The Earl Maid

By Susannah Donim

Rob is a shy and reserved young man, but an unexpected inheritance suddenly makes him the centre of attention. His wife helps him find a way of hiding in plain sight.

Chapter 4

In the face of threats from local villains, Rob is forced to hide out as Martha, the housekeeper.

“The Earl’s not here,” I squeaked in my best Martha voice.

“We’ll wait,” said Eleanor’s brother. “Through here, Tank.”

Tank? Never did a man’s nickname suit him better.

“Just a minute,” I said. “You can’t…”

Apparently, they could. They made their way into the main drawing room and threw themselves down in our best easy chairs. The one called Tank picked up the TV remote from the occasional table and turned the home cinema on. He started browsing through the programmes we had recorded, snorting at some of our choices.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want Susie to come in here. God knows what these two bastards might do. I might have to abandon my disguise and try to defend her. That wouldn’t stop them assaulting her if they were so minded and would probably just result in me getting killed.

At that moment Susie came in to investigate the commotion from the hall.

“Ah, Mrs Marsham,” said Eleanor’s brother, rising to his feet.

This didn’t appear as a gesture of courtesy but of menace. As he was also denying her title, Susie clearly had no difficulty reading it as such. She backed away a little as he approached.

“Martha knows me. I’m Jack Beckett, Eleanor’s brother.” He didn’t introduce his companion.

For the moment I thought it best to try and maintain the deception.

“I’m sorry, My Lady, they just burst in,” I said, trying to sound like Martha and say what she would say in these circumstances. “I couldn’t stop them.”

I moved round slowly to try and insert myself between Susie and Beckett.

“It’s all right, Martha,” she said, picking up her cue. “I’m sure they’ll explain what they want.” She turned back to Beckett. “Well?”

She was in full Countess-mode now, expecting deference from this pleb. The pleb wasn’t impressed.

“We’ve heard that Probate has gone through and the will was much as the poxy old Earl’s letter said,” Beckett said.

The threat of violence seemed to have receded, for now. It looked like he was going to talk rather than punch.

“That bastard treated my sister very badly,” he continued. “She put up with him and his moods for fifteen years…”

“Give or take the times she left him, and you had to put her up,” said Tank with a grin, clearly a heavy who was a stickler for accuracy.

“Yeah – her and her spoilt brat,” agreed Beckett. He turned back to Susie. “But Eleanor was the Countess in all but name for half her adult life. Julie Dixon has no right to this place, let alone her scruffy loser of a son.”

“My husband is the legal heir to both the title and the Estate…” Susie began.

“Oh I know you people have the law behind you, but that doesn’t make it right.” His eyes narrowed.

Was this ‘person well known to the police’ really claiming that natural justice was on their side?

“So we want compensation,” he said.

The air of menace was back. I moved a little closer to Susie. Tank was watching us, a sour little smile on his ugly face.

Susie said nothing, which was clearly the right response. It would have been a bad mistake to ask what Beckett had in mind.

“A hundred thousand will do for a start.”

“You’re out of your mind!” Susie spat. “You heard the old Earl’s letter, same as us. There’s no money left.”

“That’s just not true, is it?” Beckett sneered. “There may not be much cash, but you can start by giving us everything remaining after probate, and then start selling stuff – jewellery, paintings, books, cars. I might take that Bentley instead of… I don’t know; maybe twenty grand.”

“I’ve listened to enough of this nonsense,” said Susie in her best solicitor voice. “If you two don’t get out of my house immediately, I’m calling the police.”

“What with?”

“What?”

“I mean, what are you going to dial with, if Tank here has broken all your fingers?”

Tank recognised his cue and got to his feet, like a bull elephant unfolding upwards from a kneeling position.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Susie was the bravest girl I’d ever known, but she was backing away, maybe getting ready to run.

“Actually we would, but I’d much rather we broke your husband’s fingers than yours. You’re too pretty. Where is the cowardly bastard anyway?”

I couldn’t let them do anything to Susie. I would have to own up and take their ridicule and their violence. I was just about to answer when she beat me to it.

“He’s away on Estate business,” she said, thinking quickly. “He didn’t say when he’d be back, but it will be at least a fortnight, maybe not till the end of the month.”

“Well, you’d better get in touch and tell him to come home – but don’t say anything that would frighten him off, or you and Fatso here will end up paying for it. Oh and don’t try anything clever. Me and my people will be watching you. Tank isn’t my only friend.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” said Susie fiercely. “We won’t respond to empty threats. I’ll be calling the police as soon as you’ve gone.”

“And telling them what?” Beckett sneered. “I was never here. I was doing a barbecue round at my place all afternoon. My sister and nephew will swear to that. Tank was there too. It will be your word against ours. I suppose the police might believe you – I’ve had some minor disagreements with them in the past – but they won’t be able to do anything.”

“And they can’t keep an eye on you all the time,” added Tank. “Sooner or later we’ll find you and your useless husband alone, and then it’ll be finger-breaking time.”

“Or ball-breaking. Or both,” said Beckett. “Find the money, Mrs Marsham. It’ll save you a lot of pain.”

They got up to go.

“Aren’t we going to take advantage of this opportunity…?” suggested Tank hopefully.

“Take advantage of these two delightful ladies, you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have called them ladies. Slags, maybe.”

“OK, you can have the old fat one then,” laughed Beckett.

Old? Old? I’m not – that is, Martha isn’t – forty yet. And I’m ‘pleasantly plump’, thank you very much…

“As long as we can switch round afterwards,” Tank leered.

Susie and I looked at each other, preparing to take a stand.

“No, not this time,” said Beckett, with his wolfish grin. “More trouble than it’s worth. But we’ll be back, and your husband had better bloody well be here, Mrs Marsham, or it could go badly for the two of you. C’mon, Tank.”

“You sure? On second thoughts, I wouldn’t kick the fat one out of bed.”

Beckett had reached the front door by now.

“No, but you wouldn’t kick your sister out of bed, from what I’ve heard.”

“True that…”

As soon as the door closed behind them, I rushed to Susie. Having been so brave for so long, she collapsed into my arms.

“What are we going to do?” she wailed.

* * *

Well the first thing, obviously, was a cup of tea. We were British, after all. As I was dressed as the maid, and Susie was still shaking, I made it. I got her to sit down in the drawing room and eat a couple of custard creams with hers.

“We need to keep Beckett and his friends out of here,” I said, when I judged she was going to be capable of rational thought. “We’ll need help to do that. Didn’t Annie Jones say they’d recently hired a security firm for their offices?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but they’ll be expensive.”

“Not £100,000 though. We have her number. I’ll give her a ring.”

“You’d better let me do that,” she said, with a pensive look.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to be here. I’m sure Annie wouldn’t tell anyone, especially if we tell her why we need help, but we can’t be too careful. Talking of which…”

Ominous pause. I know her, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

“I think you need to stay as Martha for the moment.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! Look at all this!” I plucked at the skirt of my maid uniform.

“I am looking,” she said. “You look exactly like Martha, and that will keep you safe from those thugs.”

“No way! I can’t stay like this!”

“The alternative is for you to go away somewhere.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone!”

“Well, we could both go away,” she said, “but that would just give them the run of the place. Eleanor probably still has keys, and she knows the alarm codes. They wouldn’t need to break in and they would say we gave them permission to take whatever they wanted. We certainly couldn’t claim on the insurance.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Whatever happens, we need to change the locks and the codes. And we should both stay in till then.”

“Then you’ll have to be Martha.” She tutted when I made a face. “Look, they said they’ll be watching, and I said the Earl will be away for at least two weeks. That gives us some time to work out what to do, but only if they see what they’re expecting to see: just me and my maid. If they see a man here, they’ll be in like lightning, ready to break bits off you till we pay them to stop.”

“Perhaps we should pay them,” I sighed.

“Rubbish!” she said firmly. “Do you think they’ll be satisfied with a hundred grand? They’ll bleed us dry.”

“Okay, okay,” I agreed. “I don’t want to give in to them either, and I know Mum wouldn’t. I’ll find Annie’s business card and you can make the call.”

“I’ll ask her what we can do to improve your disguise as well. Those hairy legs will have to go.”

“Bloody hell!” I cursed. “Anything else?”

