almanac, and threw the leaves over one by one until she had found the page she wanted. "This is an insufferable state of affairs! The new moon is not until the second of next month." "Six days hence. Until that time, as it was for the heroine of the tale, you must content yourself with the role of Lady Jane, and therefore I will be forced to play the part of Lord Harvey in your stead." "The deuce you will!" "You will be required to take care of your manner of speech. A lady would never utter such a word." "I am not a lady, and I refuse to be so." "You cannot be otherwise, until the moon's journey through the heavens has come to its end." "I refuse to submit to the confines of this body, and I refuse to relinquish my title." "Dearest, we must agree on a course of action of benefit to both." "Please explain the manner in which living as a woman, without my birthright, would be of benefit to me." "Your birthright you shall not lose," Philip said; he was trying to manoeuvre the conversation around to something of use to him, and having to make things up on the spot. "Nor your sex. But since we we are unable to restore our former selves at present, we must each act in place of the other until that time arrives." An idea came to him, and he was secretly impressed with himself as he formulated a lie which, although it began with a true statement, developed as he spoke. "I must also remind you we are expected at Pemborough Manor this very week." "We cannot! I shall not pretend to be daughter to Sir Eustace and Lady Elizabeth, upon my life!" "For the present, you would do well to name them Father and Mother. However there are two reasons we must make this journey. In the first instance, we cannot save ourselves from this predicament before our invitation to call at Pemborough." "You shall write immediately, and make our apologies. We cannot go. I cannot go." Philip smiled at her. "I am not of a mind to write such an epistle." "Then I shall write immediately." "And might I request, please petition your mother to have us accommodated in the west wing. Tell her you wish to experience the newer apartments for a change." "As we are not calling at Pemborough, that request is hollow. However, might I be so forthright as to ask why you should make it?" "The west wing will accord us the privacy we need, for the second necessity to call at Pemborough is, in truth, an echo of the first. Pemborough is where I have concealed the remaining water from the enchanted lake." **** Pemborough Manor was a sprawling Georgian house that had been much extended during that period, and into the Regency Era. It was situated some forty miles north of London, and commanded a sweeping view of an extensive park with a lake, several lawns, and many farms on the periphery of its grounds. The west wing was more modern and splendid than the east, having been added more recently, but the family tended to prefer the faded grandeur of the older parts of the house, with the newer extensions reserved for guests. The carriage rumbled slowly towards its destination, with Jane detesting every yard. Whereas Philip lounged in the corner, dozing occasionally, at times crooking one knee onto the bench, making himself as comfortable as possible, she had no option but to to sit upright; although she was wearing a nonchalante, a flexible travelling corset, it still prevented her from reclining at her ease the way she had as a man; she thanked her lucky stars that the bustle was out of fashion (there were rumours it was about to come back in, but Jane had no intention whatsoever of trying one; that she would leave to the slumbering figure on the opposite seat, once they were restored to their rightful places). Even so, her clothing forced her, to a certain extent, to bear her own weight instead of allowing the cushion to support her: she felt as if she were half-standing, and only resting her posterior against the seat, rather than sitting properly upon it. The only blessing she had was that, because her skirts were full, she was able to sit with her legs slightly apart to help keep her balance. She looked enviously across the carriage at her husband, deploring the predicament he had put her in; she fully blamed him for every jostle and every pinch from the rigid clothing of her upper body; however he had given her one piece of instruction in particular that had turned out to be good advice, and for which (although she would never admit it) she was grateful. "Don't fight against it," he told her as kindly as he could. "How else am I to find the means to carry myself? Merely drawing breath is difficult, simple movement of the arms is constrained, and if I try to turn, even to glance aside, this cage drags painfully against my waist, and my ... my ..." she was fighting to keep tears from gathering in her eyes. "If you regard it as a thing that is constricting and restraining you, you will only succeed in becoming uncomfortable, and may even cause hurt to your person. Instead, if you allow yourself to accept it as a support and a guide, it will shape your attitude and movement, and will help you stand, walk and sit in a manner becoming to a lady of your station in life." Jane continued to sit opposite Philip, in a manner becoming to a lady of her station in life, for mile after mile, gradually sinking deeper and deeper into her thoughts. She was still smarting from her hurried instruction in the art of tending to her basic needs and bodily functions, much of which she had had to suffer the ignominy of being taught by her husband, a man. A man who, now liberated from the inconveniences and extra attention to detail dictated by her sex, things she bitterly resented, had had to educate her concerning practicalities that to other women were common (although often unspoken) knowledge: having to gather her skirts at the front and separate the trousers beneath them, and the way she was seated, facing the same direction she had as a male, increased rather than assuaged her chagrin. If she made use of a hand-held chamber pot, she would still be able to stand, but that she found to be no comfort. These were things no woman could teach her, since at her age, she should need no instruction; whereas her maid could dress her, unknowingly covering up her complete ignorance of the garments she would be expected to wear, there were many aspects of life as a woman that, ironically, she could only learn from a man. The carriage finally trundled around the end of the gravel driveway, where it circled the fountain opposite the front entrance, and where, upon the steps, Lady Jane's mother and father waited, smiling, Lady Elizabeth's hands clasped with joy under her chin. "When we alight," Philip warned her, "Stand still and straight, and allow them to kiss you. If you lean towards your mother or father, remember you are wearing a bonnet, and