The Visit
By
Julie D Cole

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Based on story I read that was written many years ago and has sadly by now probably been long forgotten. Intro ;
My first attempt at a historical drama based in London where the central character inherited his aunts features and switches between his male and female sides after accepting he could also inherit her wealth. His aunt encourages him to stay in London after seeing he is more like her than his own parents and he doesn't need much persuading since he is closer to a young woman he met in his own city of Bristol whilst she was apparently on a business trip. She has inherited her fathers business and majority share in certain property originally owned by her grandfather.
She is in the habit of masquerading as the grandson so her personality has had to change as Roberts also changes.
His aunt seemingly has always been a spinster but was very successful after she moved to London.
Can a relationship develop and can it survive with the changes in role and the struggle to hold on to family assets and inheritances for the two of them.
The full story unfolds during the course of what Robert expected to be an impromptu visit.

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Chapter I

This was the first communication that had come from his aunt in
Robert’s lifetime.
“I think your aunt has forgiven me, at last,” his father said as he passed the letter across the table.
Robert looked first at the signature. It seemed strange to see her name was Roberta but the likeness to his own signature was uncanny. But for the trailing ‘a’ it was identical. The same characteristic turn in the looping of the letters, a hint of the same decisiveness and precision.

If Robert had been educated fifty years earlier, when quills and ink pots were common he might have written his name in just that manner and used blotting paper to remove the excess ink to avoid smudges.

“You’re very like her in many ways,” his father said, as he still stared at the signature.

Robert’s eyelids drooped and his expression indicated a faint, suppressed intolerance of his father’s remark. He said the same things so often, and in so precisely the same tone, that he had formed a habit of automatically rejecting the truth of certain of his statements.

He had always appeared to him as senile. He had been over fifty when Robert was born, and ever since he could remember he had doubted the correctness of his information. He was, he had often told himself, “a born sceptic; an ultra-modern.” He had a certain veneration for the more distant past, but none for his father’s period. “Victorianism” was to him a term of abuse.

He had long since condemned alike the ethic and the aesthetic of the nineteenth century as represented by his father’s opinions; so, that, even now, when his familiar comment coincided so queerly with his own thought, he instinctively disbelieved him. Yet, as always, he was polite in his answer. He condescended from the heights of his youth and vigour to pity him.

“I should think you must almost have forgotten what Aunt Roberta was like,” Robert said. “How many years is it since you’ve seen her?”

“More than forty,” his father said, ruminating profoundly. “We disagreed, we invariably disagreed. Robert always prided himself on being so modern. He liked modern fashion and modern literature and to keep himself abreast of news and topical events. His father would still have oil lamps and candles and cook by the hearth were it not for him. Nevertheless he was partial to his father’s rabbit stew and the oven cakes he made.

Robert straightened his shoulders and lifted his head standing as tall and square as he could given his slight frame and lack of height. There was disdain in his face, but none in his voice as he replied:
“And so it seems that she wants to see me.”
He was excited at the thought of meeting this traditional, this almost mythical aunt whom he had so often heard about. Sometimes he had wondered if the personality of this remarkable relative had not been a figment of his father’s imagination, long pondered, and reconstructed out of half-forgotten material. But this letter of hers that now lay on the breakfast table was admirable in character.

There was something of condescension and intolerance expressed in the very restraint of its tone. She had written a kindly letter, but the kindliness had an air of pity. It was all consistent enough with what her father had told him.

Mr. Deane senior came out of his reminiscences with a sigh.

“Yes, yes; she wants to see you, my boy,” he said. “I think you had better accept this invitation to stay with her. She—she is rich, almost wealthy; and I, as you know, have practically nothing to leave you—practically nothing. If she took a fancy to you…. ? ”

He sighed again, and Robert knew that for the hundredth time he was regretting his own past weakness. He had been so foolish in money matters, frittering away his once considerable capital in aimless speculations. He and his sister had shared equally under their father’s will, but while he had been at last compelled to sink the greater part of what was left to him in an annuity, she had probably increased her original inheritance a hundredfold by now at the very least.