“I think you should start curtseying and calling me ‘My Lady’ too.”

I looked at her incredulously. “When there’s anyone else around, I suppose so,” I agreed with ill grace, “but surely not when we’re alone?”

“At first, yes,” she said. “We need to get used to it so that it comes naturally. Otherwise we might forget when we have company.”

“Oh this is going to be great!” I said, sarcastically. She raised an eyebrow. “My Lady,” I finished – and curtseyed.

My new mistress gave me a smug look of approval.

Oh well. She’d been a goddess to me for at least ten years. How would her being my mistress be any different?

* * *

First Susie called her secretary and said she was coming down with a cold and was going to work from home for a few days so she didn’t pass it round the office. They arranged for her to do the two or three meetings she had in her schedule by videoconferencing.

Then she called Martha and told her everything. As I suspected, she had already guessed that ‘Tom’ was really Rob. Since two Marthas at the Hall would be a dead giveaway, we asked her to stay at home. We offered to pay her as though she was still working, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

She also offered more help. Her fiancé had a new job back in his home town twenty miles away, and they would stay with his parents until they found their own place. So, to make the impersonation more convincing, I could use her car and have full access to their little cottage in the village. I could also make use of her pre-pregnancy clothes and underwear, most of which she couldn’t squeeze into now anyway.

Martha even offered me her favourite handbag and purse, including her driving licence. Her fiancé could take her everywhere she needed to be and her pregnancy made it uncomfortable to drive for the moment anyway. That was brilliant, as it meant I could come and go as her without raising any suspicions, and without worrying about being stopped by the police.

In fact, the only things of hers that she didn’t make available to me were her phone, which I didn’t need as I had my own, and her engagement ring, which wouldn’t have gone on my big male finger. Anyway, my version of Martha wasn’t engaged – or pregnant. She offered me some of her shoes too, but they would never fit me. I would have to get some more large size ladies’ shoes from Transformations. When it looked like the coast was clear, Susie went round to the cottage to collect Martha’s keys and some of her things.

We told Bill only what he needed to know, namely that the Earl had been called away suddenly and wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks. While he was gone, the Countess would make any necessary decisions regarding the Estate, helped by Martha around the house. I would have to steer well clear of him of course, as he had known the real Martha for many years and would quickly spot me as a fraud.

* * *

As with J & J Housekeeping before them, the Managing Director of Transformations’ security contractors rushed round in person when he learned the prospective client was a Countess.

We didn’t have much time to prepare for their visit. Together we checked my disguise. My figure was suitably enhanced by the padding and breast forms Vera had provided. The forms nestled in yet another bra of my mother’s, which made me feel a little uncomfortable.

Susie had done her best to shave my legs. I was wearing the padded pantiegirdle, to which thick black stockings were attached, concealing any remaining stubble and the damage from Susie’s razor. I also wore one of Mum’s slips to smooth out my mismatched underwear.

While waiting for the security contractors to arrive, I checked for anything that might give me away. My hairy chest and arms were well concealed by the long-sleeved maid’s dress. Annie’s facial prosthetics were still securely stuck to my face and they made me the spitting image of the real Martha.

Susie had helped with my make-up: bright red lipstick, mascaraed eyelashes, eyebrow pencil. I thought it a little over the top for a working woman, but she assured me it would be fine.

I would wear one of Martha’s modern housekeeping uniforms: a black dress with a white bib apron, my black ballet flats, and a maid’s headband.

So I was reasonably confident in my appearance and persona as Martha the maid when I opened the door to two charming Indian gentlemen from Empire Secure Solutions. They were all smiles and extreme courtesy, even to a humble maid like me. I ushered them into the drawing room to meet with my mistress.

Susie rose to greet them. I was amused to see them bowing low to her. I suspected neither of them had ever met a Countess before. They introduced themselves. Raj was the boss and founder of the company, and Gopal was his chief consultant.

Susie led them around the house, pointing out the various access points. Knowing my place, I returned to the kitchen to prepare refreshments. While I was laying out cups and side plates, I watched them examining the back door and the ground floor windows. Raj was asking all the obvious questions, plus several I hadn’t thought of, and Gopal was making thorough notes on his clipboard. Susie also took them into Bill’s office to show them the map of the Estate, and they took some measurements to estimate the length of the perimeter boundary.

I was impressed by their competence and thoroughness. It took them nearly an hour to go round the house. They finished with a circuit of the outside, then returned to the drawing room, where I served coffee and cakes. Gopal asked lots of questions about the value of the contents of each room – paintings, pottery, first editions, etc – but of course Susie had no idea. I didn’t either, but it wouldn’t have been my place to answer anyway. It was quite nice being just the maid. No pressure; no responsibility. I could get used to this, I thought.

I went to stand behind Susie’s chair, ready for any orders from my mistress, but also well placed to hear what the security consultants had to say. Susie asked that they only give a summary of their recommendations, but to put the detail in writing, as her husband, the Earl, would have the final say.

They promised they would send someone round later that afternoon to change the locks to the front, back and side doors of the house, and the garage doors. That was obviously the most urgent job, if we believed that some outsider had copies of our keys. Beckett had rung the bell, but he could probably get the keys from his sister, if he had to.

Raj was happy with the window locks, which were deadbolts that couldn’t be opened from the outside even if you had the key. He was concerned that the front gate controls were obsolete and easy to hack, and proposed replacing them with a more modern system. That would be expensive but it would also prevent someone sneaking in when the gates had been opened to let a bona fide guest leave.

They recommended installing security cameras all around the building – eight in all. These would be motion and sound activated. The footage would be recorded via WiFi onto a local server with sufficient capacity to store at least a month’s worth of video (given that the cameras would be off most of the time). Any external activity would also switch on floodlights during the hours of darkness, so that the cameras could record clear images, and which might scare away any intruders.

They also suggested installing cameras inside the house in the main living areas, but Susie said that being filmed in everything we did would be too creepy. I agreed, but I was mainly concerned at being recorded in my Martha persona. It might be fun between ourselves but very dangerous if the films fell into the wrong hands.

There were two more recommendations that we would need to think about. One was the electrification of the perimeter fence; the other was regular rounds by Empire’s personnel. I thought we could probably do without the patrols, but was interested to know how much the electrified fence would cost. Apparently electric fencing is perfectly legal in the UK, so long as it is entirely on your property; meets all appropriate product standards; and is clearly marked with warning signs every ten metres.

Raj promised to provide full costings for all their recommendations within two business days. He also assured us that they understood the urgency of our situation. They kept all the equipment we would need in stock, including the cameras, computers, and even the gate control system. They would thus be able to install everything within a day of us authorising them to proceed. They were obviously very keen to get our business. Perhaps they wanted to add ‘By appointment to the Earl of Hadleigh’ to their letterhead.

Late in the afternoon, after I had refilled their coffee cups and cut each of them a second slice of cake, they took their leave with much bowing and scraping – to the Countess.

“Well done, Martha my dear,” said her ladyship, after they had gone. “You were the perfect parlourmaid. But watching you mincing around in your little black dress and lacy apron, smiling and bobbing curtseys, has made me seriously hot. I’m going to need my lady’s maid up in the bedroom – pronto.”

“Very good, M’Lady,” I said, breathlessly. “Just let me set the alarms. We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?”

My girdle and panties were down around my ankles long before we made it to the bedroom.

* * *

“Raj is a Pink Lady, by the way,” Susie said at breakfast the following day.

“Come again?”

“He’s been at most of their meetings, dressed as Rajani, a poor Indian woman. We chatted quite a bit at the last meeting, but obviously we didn’t say anything when he was here, not in front of you and Gopal.”

“He wasn’t at the meeting when I was disguised as Martha, was he?”

“No, I think he missed that one. Why?”

“I wouldn’t want him to be looking at me – the Martha me – and wondering if I might be a man underneath.”

“I think you’re OK there,” she said. “Anyway, I doubt it would occur to any of the Pink Ladies that Tom’s impersonation of Martha was to be a long-term thing. You were so obviously reluctant – or at least pretending to be.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. “I wonder why Rajani has to be a poor woman,” I said.

“Good question,” she said. “A wealthy Indian lady would have some wonderful clothes, and he’s obviously rich, being the CEO of a successful company. But he reckons Rajani’s his true self, an ‘untouchable’ at the bottom of the caste system.”