keep your head up, lest you strike them. Remain steady and allow them to duck under the brim." Philip jumped down from the carriage first, then turned to offer his hand to Jane, but gladly gave way to Sir Eustace when he moved into position with the intention of taking up that privilege. He helped his daughter negotiate the steps, then kissed her on the cheek. "Jane," he said, "How wonderful to see you!" "My dearest, dearest Jane!" her mother gushed, ducking under her bonnet just as Philip had described. Meanwhile, Philip and Sir Eustace shook hands firmly, then followed mother and daughter into the house. Jane and Philip were assigned apartments in the west wing as they had requested; adjacent, but without an adjoining passage. Once dressed, Philip attended outside Jane's door to ask if she were ready to accompany him to the drawing room, where the family were to congregate before dinner. She was surprised at how grateful she felt to see her husband, but that was because he, at least, offered temporary relief from the strain of maintaining the pretence of being Lady Jane Harvey. Her toilette had been stressful and upsetting: upsetting because she once again found herself assaulted by frilly trousers, chemise, petticoats, gown, and in the midst of it all, having to sacrifice the flexibility and relative comfort of her travelling corset, instead to be laced up inside its more formal equivalent; stressful because Mary, her maid, was less than ten years older than her and had served Miss Jane Doyle as a child. Mary, therefore, knew almost everything there was to know about Jane, far in excess of what she herself knew: to an eight year-old girl, such an attendant had been more of a friend than a servant. Fortunately, Jane had (albeit reluctantly) agreed to be lectured and taught her own history, so was able to stutter and giggle her way through the conversation while Mary incarcerated her in her evening wear. Jane grimaced darkly to herself at the thought there was one thing she knew about herself that Mary did not: less than a week ago, she had been a man. Jane was also surprised at how easy conversation was between her and her husband, and although she allowed herself, for now, to relax after the dual trial of dressing and dealing with Mary, she also made a mental note not to continue in such an easy mood, and to ensure that Philip suffered as greatly as possible for the position he had put her in. For now, though, she contented herself with holding his arm tellingly firmly as he escorted her downstairs, and the slight movement of his head, turning a fraction towards her, told her that her feelings were not wasted on him. Lord and Lady Harvey entered the drawing room; presently all four proceeded to dinner; whereupon Philip executed his plan. He and Lady Jane were, as both acceded, so fatigued from the long journey from London, that both desired to spend some considerable hours in private the next day, to recover from their travels; therefore it would be an ideal opportunity to award Mary the time off she so richly deserved, and no service would be required in the west wing until the morning after that. Lord and Lady Harvey would be best pleased to be accorded total privacy until the morrow's morrow. **** "Mary, this is your day off. Go away." Mary laughed, a delightful, gurgling giggle that made Jane warm to her more than ever before; she was quickly developing the same attachment, and just as strong, as the real Jane had had all these years. She, Mary, had been attempting to persuade Jane to allow her to assist in dressing, but was now satisfied that her mistress had no intention of doing anything of the sort, and therefore she would not be deserting her duty by leaving her in her night-clothes and dressing gown. "In truth, you must leave me and attend to your own pleasures for the time being." Mary, without warning, minced forwards towards Jane and, completely unexpectedly, hugged her. Jane was completely taken-aback; as Philip she would have been aghast, but as her new self, she thought she understood; Jane (at least, the original Jane) and this girl had been friends since both had effectively been children; there was an unspoken bond between them that defied convention, and while there were few servants who could embrace their mistress uninvited, Mary was privileged to count herself among that number. Instead of being outraged, she actually surprised herself by finding she was delighted and proud to call this woman her friend. She returned the hug. "Go," she commanded in a tone that was unable to carry any superiority, but also impossible to disobey, "I am ordering you." Mary stepped backwards out of her mistress' embrace and bobbed politely, yet mockingly. "Yes, ma'am," she acknowledged and, turning, ran from the room. Jane stared at the door as it closed and laughed freely, more happily than she had ever done before, as either man or woman. She waited for a minute or so until she could be sure Mary would be clear, then made her way to Philip's room; there she found him waiting alone, seared at the window, clad only in a dressing gown, gazing pensively at the scenery outside. He took a while before he turned his head towards her, and she was surprised at how nervous he seemed; this she put down to her prejudiced expectation that he would be no more looking forward to becoming a woman, than she had been pleased to discover herself changed into one. "May we proceed?" she said, ignoring his apparent distress, "I desire to waste not one moment longer than necessary before being delivered from this oppression." Philip rose and nodded. "The bath is filled," he replied, "Chilton obliged by preparing it before I dismissed him." He walked over to the dressing-table and lifted a small glass bottle with a cork stopper, filled almost completely with a clear liquid; this he held up to the light from the window and both stared at it in wonder. "This is to be my salvation?" she asked and could see him nodding without glancing at him, "How strange and how fortunate it is, that water drawn from a lake many centuries ago, should have survived so long with only cork to prevent its evaporation." "Indeed," he lied in response, "it is most fortunate." Philip led her through into the bathroom and, removing the stopper, poured the contents of the bottle into the bathwater. "I shall allow you to precede me," he said gallantly, "Without a doubt, that is what you wish." "It is." Jane began to untie her dressing gown, but Philip interrupted her, holding up his hand to make her pause. He pulled open the door, indicating with his hand that she should retire to the bedroom to undress; he stood behind the door to allow it to act as a screen between them. "You should lay your night-dress on the bed. That I shall don once we are restored to our former selves. You need return only in