“I’ll certainly go, if you can spare me for a whole fortnight,” Robert said. “I’m all curiosity to see this remarkable aunt. By the way, how old is she?”
“There were only fifteen months between us,” Mr. Deane senior said, “so she must be,—dear me, yes;—she must be seventy-three. Dear, dear. Fancy Roberta being seventy-three! I always think of her as being about your age. It seems so absurd to think of her as old….”

He continued his reflections, but Robert was not listening. By now Mr Deane senior was asking for the understanding of the young; quite unaware of his senility, reaching out over half a century to try to touch the comprehension and sympathy of his son. But he was already bent on his own adventure, looking forward eagerly to a visit to London that promised delights other than the inspection of the mysterious, traditional aunt whom he had so long known by report.

For this invitation had come very aptly. Robert pondered that, later in the morning, with a glow of ecstatic resignation to his charming fate. He found the guiding hand of a romantic inevitability in the fact that he and a new beautiful, nee handsome acquaintance Ms Adele Flemming were to meet so soon. It had seemed so unlikely that they would see each other again for many months.
They had only met three times; but they knew that there was a connection even though their friendship had been too green for either of them to admit this before she had gone back to town. Yet she was different from other women he’d met. Stronger and slightly taller than Robert and often cocking an eye at some of the young ladies they met whilst out together.

Robert never commented and in his opinion Adele was clearly not going to change or feel embarrassed at being ignored . The ladies would giggle and enjoyed the flattery of Adele. She had the same effect on him as it happened and he wondered why she didn’t tease him about it. Fortunately such incidents occurred in private moments rather than in public.

She had such an effect on him that he wanted to share his feelings so Robert had, indeed, hinted far more in his two letters than he had ever dared to say face to face. He was indeed very sensitive, he lacked self-confidence; but Adele seemed to adore him for just those failings he criticised so often in his father. She had responded quite openly and it was clear that she was of strong character and was enjoying a certain freedom that was unusual in these times for a young woman.

He took out her letters and re-read them, thrilling with the realization that in his next letter he would have such a perfectly amazing surprise for her. He would refer to it quite casually, somewhere near the end to gauge her interest in him.

He decided he would write: “By the way, it’s just possible that we may meet again before long as I am going to stay with my aunt, Miss Deane, in Tavistock Square.” She would understand all that lay behind such an apparently careless reference, for he had told her that he “never went to London,” and had only once in his life ever been there.

He was in his own room later, and he stood, now, before the cheval glass and studied himself; raising his chin and slightly pursing his lips, staring superciliously at his own image under half-lowered eyelids. Candidly, he admired himself; because his hair was soft and silken, his nose was small and delicate unlike his fathers and his waist was slim and he naturally placed a hand on his hip in a natural way. When he turned he could not help but see more feminine than masculine features that worried him somewhat because within the prior months there was no sign of the muscles he’d expected to develop by now and if anything his more feminine features seemed to be more pronounced.

His chest was not broad and strong as others of his age and were it not for the tight waistcoat restraining him he was sure there were mounds beneath his shirt. He unbuttoned the waistcoat and the top buttons of his shirt that brought a feeling of comfort. He was bigger than the day before. Could this be happening before his very eyes? There was sign of a cleavage now and a softness of his breast area and tenderness of his nipples. When he’d stripped to bathe in the river with friends several had remarked that unlike them he was free of any body hair.

He fastened the buttons and pulled tight the waistcoat that was in need of adjustment at the back. His chest was bigger for sure. At least the waistcoat gave him confidence in his masculinity ; hiding that annoying shadow of doubt which sometimes fell upon him when he caught sight of his reflection by chance and unexpectedly.

But no thought of doubt flawed his satisfaction this day. A sense of power came to him, a tranquil realization that despite his tender frame he could charm Adele as well as any man could. But even so with a somewhat graceful, habitual gesture he put up his hand and lightly touched his cheek with a soft, caressing movement of his finger-tips. Not unlike the softness of his mother and free of any signs of beard growth. Lucky in some respects since he’d never had to use a cut throat razor but at the same time feeling somewhat inadequate. He was a late developer for sure.
Arriving at Tavistock Square
The elderly parlour-maid showed Robert straight to his bedroom when he arrived at Tavistock Square, indicating on the way the extensive-looking first-floor drawing-room, in which tea and his first sight of the wonderful aunt would await Robert in half an hour. He had been eager and excited. The air and promise of London had thrilled him, but he found some influence in the atmosphere of the big house that was vaguely repellent, almost sinister.