“I thought that was abolished?”

“It was – in 1948 – but the attitudes of the better-off still persist. Anyway, at weekends Rajani works at an Indian restaurant in town, washing dishes and cleaning lavatories. He’s quite cheerful about that. As Raj, he has to be serious and formal. As Rajani he can let himself go. Bit like you, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Well as Rob, you’re a real introvert, but your various female incarnations have been much more outgoing.”

“That’s just acting,” I protested, “and it only works when I’m sure people can’t see Rob underneath.”

“Well, if we have to get you to dress up to get over your shyness, then that’s what we’ll have to do.”

* * *

The Empire report duly arrived in my email Inbox that afternoon. The numbers were frightening but Susie and I agreed we had no choice. We signed up for everything except the foot patrols, which would have cost us about £150 a night. Raj did offer a good alternative based on remote monitoring. If we needed to go out for a while, we could text Empire and they would connect to our system and keep an eye on the place until we returned. If they detected anything suspicious, they would attend in force and also notify the police. Although the free monitoring service was limited to two four-hour periods a week, it did mean that we could go out to the shops or for an evening’s entertainment with no fear of returning to find the place had been ransacked.

Empire came to install the new equipment the very next day. They turned an old pantry off the kitchen into a control room for the security system. The gate mechanism now included one-way retractable teeth in the ground. You could drive over them safely when you were leaving, but they had to be retracted mechanically before a vehicle could come in, or they would tear its tyres to shreds. So it was no longer possible to enter – at least by car – when the gate had only been opened to let a vehicle leave. They also installed a one-way turnstile system for the pedestrian entrance. Like the main gate, the turnstile could only be released to allow a pedestrian to enter by a signal from the control room.

Regarding the internal video system, in the end we compromised. They installed more cameras in the drawing room, hall and kitchen, but without automatic recording. Each room had a hand remote that could start the recording if needed, and the cameras could also be triggered from the pantry.

Finally, they attached a bold illuminated sign to the gate boasting that ‘This property is protected by Empire Secure Solutions’ with appropriate warnings about what the gate’s teeth would do to your tyres. A similar more discreet ‘Empire’ sign also hung over the front door. It was wildly incongruous for the venerable age and distinctive style of Hadleigh Hall, but if it deterred even one prospective burglar, that would justify its existence.

Susie called Bill to notify him of the new security arrangements. She didn’t mention Jack Beckett’s visit, so he was a little surprised at our paranoia, but when she told him that I, the Earl, was going away for an unspecified time, he understood. He was clearly puzzled as to what Estate business would require me to be away from home for a lengthy period, but he was too discreet to ask. He agreed to continue to manage the Estate on our behalf until I returned and come to Susie if any major financial decisions were required.

He came round later that day to collect new keys and a RFID tag and transponder for his car, and to learn the various new alarm codes. I had to steer clear of him. My face was indisputably Martha’s, but I wasn’t so confident that the rest of me would pass muster with someone who knew her well. Besides, he might try to make conversation and talk of things I knew nothing about.

It was an inconvenience for Bill that the back gate from the Home Farm was now boarded up and electrified, because it meant he would have to go the long way round through the main gate to get from his office out onto the Estate, but he understood. The fearsome mechanisms Empire had installed were expensive, and we couldn’t afford a second set. One day, maybe.

Feeling that the Hall was now as secure as we could make it, we planned a trip into town. We sent Empire a text to say we would be out. Susie drove us in the Audi, which as Martha I wasn’t insured to drive. (Her Ladyship’s old Mini hadn’t been out since we moved into the Hall.)

Our first call was to Martha’s now vacant cottage. The only outfits I had that fitted my new figure were my maid’s dresses, so our priority was to pick up more clothes, as kindly donated by the other Martha. We filled three suitcases with her oldest and least exciting things. We had to put the car’s rear seats down to get them all in.

I would have preferred to wear trousers, but I still needed my girdle to maintain my curvy figure, and pants would be too uncomfortable over all that padding. So I reluctantly changed into a nice casual dress. It was steel-grey, with a polo neck and long sleeves. It came down to below my knees. I still needed to cover up as much as possible, and I certainly wasn’t trying to attract admirers.

Next was my appointment with Annie at Transformations. This had become urgent as I could feel my beard had grown under my Martha-face, and it was very itchy. Their offices were at a converted manor house out in the country, and discreetly set back from the main road. No one would ever find the place without prior knowledge or detailed directions.

Reception was manned by a strikingly pretty girl who introduced herself as Angela. She contacted Annie for us, and while we waited, I asked Susie what she had arranged for them to do to me that afternoon. She’d made the appointment and I didn’t know what she’d said regarding our requirements.

“I just asked Annie to complete your transformation,” she said, guilelessly. “You remember she said they make prosthetics for the entire body, so you can match Martha’s figure exactly.”

“Oh God! Am I going to have plastic padding stuck all over me?”

Annie appeared at that moment which temporarily put an end to my self-pity session. She had an older lady with her. We stood up to meet them.

“Ingrid, this is Lady Marsham, the Countess of Hadleigh,” Annie said. “My Lady, this is Ingrid McLaughlin, our CEO.”

“A pleasure, but please call me Susie,” said my wife.

Ingrid responded in kind. She was a large, well-built woman in a severe navy-blue skirt suit. She was what people used to call ‘handsome’ with strong, androgynous features, but beautifully made-up and coiffed. She reminded me of my primary school headmistress, for whom the phrase ‘Jolly Hockey Sticks’ might have been invented. It occurred to me that Ingrid might have been a product of Transformations’ services herself, but if so, she was an excellent advertisement for their expertise. There were none of the obvious giveaway indications. Her mannerisms and gestures were entirely feminine.

She seemed to be inspecting me with equal interest.

“And this is Tom, one of Lady Marsham’s staff,” Annie continued. “He very kindly volunteered to be our test subject when we demonstrated our facial prosthetics at the Pink Ladies meeting.”

“Annie has told me a little of your dilemma,” said Ingrid to Susie. “I gather you’ve had some unwelcome visitors. Shall we go to my office and we can discuss your requirements in more detail? Though I don’t see how further work on Tom will help you in your present difficulties.”

Her ample backside swinging from side to side (almost as much as mine), and her high heels clicking like a metronome, she led the way through a security door at the back of the lobby and along a corridor to a big, airy office. We sat in luxurious leather chairs at a polished conference table. There was nothing in Ingrid McLaughlin’s well-appointed workplace to indicate the esoteric nature of their services. She could have been a bank manager, or the senior partner of an accountancy firm, or the CEO of an oil company.

“The first thing I should say,” Susie began, “is that there is no Tom…”

She had warned me that we would have to come clean with them. We couldn’t explain our predicament without enlarging on the nature of the threat.

“…this is my husband,” she continued.

“The Earl?” Annie’s eyes were popping out.

“Indeed – Lord Marsham.”

“Call me Rob,” I muttered.

I expected the next few minutes to be excruciatingly embarrassing.

“There was simply no one else around for you to work on,” Susie explained. “It’s all my fault. I pressured him into doing it.”

“And I’ve almost forgiven her for that,” I said, stressing the ‘almost’.

Susie looked a little hurt. Well, tough.

“We didn’t want the Pink Ladies to be going home disappointed, you see,” she hurried on. “Just at the moment we need all the customers we can get for the use of our facilities.”

“My father was not the most financially prudent of noble Earls.” I felt I needed to explain further. “The Estate is solvent – just – but without renting out the use of the Hall as much as possible, our expenses would soon exceed our income.”

I trailed off. They didn’t need any more detail. Susie took up the baton and went on to tell them about the Beckett family and Jack’s visit.

“I persuaded Annie and Vera not to remove Rob’s disguise when they left. I meant it as a little joke on my husband…”

She stole a furtive look at me. I wasn’t smiling under my make-up and lipstick.

“…but it was lucky that he was still Martha when those thugs arrived,” she continued. “Otherwise they might have hurt him. Also I could claim the Earl was away on business.”

“Which gives us a little time to work out what to do,” I said.

“Which will be… what?” asked Ingrid.

Susie and I looked at each other.