your gown, which you can exchange for the one I wear." Jane obediently walked into the bedroom out of sight, and Philip immediately sprang into action, throwing off his own dressing gown before discarding it on the floor. He then stood, naked, behind the door while he waited for the right moment. Through the crack between door and wall, he could see enough light and shadow to discern her movements: he waited until she had removed her gown, then her night-dress, and was putting out her hand to lift her gown when he opened the door and walked through; she gasped in surprise, then horror as she saw him undressed, and fully erect. He strode towards her and, before she could raise an arm in her own defence, took hold of both wrists and pushed her backwards onto the bed. With the sudden awakening of an instinct to defend herself she used her only free limbs, her legs, in an attempt to push him away, but succeeded only in trapping herself beneath him with her knees either side, in exactly the position she least wanted to be. She could feel his weight pushing down on her, and, much, much worse, his erection between them, pressing against her lower abdomen. "Please," she implored him, "Do not do this. Do not commit such an act, I beseech you." **** Chapter 3. The Labourer and the Wheelwright "Philip ... Jane ... please ..." her wrists were pinned down on top of the bed, making it impossible for her to move her arms; she tried to manoeuvre her legs into a position where she could use them to push Philip off her, but she found that, in raising them, the shape of a woman's pelvis caused them to separate even further, making it impossible to get any real purchase when they were in that position. He released her wrists and, while his left hand found its way around her head to hold her by the shoulder, his right hand ran the length of her body, lingering on her left breast, before passing over her hip and then between her thighs; she felt his fingers exploring the groove that was held slightly apart due to her legs being trapped on either side of him. As soon as her hands were free, they immediately took hold of his hips and attempted to push him away, but to no avail. Instead, she became aware that the tip of his penis was pressing against the opening of her vagina, and she gasped in shock as she realised there was no resistance there at all: there was nothing to prevent Philip pushing further and further inside her; she whimpered in helpless despair as she realised she was experiencing the beginning of penetration. As suddenly as Philip had taken hold of her, the grip on her shoulder relaxed and the feeling of him entering her began to recede, then, without warning, he threw himself off her, off the bed, and sank to his knees on the floor, his face in his hands, bursting into sobs that racked his entire body. Before he knelt, her wide-eyed stare of horror at the man who had attacked her did tell her that his erection had gone, and his penis had become limp and soft. She pushed herself along the bed, as far away from him as she could and grabbed her gown, which she held in front of herself, too frightened and upset to cover her body properly, and leaving one breast and hip partly exposed. She did not care; she was too shaken to give a thought to normal behaviour and modesty. "For... forgive me," Philip stuttered through his tears, "I do not know what has become of me these past days. I shall not harm you." "If you had done this thing to me," Jane angrily replied, "Never could we have ... have ..." "No. You would have been Lady Jane Harvey unto the end of your days." "And you would have remained a Lord." "When I discovered the power of the objects in my possession, I was consumed by a desire to steal your title and your influence, and I plotted to make them my own, and then commit a foul act to prevent you ever reclaiming them. You must forgive me. A madness had overcome me. It has passed." "How is it possible for me to trust you?" "I lay bare all of my designs. The remaining vials are in the library in our London home. I falsely told you they were kept here. I requested we be accommodated in the west wing, and that Mary should be dismissed for the remainder of the day, that I might succeed in my ambition without your cries being heard. I now declare those goals to be void, and vow that never shall I seek to achieve them." Jane stared at him; her fear had passed, though much of her anger still remained. "When we return to Grosvenor Square," Philip continued with contrition, "We shall be restored to our true selves. You will once more be Lord Harvey, and I Lady Jane. You may then serve whatever punishment you will upon me, and do with me as you see fit." Jane was now more composed, and she looked down at his bowed head with pity. She stood and pulled her gown around herself, then fetched his from the bathroom, offering it. He accepted gratefully, and covered himself. "I shall not seek vengeance," she then said softly. "Once we are returned, never again shall we speak of this affair, for as long as we live." "I agree," Philip replied and Jane smiled; she was surprised to find her anger had abated to be replaced by relief and, oddly, gratitude that Philip had had the conscience to abandon his plot to force himself upon her and steal her identity and title. "Let us return to the company of your ..." (she smiled in mild annoyance) "Of my parents." Philip now returned her smile, though faintly. "We must first clothe ourselves," he said. "Indeed, but I shall have to remain content while you make yourself presentable. Then you must escort me to my chamber. Since I am deprived of Mary, you shall act in her stead. I require no small amount of assistance, as I must confess I am yet very much bamboozled by the buttons, laces, and other accoutrements that constitute my attire." **** "My dear Jane," Lady Elizabeth greeted her daughter upon her arrival in the morning room, "You are quite recovered, I trust?" "Quite recovered, Mama," Jane replied, taking her hand and allowing herself to be led to the sofa her mother had occupied, and who now sat beside her. "We have much to talk about. Since I did not see you at breakfast, I expect you will be hungry?" "Indeed." "You and I shall take luncheon in the breakfast room today. I will have Martha serve us there. We can talk undisturbed." Jane and her mother chatted happily for almost two hours, a length of time greatly disproportionate to the quantity of food and drink consumed by either. Ladies of that period learned at a very young age that the more they ate and drank, the more often they would have to visit the bathroom to perform an uncomfortable and awkward ritual, and Jane had grasped very quickly that the inconvenience of relieving herself vastly outweighed the transient pleasure of filling her stomach. Lady Elizabeth wanted to hear