His bedroom was expensively furnished and beautifully kept; some of the pieces were, he supposed, genuine antiques, perhaps immensely valuable. But how could he ever feel at home there? He was hampered by the necessity for moving circumspectly among this aged delicate stuff; so wonderfully preserved and yet surely fragile and decrepit at the heart. The distinct and beautiful furniture pieces ought to be taking their well-earned leisure in some museum. It would be indecent to write at the desk or sit on the small chair beside it. They were relics of the past, foolishly pretending an ability for service when their life had been sapped by dry-rot and their original functions outlived.

“Well, if ever I have a house of my own,” Robert thought regarding these ancient splendours, “I’ll furnish it with something I shan’t be afraid of.”

With a gesture of dismissal he turned and looked out of the window. From the square came the sounds of a motor drawing up at a neighboring house; He heard the throbbing of the engine, the slam of the door, and then the strong, sonorous tones of a man’s voice. That was his proper environment he reflected, among the strong vital things. Even after twenty minutes in that bedroom he had begun to feel as if he himself was also beginning to suffer from dry-rot….

He was anxious and uneasy as he went slowly downstairs to the drawing-room. His anticipations of this meeting with his intimidating, wealthy aunt had changed within the last half-hour. His first idea of Miss Deane had been of a robust, stout woman, frank in her speech and inclined to be very critical of the newly found nephew whom she had chosen to inspect. Now, he was prepared rather to expect a fragile, rather peevish old lady, older even than her years; an aunt to be talked to in a lowered voice and treated with the same delicate care that must be extended to her furniture.

Robert paused with his hand on the drawing-room door, and sighed at the thought of all the repressions and nervous strains that this visit might have in store for him. Were it not for the attraction of London and particularly of Adele he may not be there.

She entered the room almost on tiptoe, and then stood stock-still, suddenly shocked and bewildered with surprise. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. For a moment he was unable to believe that the sprightly, painted and slim figure before him could possibly be that of his aunt. Her head was crowned with an exuberant brown wig; her eyebrows were strong, much stronger than his, her hollow cheeks smoothed with powder, her lips brightened to a fantastic deep red. And she was posed there, standing before the tea-table with her head a little back, looking at her nephew with a tolerant condescension, with the air of a superb young beauty, self-conscious and proud of her charms.

“Hmm! So you’re my semi-mythical nephew, or is it niece? Pray it’s hard to tell in those clothes. ” she said, pulling up her skirts as she stepped towards him. He stepped from behind the table to display his breeches beneath his bright blue tailored long coat.

“I’m glad at any rate to find that you’re not, after all, a fabulous creature.” She spoke in a high, rather thin voice that produced an effect of effort, as if she were playing on the top octave of a flute.

Robert had never in his life felt so awkward. To be mistaken for a girl. Surely not? He looked towards the mirror above the dresser. He could see instantly why his aunt may have been confused and he tried to alter his stance and folded his arms across his chest and tried to lift himself a few inches. He felt he had to answer because her look was so intense.

“Yes—I—you know, aunt, I had begun to wonder if you were not fabulous, too,” he tried, desperately anxious to seem at ease. But despite coughing slightly his voice sounded two octaves higher than normal and so he tried to clear his throat. His nervousness was having a strange effect on him and he found himself blushing. He was afraid to look at her in the eye. At the same time afraid to show, by some unconscious reflex, his nervousness and fear to speak of her ugliness. As he took the bony, ring-bedecked hand that was held out to him, he tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes away from his aunt’s face.

Miss Deane, however, would not permit that evasion.
“Hold your head up, my dear, I want to look at you,” she said, and when Robert reluctantly obeyed, continued, “Yes, you’re more like my mother than you are of your own, which means that you’re like me, for I took after her too, so everyone said. She was beautiful as was I.”

Robert drew in his breath with a little gasp. Was it possible that her aunt could imagine for one instant that there was any likeness to a woman or in deed between them? He tried to change the subject.

“Our—our names are almost exactly the same,” he said nervously. “Could it be I was named after you?”