“We don’t know,” she said.

“We can’t think of anything, apart from going to the police,” I said. “Beckett is known to them, so they may well believe us, but I still can’t see how they can help. They can hardly guard us twenty-four-seven. If Beckett follows through on his threats of physical persuasion, the police might be well aware of who was behind it but stopping him and getting convictions would be difficult. And he would always arrange an alibi for himself.”

“And it won’t stop Rob from being beaten up,” said Susie, “and they know it.”

“And they know we know it,” I added.

“And the beating would surely be even worse if we’ve involved the police,” Susie added. “Anyway, he refuses to leave me on my own, and both of us running away is just giving up. We might just as well pay them.”

“So we’re staying,” I said.

“Which is why we need his Martha disguise to be perfect, to buy us some time,” Susie finished.

We looked hopefully at Annie and Ingrid.

“Well, we can certainly do that,” said Annie.

“And I may be able to suggest something more,” said Ingrid, thoughtfully. “We recently entered into a mutually-beneficial arrangement with a local private investigator. I’ll call him while Annie is working on you. He may have some suggestions.”

* * *

Ten minutes later I was sitting in Vera’s room wearing just a pink dressing gown and a pair of paper knickers. My handbag, dress, slip, underwear and stockings were hanging up in her cupboard. My wig was on a stand on the dressing table. I caught a glimpse of myself in her dressing table mirror. I looked weird with Rob’s hair and body, and Martha’s face.

Warned that my ‘treatment’ would take at least a couple of hours, Susie had gone off to the nearest supermarket. Not being able to leave the house for a week had left us low on supplies.

“We’ll have to remove your facial prosthetics,” Vera began. “Your beard will have grown underneath them.”

“I know. I can feel it, and it’s itchy.”

“You shouldn’t really have kept them on for so long,” she said. “I just hope you haven’t developed a rash.”

She was rubbing her powerful solvent under the edges of the plastic and peeling my Martha face off, piece by piece.

“It looks OK,” she said. “A little red, but that’s normal. Now a close shave, and then…” She paused for effect. “…an all-over waxing.”

She grinned as my face fell.

“Is that really necessary?”

“That depends on how long you need to be Martha. You see, shaving only removes hair at the skin line. Stubble can develop as quickly as your beard does, so you can get ‘five o’clock shadow’ on your legs. It will itch too. Waxing means the hair gets pulled out by the follicles. It keeps you hair-free for longer – at least two weeks, maybe much more – and you shouldn’t have any skin problems.”

I sighed. “OK, I suppose it will have to be the wax then.”

“Look at this way. Most women wax sometime. You’ll get to see how the other half lives. I can get you a stiff drink to dull the pain, if you want. In fact, I strongly recommend it. Your mistress is driving, isn’t she? Now, we have Talisker and Glenlivet…”

She held up two bottles. I pointed to my preference.

“And one ice cube, please.”

“I’ll do your face first,” Vera said, handing me a glass, “to let the whisky work its magic.”

When she finished shaving my face and neck, she reached for a small tin of ointment.

“This after shave balm contains a mild hormone,” she said. “It will slow down your beard growth. You should be OK under your Martha prostheses for a week or so. We’ll make an appointment to do this again in seven to ten days.”

I had to lie down on her massage bed next for the waxing. The whisky helped but the pain was still diabolical. It wasn’t so bad on my legs and backside but when she got to the softer skin on my chest, it hurt like hell. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.

“Who’s a brave boy then?” Vera said, sympathetically.

At last the torture stopped. I took stock. I was sore all over but I hadn’t been this smooth since I was twelve.

“That’s all done,” said Vera, finally. “I’ll rub in some more of that balm. That should soothe your skin.”

“Hang on – is that a female hormone?” I said, alarmed.

“Yes, but don’t worry. It’s not strong enough to change your figure or affect your ‘prowess’.”

I wasn’t much reassured, but the massage was wonderful after the horror of the waxing.

“While you’re recovering, we’ll put your face pieces back.”

I put the paper knickers and dressing gown back on and returned to the dressing table and sat down. Vera lifted my chin in her hand and looked at my face appraisingly.

“There shouldn’t be any problems with turning you back into Martha, but I think I’ll need to tidy up your eyebrows a little.”

She started on me with tweezers, which I had never previously thought of as instruments of torture. I didn’t even bother trying not to scream for that. It was the worst yet. Vera tutted and reached for the whisky.

“Say when,” she said.

It helped. I sipped another double Scotch to dull the pain.

Next, she brought out the template that she had used before to guide her in gluing my face pieces on. Soon I was covered in faint blue lines and she set to sticking the little lumps of plastic back on me. As my vision blurred from the alcohol, Martha’s face took shape again in the mirror.

“You’ll only want a basic make-up, won’t you?” Vera said, when she’d finished painting the remaining exposed areas of my skin to match Martha’s complexion.

“Very basic,” I said. “Maids aren’t supposed to stand out, and I have to be able to do it myself after this.”

“OK then, I can do that. For anything more jazzy, I’d usually call Sharon in. She’s our hair and make-up artist. I’ll just do a light foundation, a little mascara, and a pale lipstick. No eyeshadow – unless you’re planning to go out on the pull tonight?”

“Hard pass on that.”

She laughed and reached for her make-up case. She explained everything she was doing. It didn’t look too difficult. I was quite looking forward to having a go myself tomorrow.

“Your hands are a bit of a giveaway too, you know,” Vera said, when she’d finished my make-up. “Let me see your nails.” She took my hands and examined them. “Good, you keep them neat and tidy, and they’re quite short. A maid like you would just keep breaking her nails in the course of her duties if she let them get too long. Also, a maid probably couldn’t afford a proper manicure, so I’ll just slap something cheap on them.”

She took up her nail file and a small pair of scissors. After giving my nails a quick tidy-up she reached for little pot of pale pink nail polish and started painting. She stopped when she came to the ring finger of my left hand.

“Oh, you’ll have to take your wedding ring off.”

She was right, of course. I hoped Beckett and Tank hadn’t noticed that Martha was wearing a man’s wedding ring. They probably hadn’t. They quickly dismissed me as ‘old and fat’ and didn’t look too closely. I let Vera slide my ring off as my other nails were wet. It was an emotional moment; I felt like I was betraying my beloved Susie. I sensed my eyes getting moist. I told myself not to be stupid and hoped that Vera hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll pop it in your handbag, shall I?” Vera said, kindly.

I nodded. She finished my nails. Then she slid a drawer out from the dressing table. It was full of ladies’ rings and watches.

“All cheap fakes,” she said, when she saw me looking. “Here – this watch should fit your wrist. That Casio you’re wearing is much too masculine. You should find a couple of rings that will go on your fingers. Take what you like. Most women your age would wear a ring or two. They’ll help with the illusion.”

When my nails were dry I slipped the fancy-looking ladies’ watch on my left wrist and picked out a couple of nice-looking rings: a silver band with a big emerald, and a white gold sapphire and diamond crossover ring. They both looked expensive, perhaps too expensive for a maid. I put one on each hand, avoiding the fingers that would mean I was married or engaged.

“Now, other jewellery,” she said. “I think you should have at least a little necklace – maybe a crucifix? – and earrings, of course. Nothing flashy, just to emphasise your femininity,” she said with a smirk.

“Well, I suppose so,” I said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure we have anything suitable at home. Susie doesn’t really go in for jewellery much. She has some nice pieces for formal events, but most of the time she just wears a cheap little necklace I bought her for her birthday when we were both poor students.”

“That’s OK, we can provide something.” She went over to her cupboard and slid out another drawer. “Perhaps a little pearl choker and matching earrings. Maybe a bracelet too. I’ll have to pierce your ears, of course.”

“Oh maybe not then,” I said hurriedly.

“I think all maidservants have pierced ears, don’t they?” she grinned.

I was about to quibble with her absurd generalisation when she came at me with an ice cube and a needle.

“Don’t worry, the holes will soon heal up when you go back to being… you.”

The earrings and necklace did look nice. I was admiring my new adornments in the mirror when another lady bustled in.

“Is she ready for me?” she asked.

“Yes – good timing,” said Vera. “Martha, this is Charlotte. She’s our registered nurse. She’s here to do your lips.”