everything there was to know about city life, and was more than happy to describe the unexciting provincial existence of landed gentry in rural England; "Unexciting" was her description, which was intended to make clear to her daughter that she (Lady Elizabeth) was more suited to the dazzling lights of London than to the quiet countryside, but she remained here out of a sense of duty. She then broached a subject that Jane had not expected. "I am to accompany Mrs. Agnes Hawthorn on a charitable visit to the cottages on the west march of the park, Jane," Lady Elizabeth informed her, "And I had a mind to enquire whether you wish to accompany me?" "I?" Jane reacted, surprised, "I see not, whether I can be of any service in such an undertaking." "I invite you merely because during our last discourse on this subject, you expressed a desire to take part, in the hope you might be of some assistance." "Surely it is not the place of such as ourselves to minister to those of a base and mean disposition?" Lady Elizabeth was speechless for a short while on hearing her daughter's words and stared for a moment before replying sharply: "There is a responsibility incumbent on all landowners to ensure tenants do not suffer unduly, and to make such reparations on behalf of fortune as are possible, even when no blame is attached to oneself. Mrs. Hawthorn and I shall call upon a wheelwright whose hand was crushed some months ago by accident, and has been unable to work since that unfortunate incident, therefore has been unable to support his family. As an invalid, he has received no wages, therefore he, his wife, and his two children are destitute. He will soon be fit for employment once more, but that will not protect those unfortunate souls from starvation and disease in the meantime. I am surprised to hear you speak so, having expressed such concern in the past, and having indicated your wish to assist." Jane was reminded by that reproof of the nature of some of the opinions held by her former wife, and began to understand the reasoning and the feelings behind them. She laid her hand on her mother's and did her best to look penitent. "Mama, please forgive me," she said, sounding genuinely upset (which, in fact, she was). "I spoke out of turn, due, I believe, to fatigue. I shall be glad to assist in any way I can. You must excuse me, Mother, I have not been quite myself lately." She then paled at the unintentional truth in her words. Later that afternoon, Lady Elizabeth Doyle and Lady Jane Harvey arrived in an open carriage, before a row of run-down cottages near the boundary of the estate, a few hundred yards from one of the farms, where they trundled to a halt behind another similar vehicle. Jane, on her mother's advice, was wearing a dark coloured dress with a slightly raised hem, and now she understood why. Instead of the clean, well-brushed courtyards and paths of the manor, the ground surrounding these houses was soft, muddy and treacherous. She alighted and immediately felt her shoe sink slightly, draining her confidence and making her walk slowly and deliberately, lifting her skirts to prevent them being too badly soiled. There was a look of distaste on her countenance as she approached the cottages, but upon taking a proper look at them, a gasp of shock washed that expression from her face and replaced it with one of disbelief. Jane now saw that her initial impression, that the cottages were run- down, was to pay them a compliment they so little deserved that it was like describing a hovel as a palace. What few windows there were had no glass, and in those that did, almost no panes were unbroken. The walls were crumbling, the thatched roofs badly in need of repair, and the doors ill-fitting, rotten around the edges, and obviously provided little protection against the weather. Even her abhorrence at the external appearance of the dwellings did not prepare her for the traumatic experience that awaited her when she followed her mother through the doorway of the cottage Mrs. Hawthorn led them to. She felt immediately nauseous, firstly at the sight, but then at the thought that human beings lived in this environment; the feeling that rose from her stomach and through her chest was a frightful tingle, discomforting and painful; tears immediately began to fill her eyes. The floor was made of dirt, with straw laid upon it, but so much mud had been trampled over the threshold that the straw was dirty and clung to her feet; a stone slab was laid in the middle of the floor with a fire lit upon it: there was no chimney, so the room filled with smoke that slowly rose through the thatched roof to make its escape. Although this arrangement served the useful purpose of killing insects, making the thatch unsuitable for the breeding of larvae, it also had the effect of filling the room with an unpleasant, acrid atmosphere. The smoke made Jane's eyes sting, which provided an excuse for the tears drawn from her by the realisation these people had nothing. In one corner lay a dog with what Jane initially thought to be a large puppy at its side, but once her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she realised with a start that it was in fact a child, a boy, half-naked and whose skin was so filthy he could easily be mistaken to be covered in mottled fur. A man half-sat, half-lolled in a broken chair near the fire, an empty, overturned cup near his feet; he growled something incomprehensible when they entered, then lowered his head and acknowledged them no more. In the opposite corner to the boy and the dog was a bundle of rags, and this was where Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Hawthorn immediately headed. Jane followed, only to receive another shock. The bundle of rags was what served as a bed in this place, and on it lay a woman, thin and haggard, her age impossible to guess, but her hair prematurely grey. The woman seemed to be barely conscious; the rags upon which she lay were as filthy as the boy Jane guessed to be her son, and held loosely in the woman's drowsy hand was another piece of cloth, also dirty, but easily seen to be flecked with what looked like blood. Mrs. Hawthorn lifted something from beside the woman and Jane gasped as she found herself being handed a baby wrapped in equally filthy rags. She looked at the infant in her arms, then at the woman, then at Lady Elizabeth. "Mother ... what ..." she murmured. "Consumption," came the whispered reply. Jane stared at the woman in sorrow, then turned away, intending to hush the baby, but found that to be unnecessary, as it was barely responsive; instead, instinctively, she tried to agitate it, worried about the state of its health. She lifted one of its eyelids and cooed softly, but the pupil did not seek her voice; she lowered her head and listened, to discover the infant hardly seemed to be