Miss Deane nodded. “There’s more in it than that,” she said with a touch of complacence; “and there’s no reason why there shouldn’t be. It’s good ‘Mendelism’ that you should take after an aunt rather than either of your parents. I can’t see any resemblance to your mother. She was not very beautiful and indeed it was a surprise your father was so attracted to her.”

Robert had once heard such a phrase as Mendalism so he had an inkling of what she was talking about. He smiled a little as if he fully understood.

“And you really think that we are alike?” he asked feebly, looking in vain for any sign of a quizzical humor in his aunt’s face.

Miss Deane looked down under her half-lowered eyelids with a proud air of tolerance. “Ah, well, a little without doubt,” she said, as though the advantages of the difference were on her own side.

“Now sit down and have some tea, my dear.”

Robert obeyed sat somewhat demurely on the edge of the chair that appeared in front of him rather than sit legs apart in confident manner as accepted of a man of his age who might display his masculinity to the full in tight breeches. He turned a little to the side and crossed his legs much like his mother had taught him sitting back straight with his hands together.

He glanced towards his aunt and had a wonder in his mind as to why that look of tolerance should be so familiar. It seemed to him as if it was something he had felt rather than seen; and as tea progressed he found himself half furtively studying the raddled ugliness of his aunt’s face in the search for possible relics of a beautiful youth. Surely they were not alike. Where, how?

“Ah, I think you’re beginning to see it, too,” Miss Deane said, marking her nephew’s scrutiny. “It grows on one, doesn’t it?”

Robert shivered slightly. “Yes, it does,” he said experimentally, watching his aunt’s face for some indication of a malicious teasing humor. It seemed to him so incredible that this hideous person could honestly believe that any physical likeness existed.

Miss Deane, however, was faintly simpering. “I have been told that I’ve changed very little,” she said; and Robert suppressed a sigh of impatience at the reflection that she was expected to play up to this absurd fantasy.

“Of course, I can’t judge of that,” he said, “as we met for the first time five minutes ago.”

“No, no, you can’t judge of that,” his aunt replied, with the half-bashful emphasis of one who awaits a compliment.

Robert decided to plunge. “But you do look extraordinarily young for your age still,” he lied desperately.

Miss Deane straightened her back and toyed with a teaspoon. “I have always taken great care of myself,” she said.

Unquestionably she believed it, Robert decided. This was no pose, but a horrible piece of self-deception. This unfortunate reclusive and somewhat repulsive creature had actually persuaded herself into the delusion that she still had the appearance of a young girl. Heaven help her if that delusion were ever shattered!

Yet outside this one obsession Miss Deane, as Robert soon discovered, had a clear and well-balanced mind. For, now that she had received her desired assurance from this new quarter, she began to talk of other things. Her boasted “modernism,” it is true, had a smack of the stiff, broadcloth savor of earlier years, but she had a point of view that coincided far more nearly with Robert’s own than did that of his father. His aunt, at least, had outlived the worst superstitions and inanities of the mid-Victorians.

Indeed, by the time tea was finished Robert’s spirits were beginning to revive. He would have to be very careful in his treatment of his aunt, but on the whole it would not perhaps be so bad; and presently he would see Adele again. He would almost certainly get a letter from her by the last post, making some appointment to meet him, and after that he would introduce her to Miss Deane. He had a feeling that Miss Deane would not raise any objection; that she might even welcome the visit of a young woman to her house removing any concerns she might have formed about his masculinity.

The time was passing so easily that Robert was surprised when he heard the gong sound.
“Does that mean it’s time to dress for dinner already?” she asked.

Miss Deane nodded. “You’ve an hour before dinner,” she said, “but I’ll go up now. I like to be leisurely over my toilet.”

She rose as she spoke, but as she crossed the room, she paused with what seemed to be a little jerk of surprise as she caught sight of her own reflection in another strategically placed tall mirror above one of the gilt-legged console tables against the wall.

Then she deliberately stopped, turned and surveyed herself, half contemptuously, under lowered eyelids, with a set of her head and back that belied plainly enough the pout of her critical lips. And having admired that haggard image, she lifted her wasted hand and delicately touched her whitened, hollow cheeks with the tips of her heavily jeweled fingers.