“Huh? Is that really necessary?”

“We think so. That’s how Doris worked out that you were the fake, if you remember? You might see her again, or someone equally sharp, so you need something to increase the volume in your lips. They’re too obviously masculine.”

“We use a synthetic dermal filler based on hyaluronic acid,” said Charlotte, opening her case. “It’s a sugar that occurs naturally in the body, mainly in the joints. It doesn’t break it down as quickly because the body thinks it’s a natural substance. It’s hydrophilic, meaning it attracts water, and fills the lips from the inside. Most other types of filler break down too easily.”

“So how long will it last?” I asked.

“It varies, but usually about four to six months.” I must have looked horrified but before I could protest she carried on. “Don’t worry, it’s reversible. Now I’m going to give you a little local anaesthetic.”

She gave me injections in each corner of my mouth. They stung a little, then I felt a cooling sensation wash over my chin and cheeks. Then my whole mouth went numb. Charlotte set about the filler injections quickly after that. Those injections still stung, but they were nothing compared to the waxings.

After that my lips looked enormous in the mirror but I was assured that it was swelling which would subside in a couple of days.

“There might some bleeding,” Charlotte said. “You can use ice for the swelling if you want to, but you’ll just have to wait for the bruising to clear up. A dark lipstick will cover it. Your lips will probably be a little sore for a day or two,” she added.

I wasn’t pleased to discover I was stuck with thick Martha lips for at least a month, but I was told it was dangerous to try and reverse the process any earlier.

* * *

When I declared myself sufficiently recovered from all that, we moved on to the next stage: the fitting of my body prostheses.

“When we were at Hadleigh Hall last week Annie took photos of Martha’s figure as well as her face,” said Vera. “That was so we could decide on the most appropriate breast forms for you and work out how much padding you needed in your pantiegirdle. But it means we have a good 3D model to compare you to – as soon as we’ve done the same for you. Follow me!”

She led me down the corridor to a small room which she called ‘the photography suite’. It was dark and not much bigger than a changing room in a department store. The only lighting was a small red bulb in the ceiling. There was a little daïs to stand on. Helped by Vera, and hindered by the whisky, I clambered up onto it.

“I need you to stay as still as you can now. I appreciate that might be difficult given the amount of booze you’ve had,” she said with a smile. “When I’ve closed the door behind me, strip off. You can just throw your robe and knickers into the corner. The cameras will move around you on those rails.”

She left and I followed her instructions. I shivered, nude and plastered, and with throbbing lips, waiting for something to happen. In a few moments Vera’s voice came through a loudspeaker somewhere.

“OK, are you ready?” she said. “Stand still with your arms out to your sides. Try not to blink.”

The lights flashed, dazzling after the semi-darkness and the cameras buzzed around me like model trains. Eventually they stopped, the bright lights went off, and the little darkroom light came back on.

“Ok, you can get dressed again,” said Vera over the intercom. “Then come back to my room.”

When I got there she and Annie were hard at work at a computer console. Annie explained what they were doing.

“We’re building a three-dimensional computer model of your body, to match against the one we already have of Martha. We’ll then use 3D printing to make prosthetics to change your body into hers. This works best when the person you want to become is a little bigger than you are. You’re an inch taller than Martha – hopefully no one will notice that – but fortunately she is of an, er… ample figure, and a little broader than you in most other dimensions.”

“Actually, can you reduce the waistline a little? The real Martha is about four months pregnant. Please keep that to yourselves though.”

I didn’t want to be padded out to Martha’s current figure. The only maid uniforms I would fit into then would be the vintage Edwardian ones.

Annie nodded. Her computer screen showed two revolving three-dimensional figures which then merged. There were red and green areas. The green areas were clearly the breasts, hips, thighs and buttocks I would need. She clicked away with the computer mouse.

“The exception is your shoulders,” she continued, “which as you can see are the red areas. They’re not too big, so hopefully no one will notice. Everything else about your disguise should be really convincing.”

She made a final click and the 3D printer started whirring away.

“It’s making prosthetics for the green zones,” she said. “That will take a while, so Vera can do your hair while we wait. I’ll see you later. I think Ingrid got through to our PI friend. He’s on his way over.”

Vera had found me a new wig which was an even closer match to Martha’s hair than the old one, which had been a little too long and slightly too grey. That hadn’t mattered when we were both wearing old-fashioned mob caps, expressly designed to conceal a woman’s hair. The new wig meant I now matched Martha exactly, even with no headgear at all.

“Your own hair is long enough to do in a short female style,” Vera said, “and Sharon is expert with extensions. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer that? You must have found your wig hot and sweaty in this summer weather.”

“That would be a step too far,” I said firmly.

When I took my wig off I wanted Susie to see some aspect of Rob, even if my face was entirely Martha.

By this time the prosthetics had finished printing. My nose – that is Martha’s nose, on my face – twitched, as a smell of latex filled the office. I hoped that would soon dissipate and that I wouldn’t smell of it when I left.

“At first we thought we would need to make you a complete top half,” Vera said, as she started removing large flesh-coloured lumps of plastic from the machine. “It would be like a T-shirt with breasts, but with sleeves down to your elbows. That way we could conceal your muscular upper arms with soft female flesh. Most women of Martha’s age tend to be a little flabby up there, with the beginnings of batwings…”

Did I want to know what ‘batwings’ were? I decided I did not.

“…but then we saw your arms,” she continued. “They’re not very muscly, are they?”

“Hey, they’re not flabby.”

“Surprisingly skinny, though,” she said heartlessly. “Anyway, we decided to go with just the breasts. Now this prosthetic is much more realistic than the forms you’ve been using…”

With her hands full of fake flesh she pointed to the massage bed with her elbow. I lay down flat on my back. She sprayed adhesive all over my chest.

“It’s made in a single piece,” she said, holding the thing up for me to see. Judging from the effort this took her, it was heavy. “I’m actually sticking a sort of back plate to your chest. The breasts will hang off it. The edges are feathered so that there’s no obvious boundary. When I’ve applied a little make-up to the joins, they’ll look like they’re actually part of you.”

“Oh joy!” I said. “Susie will be delighted that her husband has a bigger bust than she has.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Vera grinned.

She was now lining the prosthetic up on my chest.

“The breasts are identical in shape to the real Martha’s, or as close as we could get, given that your chest and shoulders are a little wider than hers.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

In my imagination I saw Vera wrapping a tape measure around a topless Martha.

“3D photography,” she said. I told my imagination that it should be ashamed of itself. “We asked Martha to strip to her underwear when we took our photos. She didn’t mind a bit; she thought the whole thing was a hoot. She’s quite a character, your housekeeper. I just hope you can live up to her bubbly personality now you’re her. Now hush; I need to hold this lot in place for a minute.”

She pressed the prosthetic down and leant on me with all her not inconsiderable weight. She started counting.

“1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and…”

I tried to keep still, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable with all of this chirpy one-hundred-and-sixty-pound woman on my chest. I could crack a rib! In the silence I started wondering why I was doing this. Was it really necessary? Would Beckett and his pet goon really beat us up till we paid them ridiculous amounts of money? Wouldn’t it be better to call their bluff rather than subject myself to this indignity? If anyone found out I would never live it down.

“…57-58-59-60.”

She stood up, taking her weight off me and releasing the breasts assembly. It seemed like a significant load remained but at least it didn’t slide off. She gave my new right breast a tentative nudge. It wobbled realistically but stayed put. I could feel the movement, but only because some of the vibration was transmitted to my skin underneath.

“That should be OK, but you need to put a bra on just in case. You’ll find it uncomfortable without the support of a bra anyway. Your breasts are 38D and they’re heavier than you’d expect. Also I’ve used medical adhesive. Once it’s set, your skin will rip before the adhesive gives.”

More good news. Vera was rifling through a chest of drawers next to the dressing table. She returned with a black lace bra. It looked huge.

“Here you are,” she said. “We got you new underwear in Martha’s sizes. Sit up. Put your arms through the straps and I’ll fasten it for you.”