breathing. She looked up when she heard quiet, sympathetic noises, almost sobs, from the two older ladies crouched at the bedside; she saw Mrs. Hawthorn close the woman's eyes; she looked down at the baby and herself released a cry of despair as she realised that mother and child had embarked on the same journey. **** Jane sat pensively as Mary brushed her hair, then pleated it for her. This was a tedious, nightly ritual, but tonight it did not bother her in the slightest. Her night-dress was cotton, heavy, and until now she had missed the lighter, calf-length gentleman's night-shirt she had once worn and the relative freedom it had given her, compared to the modest, high-necked, ankle-length dress in which she was now clad, but at this moment she did not object. While Mary folded and tidied, she made her way to her bathroom, where her body dictated that she gather the folds of her night-dress around her waist, lower herself onto a wooden seat, then finally press paper onto the smooth contours she had once so greatly resented, but this time she found no fault; nor did she have any aversion to the small, delicate hands she washed, or the beautiful face reflected by the mirror. By the time she returned to her bed-chamber, Mary was wishing her good- night. She knelt at the side of her bed to pray, feeling the softness of her lower body being compressed as she crouched, and her arms pressing against her bosom as she clasped her hands; she had no complaint. When she climbed into bed, her night-dress dragged at her legs, but it was comforting; her bed had been warmed by Mary, using a warming-pan; the sheets were clean and fresh, the mattress soft. Inside her night-gown, her smooth legs slipped against each other, perceiving nothing between them, her arms rested against the softness of her chest, a small hand lay on the pillow beside her head, the gentle sound of her own breathing unmistakeably ladylike. All around were sights, sounds, smells and feelings that reminded her how light and feminine she was, but at that moment, she was immune. The following morning, Jane awoke to find herself a woman, but for the first time since her transformation, suffered no distress at the onslaught of self-awareness. Her recollection of what she had lost, and what she had been burdened with, no longer oppressed her, and it was not her new sex that made her reluctant to face the world on what should have been a fine morning. Lord Philip Harvey had become a woman, but she had no pity to waste on herself; she had become a woman who, the previous day, in her own arms, had cradled a dying child and watched helplessly as it took its last breath. Far more than Lord Philip Harvey's gender had changed. Her mood continued unabated and, a day or two later, her mother challenged her during breakfast. "How serious you are, daughter," Lady Elizabeth observed, kindly, but not without sufficient force to make it clear she expected to be acknowledged, "I declare I have not witnessed a smile upon your face these past three days." "Shall Mrs. Hawthorn call soon?" was the only response. "It is my good fortune to expect her this very afternoon." The gesture her mother had so greatly missed was now half-heartedly bestowed. "Shall we ... forgive me, is it her intention to make another visit, as before?" "It is, and I shall accompany her. So may you, if you wish." "To whom?" "A labourer from one of the farms, who was taken ill some weeks ago. As with the wheelwright, his employer has not paid him for his idleness." By the time lunch was over, Jane had herself completely organised. She visited the kitchen, causing quite a stir when she entered: the male servants rose stiffly to attention while the women also stood, their hands clasped in front of them, waiting to receive orders. Jane instructed them to ignore her, which they did, but not in the way she had intended: they ignored her order to continue as if she had not been there, and continued to wait upon her, the females bobbing politely every time she passed near. After twenty minutes of complete disruption to the kitchen's normal daily routine, Jane left in possession of a flask of milk, and a parcel containing bread, cheese and a little cured meat. On this occasion, Mrs. Hawthorn travelled in the same carriage as Jane and her mother, and the houses she took them to were not nearly as destitute as those from a few days previously. The ground was firm, the houses well maintained, and (judging by the cottage they now entered) the furnishings few, crude, but passable. The family, which numbered six: mother, father, a boy, two girls and a baby of a few months, were clearly hungry, and parents and children all looked thin and somewhat lacking in vigour. Jane received an indulgent smile from her mother and an indecipherable frown from Mrs. Hawthorn when she laid the flask beside the fire to warm the milk, and then unwrapped her parcel on the table to reveal the food she had brought. She hardly noticed this reaction, so delighted was she to see that the surface was clean, being well-scrubbed and not allowed to collect dirt or scraps of whatever food the family managed to find. It was clear from the ten eyes who gazed at the table that Jane had laid it with a feast that had been, moments earlier, unimaginable. The family gathered around and looked at the spread with joy bordering on disbelief; the parents turned their heads to Jane with a gratitude she had never before witnessed, then, she noticed, took only a little of the food she had given them, leaving the lion's share for their three children, who fell upon it like hungry predators. Meanwhile, Jane lifted the baby from its cot and seated herself near the fire, lifted the flask of milk (which was, by now, moderately warm) and patiently fed the infant, pouring a little milk into a spoon, then presenting it to its grateful mouth. Presently, she handed the task over to the mother, and the smile she received upon passing her child to her was nothing compared to the woman's glowing face as she lovingly sang to her baby while feeding it. Shortly afterwards, the three ladies exited the cottage, Jane with mixed feelings. Although she felt happy about the family, about their gratitude, and the way she had been able to help, she also fretted about the reaction of her mother and of Mrs. Hawthorn. Jane had determined to quiz her companions about exactly that, but before they reached their carriage, a man, shabbily dressed in the same manner as the husband they had just left, walked boldly up to Jane and sneered at her. "Saw w'ye did," he growled and spat on the ground at his feet, making Jane take an uncertain step backwards, but he matched her retreat pace for pace and continued, "Make y'feel grand?" "My only desire is to provide assistance where it is most needed," Jane replied in her own defence. "And wh'll help wh'n