When I sat up and felt the weight pulling down on my chest for the first time, I was caught by surprise. I realised Vera was dead right. My immediate future had a heavy-duty bra in it, every day and all the time. When she’d fastened it, and my shoulders started to take the strain, I was much more comfortable.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror. Looking at just my top half, I was all Martha, a plump, no-longer-young woman with a round face, a double chin, and huge breasts. It was a very strange feeling. On the one hand, I felt liberated from being Rob Marsham, pathologically shy Earl; on the other, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be a tubby maidservant instead.

Vera had taken another strange-looking lump of flesh off the printer and was spraying adhesive inside it.

“Now for your lower half,” she proclaimed cheerfully. “Stand up and knickers down, darling.”

“Are you proposing to stick that thing on me?” I said, aghast.

“Have to, I’m afraid,” she said. “It’s even heavier than your breasts. It will slip down if I don’t glue it in place.”

“But what about…?” I paused, lost for appropriate vocabulary.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “We’ve thought of that.”

She held out what she called my ‘abdominal prosthesis’ for me. I kicked off the paper knickers and stepped into the horrid thing. She helped me pull it up into position. It was like a pair of running shorts, but heavily padded with heavy, wobbly blubber everywhere. It came up to above my waist and down to my knees. There seemed to be a gap between my legs.

She started rubbing the prosthetic firmly, smoothing it down to eliminate any air bubbles before the adhesive set. When she’d finished it was indistinguishable from real flesh. My waist seemed hardly any thicker than before, but I now had a pronounced, feminine pot belly to match flabby thighs and wobbly buttocks. It felt weird. I screwed my neck round to look over my shoulder.

“That can’t be right,” I said. “My bum is sticking out a mile!”

“It’s exactly right,” Vera said. “Trust me. A woman’s bottom is bigger and protrudes further. You must have noticed! Or are you strictly a breast man? Don’t worry; you’ll soon get used to it. Now it used to be that once you were stuck in one of these, you could say goodbye to your wedding tackle until the glue perished and you could get it off again.” She laughed at my horrified look. “But now we’ve incorporated some clever gadgetry.”

For some reason she had gone over to the fridge in the corner. I thought she might be getting me another Scotch, but she just came back with a saucer of ice cubes.

“There’s a little tube for your member. When I’ve fastened you in, the tube will connect at the other end to the prosthetic’s fake vagina. But before I can do anything with your penis, I have to push your testicles back up inside you. It’s all easier to do if I ice your entire genital area first.”

I tried to look down to see what she was doing, but I couldn’t see anything over my enormous boobs. I let my fingers scan my new fake genital area. I was surprised to feel realistic pubic hair. I hurriedly drew my hand away.

Suddenly I felt the cold shock as Vera applied ice cubes to my most sensitive parts, all of which immediately contracted alarmingly. She took advantage of their retreat to gently manoeuvre my balls up into the inguinal canals. It was then simple to guide my floppy penis into the prosthetic’s tube.

“There we are,” she said. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“This is a bit uncomfortable,” I said.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, with a little – a very little – sympathy.

It seemed there were a lot of things I would soon get used to. She was now tugging at something high up between my legs.

“This is a clever little zip fastener, a bit like what you get on freezer bags. It goes up your left leg, across underneath your vagina, then down the right leg.”

She finished zipping and stood back.

“There! All secure,” she said. “You’ll have to sit down to go to the toilet now of course, but you should have no problem. Just relax as usual and the urine will flow out of your penis, down the tube, and out of your vagina.”

She paused and smiled, recognising that as an unusual sentence.

“It will probably spray a bit,” she continued, “so you’ll need to wipe afterwards. You should also open up the zip and wash yourself thoroughly – inside and out – at least every couple of days. It’s easiest to do it in the bath.”

“You must be joking!” I snorted. “I won’t be taking baths. With all this excess blubber it would take a crane to get me out again!”

Vera laughed. “You’re exaggerating. Martha is only a little plump; she’s not obese. Lots of women fatter than you can get in and out of the bath with no trouble.”

“Maybe, but I think I’ll use the shower from now on.”

“I’ll bet the other Martha prefers baths to showers; most women do. Still, whatever works best for you…” She span me round, indicating it was time to move on. “Anyway, there’s a slit at the back that should exactly correspond to your anus, so that should be the same as usual. You’re an ‘anatomically correct’ woman down there now. You could even get naked and fool anyone, except maybe an experienced gynaecologist with a magnifying glass.”

I shuddered at the thought of a gynaecological exam. My feet weren’t going up in stirrups for anyone. She laughed again at the look on my face.

“It’s perfectly safe to sleep like that by the way, but if you do want to liberate your equipment for whatever reason…” She grinned. “…you just do everything I did in reverse. It’s bit tricky though. You’ll probably need your partner to help, at least until you get the knack. All your prostheses are completely waterproof, so you can bathe, shower, whatever, exactly as normal, apart from having to take your wig and wig cap off, of course.”

My huge new breasts and big round buttocks felt just like the real thing. They were very convincing. Because of the feathering of their edges, and the make-up Vera had applied, you couldn’t see any joins. The soft flesh mimicked the real thing perfectly in terms of movement and ‘feel’.

I got up and walked around a little to test my new anatomy. I felt heavy, and my breasts and buttocks jiggled. This would take a lot of getting used to. My centre of gravity was obviously different, and my thighs and buttocks constrained my gait. I had to waddle instead of stride. But I had to concede that I was really only a little overweight.

“Panties, Martha, dear,” said Vera. “I can’t have semi-naked women wandering around my office.”

She gave me a pair of black Granny knickers which matched my bra and I hurriedly put them on. At least they were more comfortable than the dreaded padded pantiegirdle which I could happily jettison now.

“The adhesive should last until you shed the top layer of your skin,” Vera continued. “That’s usually in about ten to twelve days. Before then the prosthetics can only be removed using a special solvent – I’ll give you a supply, for emergencies. Otherwise, come back here when you feel them slipping. We’ll remove them properly, check you for any ill effects, and then stick them back, if you want to carry on as Martha.”

“That won’t happen,” I said. “This is a short-term thing only.”

“That’s what they all say, dear,” she laughed. “You’ll need to come back in a week or so anyway, as we’ll need to shave you again under your facial prosthetics.”

She went to the cupboard to get my clothes. She gave me a bag for the stockings, girdle and my original bra. I put my men’s watch in my handbag with my wedding ring for safe-keeping.

“Here – you’d better get dressed. Your mistress will be back soon.”

“You mean my wife,” I said, not willing to play that game yet.

“Not in public surely?” she said. “If I’ve understood your situation correctly, Lady Marsham can only be your wife behind closed doors. In public, you’re her maid, and she’s your mistress, and you’ll have to curtsey and call her ‘Madam’.”

“‘My Lady’, actually,” I said glumly.

Vera gave me a new pair of tights. I sat down to put them on. They were, er, tight over my new big round butt. Very tight.

I slipped my dress on over my head. Vera zipped me up.

“I have shoes in your size,” said Annie, returning with her arms full of shoeboxes. “Take a selection of styles and colours. You should try and get used to heels, if only to help you get your walk right, but you won’t want anything more than one-inch, or they’ll make you suspiciously tall. We’ll add them to your bill.”

“Oh yes. I’m a little worried at the cost of all this. We titled folk aren’t all rich, you know.”

I slipped my feet into a comfortable-looking pair of black pumps. Even the one-inch heel was enough to cause me to wobble a little, which sent sympathetic vibrations rippling through all my new artificial flab.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Ingrid says we’ll only charge you wholesale for materials, because you helped us at the Pink Ladies meeting – at great personal cost to yourself!” She grinned. “We’re getting a lot of business from that afternoon.”

That was something of a relief. We’d spent thousands on the new security system. I could see our contingency fund shrinking even more.

“Your mistress is back, by the way,” Annie said. “They’re ready for you in Ingrid’s office.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later the Countess and her refurbished lady’s maid were again sitting at the conference table in Ingrid’s office with her and Annie. A stranger had just joined us.

“This is Mr Treacher, My Lady,” said Ingrid. “Frank, this is Lady Marsham, Countess of Hadleigh, and Martha, her housekeeper.”

So we wouldn’t be widening the circle of people who knew who I really was.

“Her Ladyship has a problem,” Ingrid continued. “We’re hoping you might be able to help. Perhaps you’d like to explain, My Lady?”