y're back'n y'r great house leav'n us t'starve?" "Jane, step into the carriage, please," Lady Elizabeth interrupted, and she gave the man a hard stare as her daughter scuttled to safety. Her mother followed close behind and the carriage moved off, the man staring after them; he spat on the ground once more, then turned and sauntered in the opposite direction. On the journey home, Jane sat quietly until her mother's voice quietly brought her out of her reverie. "That was kind of you, dear," she said, but on looking up, Jane saw that Lady Elizabeth did not look entirely happy. She looked from her mother to Mrs. Hawthorn, to discover a similar expression on her face. "I see I have transgressed," she said, feeling her eyelashes dampen, "But on what grounds?" "It is best that people provide for themselves," Mrs. Hawthorn explained, "And if they lack the wherewithal so to do, instead of charity, it is more advantageous to provide the means to earn their bread. Our place should be one of education, both of these people themselves and of their masters. The purpose of my visit was to ensure the fellow was fit to work, lest his employer attempt to delay his return." Jane nodded, closer to tears than before. The unknown man had spoken the truth. Jane had provided charity today, but tomorrow many families might not survive. **** Chapter 4. Lady and Lord "Penny for 'em", Philip said, making Jane start. She looked at him, puzzled. They had walked more than a mile without a single word from her mouth since her acceptance of the invitation to accompany him. "Your thoughts," he persevered, "Penny for your thoughts." "A penny? They're not worth half a farthing," she quietly replied. "I trust your recent excursions were satisfactory?" enquired Philip, deciding that if she were unwilling to divulge her own musings, he would set the agenda for their conversation. "You and Mama have made two, I believe?" Jane nodded. "One I have tried to forget, but find I cannot," she said. "Lady Eliz ... your mother was kind enough to share with me the events of the past few days. On your second visit, you acted graciously." Their route had taken them through a wooded area where it climbed gradually but constantly; they now found themselves at one of their favourite spots, and one of the most beautiful on the entire estate. The path wound its way close to a steep embankment, where, at a gap in the trees, it provided a sweeping view over flat meadow-land, speckled with trees, bushes and hedgerows: a picturesque, portrait-like image of rural England. Philip stood at Jane's side as she sat upon a large rock, where the couple surveyed the scene before them. She sighed. "I acted injudiciously, as was made clear, by Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Hawthorn both." "You wished to improve the lot of these people. For that I cannot find it in my heart to censure you, even if there be some truth in the words of your critics." "Once I have retaken my place as Lord Harvey, I shall ensure that living conditions improve for all." "That determination I am pleased to witness," Philip responded, smiling graciously, "I will support you in every way I can, as your wife and, if you will suffer it to be so, as your councillor." "Your advice shall not go unheeded as once it did." "I recall that once you said my opinion carried not the weight of your own." "The man of whom you speak was a fool. The woman you address now, I hope with all my heart, has learned the error of her ways and never again shall be guilty of the dispassionate opinion with which she once regarded her fellow beings. Once I am again a man, you will find Lord Philip Harvey as greatly changed inwardly as he is changed outwardly at the present time." Philip did not reply, but smiled, then turned to survey the horizon. Jane continued: "You have been very thick with Sir Eustace, of late." "A happy chance has presented itself to me. As Lord Harvey, I find he welcomes my advice, whereas in my days as his daughter, he did not receive my opinion with any great seriousness. He is, for the moment, of the disposition to listen to what I say. I have gratefully accepted the opportunity to be heard." "And what did he hear?" "My father ..." Philip stopped, grimaced wryly, and restarted, "Sir Eustace has agreed to establish a scheme to care for those who are taken ill or who are otherwise indisposed through no fault of their own. The greatest remaining difficulty is making those who might benefit the most, understand that while healthy, they should take an interest. They do not always comprehend that, in time, they may find themselves counted among the needy." "Sir Eustace is not easily swayed. Even as a man and a Lord, I believe not that I could have turned him thus." "It was a surprise to me also. He did not initially wish to listen, but I found that through perseverance and articulate persuasion, he saw the benefit of my words." "You have done well." Philip then pointed into the distance, where, to their right hand side and almost out of sight, was a small roll of hills. Both knew there was a vast expanse of land encircled by those hills, but it was sodden, boggy ground, where the lie of the land trapped too much water for it to serve any useful purpose. "We are also to make yonder plain into farming land." "That is impossible. The plain beyond those hills is no more than marshland. It is useless for the cultivation of crops." "But see, in that far corner, where the hillside dips almost to the level of the plain. The establishment of a drain, correctly routed through that place will allow the land to dry and render it fertile." Jane put her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun, and gazed at the scene. She stood still for a good while, then nodded. "I believe you are right," she said, her voice hushed. "And we also have the most unusual plan for what is to be done with it." Jane turned to look at him, a surprised, quizzical smile beginning to encroach into the corners of her mouth. "The land is not to be given to the farmers who are direct tenants of the estate. It is to be divided fairly among the people who make their homes here. Craftsmen, labourers alike. Also their families if they so wish. The land they are given is theirs to use as they see fit. They may let it go to waste, they may cultivate a garden, or they may use it for agriculture. If they choose to grow crops, Pemborough Manor will undertake to purchase no less than half of what they produce, at a fair price, provided it is of sufficient quality. In this way, those who live under the protection of Sir Eustace will be given some small means to better themselves and their families." "This is the fruit of your own thoughts?" "It is, and I have many other ideas also. I shall relate everything to you. When you are once again Lord Harvey, there is much you can do to improve not just this estate, but a great many things in all areas of our society." Jane's reaction was to look seriously at Philip, then turn and stare pensively at the vista before them for some time; she rose and walked towards the edge of the embankment, and there she stood, speaking with her face still turned from him. "None of this manifested itself in my mind, even when, as a man, I had the influence to see it done." She then turned and walked slowly towards Philip, where she stood close to him and slipped her hand into his, her head almost nestling itself into the the gap between his chin and shoulder, but not quite touching. She positioned herself so that both were staring out over the countryside, lingered in that pose for a short while, then turned to him again and lifted her face to look up at him as she spoke. "This world is in great need of men such as you. The Lord Harvey I now admire shall do much that, under other circumstances, would be disregarded." "I understand not what you say. To what ..." Jane put her gloved hand gently to his mouth, silencing him. "I own that I am subject to the most curious impulse," said she in a whisper. "As I listen to the words of my husband, I feel that my heart swells with pride, in hearing that which you have achieved, and in my anticipation of that which I believe you will achieve in days to come. This feeling is one I cannot easily relinquish." She was beginning to seem nervous and agitated; Philip looked at her in puzzlement; she herself was hardly able to believe the words she heard coming from her own mouth, but once said, they made her heart sing with joy. "The world is also in need of ladies such as Mrs. Agnes Hawthorn, and I pray for the strength to follow in her footsteps. When you escort me to my chamber this evening, you will not leave me. In my bed, tonight, you shall make a woman of me, and when we return home together to London, your loving wife will be at your side. I declare that hereafter it will be my privilege and my pleasure to love you, serve you, and honour you, and that I shall endeavour to make you equally proud of your wife." Philip could find no words to express the torrent of emotion that was ravaging through him at that moment. All he was able to do was stand and stare down at her enchanting face in disbelief, deafened by the rushing sound in his ears. Presently, she smiled coyly and stepped closer, drawing herself up to her full height, then raising herself on tiptoe. She lent in to him and kissed him on the cheek; at that point he seemed to start breathing again. "Surely, my love, you cannot do this!" he finally said, but despite his words he could see that something had changed: that something unexplainable had awakened in her; there was a fire in her eyes that only intensified as he slipped his hand around her, feeling the perfect shape of her waist and hips, held firm by the tightness of her corset, emphasising rather than disguising the wiry smoothness it concealed; she leant against him and the heat of her body and the feeling of her pressing herself to him was the most exciting experience of his short time as a man. She met his gaze with the hungry, determined expression of a romantic heroine; but this was no placid, insipid leading lady, whose only role was to be the hero's prize, but a wild, passionate adventuress, who could not resist the desire to follow her heart with an almost reckless abandon that could lead her either to self-destruction or complete happiness. Both knew that what they were doing, kissing openly without taking the trouble to conceal themselves, was a breach of both convention and morality, and that anyone who should happen upon them at that moment would be shocked; but that only made their embrace all the more exciting and captivating. Jane was breathing unsteadily and almost laughing with delight when he finally released her. They walked home slowly, arm in arm and hand in hand, both frequently raising the other's fingers to their lips, and looking at each other more than at the path ahead. They were still laughing and whispering when they arrived back at the manor, as happy and with their hearts as full of each other as newly-weds. **** Dinner was an unusual affair for both Jane and Philip, being very aware that the roles they had been playing until now, and also their relationship with their hosts, Jane's parents, were things that were shifting irreversibly from pretence to reality. Jane's character had lost all of its old traits and had now become a completely female persona; she spoke affectionately to her mother and father, but particularly to Philip; this was something not lost on Lady Elizabeth. The family sat in the drawing room for little more than half an hour before Jane and Philip made their excuses and retired; there was an excited edge to Jane that was obvious and completely clear to her fellow woman; once the young couple had left, Elizabeth turned to Eustace, her eyes shining. "Our daughter is very much in love," she observed, "I should not wonder if she shall soon have some happy news for us." Sir Eustace looked at her in surprise and did not answer: Lady Elizabeth had, to a certain extent, broken a taboo in hinting of pregnancy. The matter was allowed to drop; Sir Eustace deliberately changed the subject, but in his haste he accidentally introduced something he would not otherwise have said. "I have been a party to some discussion with Lord Harvey," he said, "And I find him to be much improved in disposition towards me. In fact he has taken pains to better our acquaintance and I find I have warmed towards him as never before." "I too have come to regard him with an affection I have not before known." "Then I finally accede I approve wholeheartedly of our daughter's choice. Often have I fretted whether such a husband would make her truly happy, but these past few days I find my mind very much put at rest." "You have always wanted a son, have you not?" Sir Eustace smiled, then laughed gruffly. "My dearest, truly you know my mind. However, now I am at my ease. Lord Philip, I dare say, is become as much a son to me as Jane is our daughter." **** Mary's services were not required. She fled from Jane's chamber, flustered and red-faced, at her first sight of Philip in the doorway; he was quick to step aside for her. The door was closed and bolted. Philip, of course, was intimate with every tiny aspect of his wife's clothing, so he was as able as he was willing to assist her in its removal. By the time he had begun to undress himself, Jane was clad only in her chemise, which reached a little below her knees, and she looked enchanting. He dropped his final item of clothing, then slowly pulled her last defence upwards and over her head, letting it flutter down her back and drawing a quiet sigh from her. She stood still, beautiful, perfect, her