So Susie told as much of our story as she could without exposing me. She explained how my parents had separated; how I had come to inherit the title despite that; and how it had left the Beckett family dispossessed – as they saw it – and resentful.

“Unfortunately for us,” she concluded, “Jack Beckett seems to have no scruples and is well-connected in the criminal fraternity.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Beckett,” said Treacher, speaking for the first time, “though I’ve never met him personally. Mind you, that might be just as well if I’m to investigate him.”

“He and one of his thugs came to our house to demand money. Martha and I were alone and he threatened us. My husband is away on business, but now I don’t want him to come home. I dread to think what Beckett might do to him.”

“I assume you’ve ruled out going to the police?” Treacher said. Susie nodded. “Yes, I can understand why. It’s hard to see how they could help.”

“We’ve upgraded our security since their visit,” Susie added, and went on to describe the new measures.

Treacher nodded approvingly but confirmed what we all knew: it wouldn’t keep Beckett out for long, but at least we’d get advance warning of any approach.

Treacher reached into a pilot case he had put down by his feet and pulled out a small cardboard box.

“This is a call recorder for landlines,” he said. “You plug it in between the wall socket and your handset. It’s triggered automatically by the start of any call. It answers an incoming call after six rings and takes messages like an ordinary answerphone, but it’s much more sophisticated than that. It always records the whole conversation even if you’ve started or answered the call yourself. It has a capacity of several hours and when it’s full, it automatically records over the oldest content. When a call ends, it can send the recording to your computer automatically via your Wi-Fi. You have to install an app and give the recorder access to your home network but it’s all very easy to do. You never know – if Beckett makes a threatening phone call, you’ll have evidence to take to the police. It won’t stand up in court unfortunately, but it would convince a judge to issue a warrant if need be, and it should make the cops take you seriously and maybe take some action against him.”

“What if he calls on my mobile?” Susie asked.

“There are lots of free voice recorder apps. I recommend you download one and get in the habit of starting it when you answer the phone to a number you don’t know or a ‘Number Withheld’.”

I had no idea whether Beckett knew either Susie’s or my mobile numbers, but we hadn’t done anything to keep them secret. Hers was even on the Wainwrights website. I dragged my attention back to the meeting. Treacher was now offering additional suggestions to address our problem.

“You could hire full-time bodyguards, I suppose,” he said, “but that could cost you almost as much as Beckett is demanding. We need to do something to get him off your backs permanently. As I see it, you have two main options: get him before he gets you…”

“What, murder, you mean?” Susie said, incredulously. “I don’t think we could do that!”

“No, no,” said Treacher hurriedly. “I was thinking more of a pre-emptive strike – attack as the best form of defence. Make him understand that the new Earl has robust friends too and is not to be trifled with. Let him regret his actions from a hospital bed.”

Susie and I must have been looking dubious – not that anyone would have cared what the maid thought of the idea.

“No?” he said, picking up on our doubts. “You’re probably right. It might just get him angry – loss of face and so on. We don’t want to start a gang war.”

“So what was your second idea?” Susie asked. I sensed she was losing confidence in this odd little man.

“Expose him and get him locked away.”

“Expose him as what?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t even have to be true.” We looked blank. “The point is: Beckett is a criminal. Everyone knows it, even Plod. He just hasn’t been caught yet, and the police obviously don’t rate him high enough on the bad guy scale to be worth investing resources on. So we’ll just have to do it for them.”

This was more promising but the next question was obvious.

“How?” Susie asked.

“I’ll work on that,” Treacher said. “I have contacts. A day or so and I’ll know what he’s been up to, then we just have to get some incriminating evidence to the right people.”

“And if you can’t find any?”

“Oh we’ll find something. I doubt Beckett is clever enough not to have left a trail. And, as I say, we can always make something up.” Susie and I looked dubious. “Well, he shouldn’t have threatened you, should he?” He was looking thoughtful again. “It would help to have someone on the inside though…”

The conversation seemed to have gone as far as it could for now.

“Lovely to have met you, Your Ladyship,” he said cheerfully. “Leave it with me. If we could just discuss my fees before I go…?”

I had to listen quietly while Susie negotiated away a little more of our contingency fund. Oh well, hopefully it would still be far less than Beckett was trying to extort from us.

Negotiations completed, Treacher leapt to his feet. There was an awkward moment while he seemed to be deciding whether to shake or kiss Susie’s hand, then he made his way to the door.

“I’ll be in touch very soon,” he said.

Ingrid got up to escort him out.

“Well that was interesting,” I said, when the door had closed behind them.

“He seems confident,” Susie said, “but I’m not sure I can say the same.”

“He’s an odd character, Frank, certainly,” said Annie, “but he generally gets results. In fact, I’ve only known him to fail once…”

There must be an interesting story there, I thought.

* * *

On the way home we briefly discussed Treacher and his ideas. We felt a little better but not much. We would reserve judgement until we saw what he came up with.

We headed for Martha’s cottage where I would transfer to her little yellow Volkswagen Polo and drive it back to the Hall. I hoped my system had processed enough of Vera’s whisky for me to be safe to drive.

Silence fell between us. Susie had pulled into the driveway of the little house and had turned off the engine. I reached for the door handle but she stretched across to stop me.

“Come on,” she said. “Out with it.”

“What do you mean?” I realised she was referring to my uncharacteristic silence throughout the journey from Transformations. “It hurts to talk because of the injections in my lips.”

“It’s more than that though, isn’t it? You’ve been like a Trappist monk all the way home. Or perhaps I should say a Carmelite nun now?” I smiled weakly. “So what’s the matter?”

“How can you ask that?” I said, exasperated. “Look at me!”

“What? You look great!”

“I look like a maid! I’m supposed to be an Earl!”

“You’ve dressed as a maid before – often,” she protested. “We had a great time.”

Grinning, she reached down to where she judged my groin to be. Not finding anything, apart from an unfamiliar roll of fat, she withdrew her hand.

“But I could always take off my dress, apron and cap before,” I grumbled. “Now I’m…”

I struggled to find the right words to describe my predicament.

“You mean you’re feeling trapped or something?” I nodded. “Well, we’re both trapped unless we can find a way of dealing with Beckett and his gang. At least as Martha you’re not at risk of being beaten up.”

“But before going to Transformations I could take the padded bra and girdle off and I was Rob again, apart from having Martha’s face. I mean, I felt like a man, and we were great in bed together, as usual. Now…”

“I don’t see why you’re concerned,” she interrupted. “It’s you I love, whatever you look like. I know it’s you underneath… all that. Besides,” she chuckled, “Martha’s not unattractive, you know. Especially with your new kissable lips.”

“You haven’t seen how effective the prosthetics and make-up really are. I promise you, it will be just like going to bed with a woman.”

“Not quite like,” she smiled. “Annie told me what we have to do to make your baby-making kit available. I’m quite looking forward to playing my part in its… emancipation.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. I was a little reassured.

“Now go on, maid. Drive your little car back to the Hall. Your mistress will have plenty for you to do when you get there.”

I grimaced and got out. I grabbed my handbag and tottered on my one-inch heels over to the Polo, my huge butt swinging from side to side to help me keep my balance. I could feel Susie watching me, fascinated. I was just fumbling for the keys in my purse when she called.

“You’d better change into these, Martha dear,” she said, flinging a pair of my flats to me. “You’ve never driven in heels before. It would be too embarrassing for you to be in a pile-up in your… condition.”

“Thank you, M’Lady,” I sighed.

* * *

When we got back Susie wasted no time exploring my new body. She had me strip down to my bra and knickers and walked around me, like she was inspecting a prize heifer at the County Fair, which she had actually done a couple of weekends earlier.

“Wow!” she said. “Just… wow!”

“I told you,” I said.

“I love your figure,” she said, “the big bouncing breasts and that amazing ass…”

“They’re not me! You’re admiring Martha! Are you turning gay?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Look, I know that your scrumptious curvy figure is all fake, but you have very good legs. Any woman would be jealous.”

“Of course they wouldn’t… Do you really think so?”

“Mm-hmm… mm-hmm.” Susie was walking all round me, examining me in detail. “It’s incredible. I can’t see where the Martha flesh stops and you start. You could pose nude… We must take some photos! Let me get my camera…”

“No way!” I shouted. “Hey, get back here!”