arms hanging by her sides, her fingers in constant nervous motion before Philip calmed her by encircling her with his arms. They lowered each other onto the bed, side be side, and never broke body contact until they arose the next morning. While they kissed, Philip gently turned both until he was lying over her; he broke off and gazed into her eyes, as if he were trying to read her thoughts, an expression almost like doubt on his face. "I must ask," he began uncertainly, "Whether you are certain this is truly what you wish." "Hurry, before my courage fails me." "If there is one thing in this world of which I may be certain, it is that your courage will never fail." Both laid one arm across the other's shoulders and one arm around their waist; she ran her fingers through his hair and tightened her fist, gently tugging as she pulled his face closer; they seemed to fall deeper and deeper into each other. Her slender frame in his arms was like a dream; the strength she could feel in his back and his shoulders was a thrill like no other. Her softness to his touch was a delight; his hand upon her was an exciting adventure. Soon, once again, he felt her beauty yielding to him, while she felt the beginning of his presence within her, but this time it was welcome: this time, instead of trying to push him away, she pulled him towards her. There was a warm, almost golden glow spreading from her middle through her whole person, and every time they pressed themselves tighter together it grew warmer, more seductive, until, suddenly, she lost all sense of where she was, other than being with her lover. Time and again the feeling overwhelmed her, then finally she sensed that his breathing had become as ragged as hers. They held each other tight as they could: the bliss they now shared would be theirs always. Neither could tell how long it was that the couple lay in each other's arms, she gazing up at him wide-eyed, he looking down at her beautiful head framed by her pillow. A whole lifetime of emotions washed over them in that one night: realisation, trepidation, hope, excitement, desire, pleasure, amazement, yearning, nervousness, love, fear of the unknown. The morning sunshine brought the dawn of two new lives, shared but forever changed. Jane woke Philip, not deliberately, but by her involuntary movement when she came to; it was the feeling of her body brushing against him that brought him to his senses with a gasp; he immediately raised his hand to her face, stroked her cheek, and kissed her, feeling the kiss returned with equal passion. She put her hand behind his head and leant backwards, pulling him towards her. He followed, then looked down at her; she spoke first. "I give myself to you once more, but this time, fully as your wife. Last night I gave you my manhood. At the beginning of this new day let me now give you my womanhood." **** The journey back to London could not have been more different from their outward trip if they had grown wings and flown home. Philip still sat in the corner, resting against the edge of the seat, but this time with Jane sitting close beside him, often leaning against him for support, and the balance that gave her helped her relax and allowed her legs to rest comfortably together. Her travelling corset she appreciated far more than she originally had, as it had now changed from a distressing reminder of her new sex, into something that afforded relief from a rigid garment it was her fate to suffer for many years to come. Her years of long skirts and corsets, though, would conclude in one satisfying event in particular. For as long as they lived, Philip and Jane were fully supportive of each other's principles and judgement and worked closely together in formulating the strategy Lord Harvey would deploy to ease a tiny sprinkling of social justice into British politics. The pragmatic differences in the relative strengths and weaknesses of men and women aside, Lord and Lady Harvey were each other's equal both intellectually and emotionally. Lord Philip, with Jane quietly but resolutely at his side, became an unlikely champion of the poor and underprivileged, and his actions, with the strength of both argument and morality that he took into the House of Lords with him, met with his wife's approval on every single occasion. She herself founded or assisted with many charitable enterprises, and Lord Harvey's support of his wife was no less than her support of him. There were many causes they aided, but none was closer to Jane's heart than one thing in particular she rued losing on her transformation into a woman: not a physical attribute, but her right to vote. As a former victim of such injustice, Lord Harvey embraced this campaign especially, although, because of her husband's position, Jane resisted the temptation to take part in the fledgeling National Society for Women's Suffrage, preferring to avoid the risk of damaging his reputation. Brick by brick the movement grew until it became irresistible, and then finally, several decades later, aged sixty, Lady Jane Harvey entered a polling station on Saturday the 14th of December 1918, side by side with her husband, to cast her vote in a parliamentary election. In their early years, though, as a newly-married couple (with the reversal of their sexes, it was like beginning life anew), they arrived in Grosvenor Square full of joy and hope for the future, discovering the delights of human existence all over again. All they had known was now experienced from a new perspective as Philip began to see everything from the point of view of a man, and Jane, of a woman. Together they laughed and, occasionally, cried; but as each day passed they fell more and more in love. Philip showed the wooden-bound volume to his wife and they read it many times: sometimes together, sometimes alone. It remained in the library in their home as long as Lord and Lady Harvey lived, and none of the vials were ever removed: to this day, the cover remains unopened, and its secret lies undisturbed, wherever the location of that book now is. Jane often read the story of Ni; she developed a great love for that tale: a love that never diminished however often she read it. When she reached the ending, where it told that Ni had had six children, her hand always strayed to her own front, coming to rest over the lower part of her corset while she imagined the joy that would surely come to her just as it had come to the woman in the tale: not yet, she knew, but perhaps soon, she hoped with all her heart. "My dearest Ni, how wisely you chose," Jane whispered as she closed the book and laid her hand on the wooden cover, "Like you, I was driven to distraction when first I took this blessing to be a curse. But I do account it a pity that only I, of all women alive today, am graced with the knowledge of how truly happy you became."