She turned at the door, and grinned.

“Okay, okay, keep your hair on,” she said, pointing at my greying bun. “I was only kidding. But seriously, this is brilliant. I knew that they were good, but this…!”

“Well I’m glad you’re pleased,” I grumbled. “But you do realise this is torture for me, don’t you?”

“Really?” she said, sceptically. “Here, put this on.”

She tossed me a chiffon negligée of my mother’s, another item rescued from the charity shop. As I covered my naked Martha-self up, she sat down on the bed and got serious.

“You need to start being honest with yourself,” she said sternly. “I tried to give you an opening when I suggested you were a crossdresser before, but you thought I was just joking. You appear to have conveniently forgotten that you actively sought out the Director of The Importance of Being Earnest, and put the idea of a male Lady Bracknell in his mind. Later, after Cambridge, you joined LADS and reminded the Director of Romeo and Juliet that the Nurse was a great comic part that would have been played by one of the fine comic actors of Shakespeare’s day. Will Kemp wanted to do it, you said. Naturally the Director asked you if you thought you could do it and you leapt at the chance. So now you’re Martha, in real life, why not make the most of it? You might even find that’s who you want to be.”

“You must be joking! Why would I want to be a maid?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a maid, is there? And you certainly don’t want to be an Earl, do you? You hate all the fuss people make over you in public. You hide whenever anyone comes to the house.”

I sat down beside her, remembering to sweep my skirt under me to stop it from getting wrinkled.

“All right, all right,” I said. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I do enjoy a little cross-dressing from time to time. It’s an escape. It’s just for fun. But I’m stuck like this now. I can’t escape being Martha!”

“Well why don’t we test that?” she said. “Lie back and open your legs.”

That first time we tried together to free my genitals from their prosthetic confinement was hideous, embarrassing, and hysterically funny. It also led to one of the best lovemaking sessions either of us could remember, even though we couldn’t kiss because of my sore lips.

Susie didn’t seem at all put off by the fact that her sexual partner appeared to be her plump, thirty-something maidservant, rather than her husband, Robert, Lord Marsham, sixth Earl of Hadleigh. So I suppose I had to take her at her word and believe that she loved me, the person underneath the disguise, and my extreme feminine appearance didn’t bother her.

That augured well for our old age, I suppose.

* * *

What did worry her was my snoring. She woke me in the middle of the night with a sharp jab to the ribs.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You never usually snore.”

“It’s these stupid breasts,” I said. “I can’t sleep on my front. It’s like lying on two footballs. So I went to sleep on my back. That always makes me snore.”

“Why can’t you sleep on your side?”

“Because the breasts hang down and stretch the skin on my chest where they’re attached. It hurts.”

She thought for a moment.

“We’ll have to get you a sleep bra,” she said. “Some women with larger breasts like yours sleep better with support.”

“I can’t sleep in a bra!” I protested. “It would be too tight and uncomfortable.”

“There are special soft, lightweight bras for sleeping in. No underwire, of course. You can even get a camisole-style pyjama top with a bra built in. Come to think of it, I think I saw a sleep bra amongst your Mum’s things.”

She got up to go and ransack my mother’s underwear again, returning from the other wing ten minutes later with a triumphant look on her face. I was dozing off again – on my back – but she roused me. She soon had my breasts wrapped in a soft, elasticised bra. I tried sleeping on my side and to my surprise, it worked. The bra wasn’t too tight but it provided just enough support to save the skin of my chest from any further torture.

So the nights became tolerable again despite my bizarre transformation. We soon mastered the knack of unzipping and releasing my wedding tackle. The only change to our lovemaking was that Susie was always on top now because the prosthetic restricted my ‘angle of attack’. It was just easier for us both if she made all the necessary directional adjustments from above. She claimed it would keep her fitter too, as she had to do all the athletic parts of the exercise. As long as I was Martha the maid, my housework would keep me fit, she laughed.

* * *

For the next few days we were too busy to worry about Beckett and his threats. Since the Estate was now secure, Susie went back to work at Wainwrights. We had clients using the reception rooms and the gardens nearly every day now. They all understood that the Hall was unstaffed and they would have to do everything themselves, but I (as Martha) still had to show people where everything was; and I had to let them in and out. Rob would have hated having to deal with all these strangers, but as Martha I was quite at ease. I had to do a lot of clearing up afterwards though, prior to the J & J girls arriving early the next day.

I spent most of my time in my maid uniforms now. They were quite comfortable for my new shape, and obviously well-suited to my new working life. With the real Martha gone, I also had to look after our private quarters. I began to get used to cleaning toilets, mopping floors, dusting and vacuuming carpets with my new, heavier figure. I learned to compensate for the way my breasts and buttocks swung and wobbled.

We also had to keep an eye out for unwelcome guests. Fortunately we had no Open Days in the calendar that week, and Susie instructed the representatives of each society to make sure that only their members were allowed in. If they spotted any faces they didn’t recognise, they had to notify us immediately.

I couldn’t go out with Bill on Estate work anymore, but I had no problem finding things to occupy myself while Susie was out at Wainwrights soliciting.

As it was possible that Beckett was keeping occasional watch on us, I needed to present as feminine at all times and do conspicuously maid-like things. I washed my mistress’ underwear by hand (which she found hilarious). I attended her properly as a lady’s maid should. I laid out her clothes in the mornings. I helped her dress and undress.

We sometimes showered together, enthusiastically soaping each other down, but more frequently I ran her bath, and washed her hair, and scrubbed her back, which drove her wild. All too often she dragged me in with her, getting me soaked in kisses and soapy water. It was a good thing I had several maid uniforms and plenty of spare underwear.

It was hard, sweaty work, so I also had to get used to keeping my new body clean and sweet-smelling. I tried opening my prosthesis in the bath to clean inside and, as Vera said, that worked very well. But, as I had said, getting out of the bath with fifty pounds of additional blubber was just too difficult, so I resolved to stick to showers. There is definitely something erotic about soaping down a big round wobbly feminine body, even though I couldn’t actually feel anything as I rubbed shower gel into my new breasts, hips and buttocks.

* * *

To my embarrassment, and as Susie had predicted, I soon found I was enjoying my life as the maid more than I ever had when I had been the Earl. That thought was a little worrying. Perhaps it was just the novelty of the experience, appealing to my frustrated enjoyment of amateur dramatics? So to test that, I looked for more opportunities to immerse myself in the life of a female servant. However the first time I brought Susie her breakfast in bed, she objected.

“I’m not lying here like the Lady of the Manor while you work…” she began.

“But you are the Lady of the Manor,” I said.

“Oh, you know what I mean! I’m only going to eat my breakfast in bed, if you’re here beside me,” she said firmly.

“But I’m fully dressed,” I objected, “and it still takes me ages. I have to get up an hour before you to get ready.”

I was in my usual smart maid’s uniform, a cute black dress with apron, cap, dark tights, and one-inch heels. My hair – that is, my wig – was gathered tidily in a bun, and I was fully made up.

“You do always look fantastic,” she said. “I’m very impressed. Do you have any trouble?”

“I still can’t fasten my bra behind my back, and it takes me ten minutes just to do up my dress. Are all women double-jointed?”

“You should have come to me. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than zipping up my pretty husband’s dress,” she said drily. “Anyway, if you’re not going to join me, I’ll get up and we can have breakfast together downstairs.”

She got out of bed and reached for her negligée. I helped her on with it, as a good lady’s maid should.

“But I’ve already eaten,” I objected.

“Well, don’t do that again. You can at least sit down and have a cup of coffee with me! It’s great that you want to copy Martha so precisely but let’s not overdo this ‘mistress and maid’ thing.”

“But it was all your idea!” I said.

“Well you’ve obviously got the hang of being a maid. You were brilliant with the Empire people, and with Treacher. We can afford to relax a bit now, when it’s just you and me.”

She reached up, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me deeply. I caught a glimpse of us in the dressing table mirror – the beautiful Countess kissing her dumpy lady’s maid. One of the most erotic sights I’d ever seen…

* * *

We gradually worked out how this strange new variation on our relationship would work. I now did alone, and in my maid’s uniform, all the household jobs that we had previously shared – the laundry, cleaning, washing-up (OK, stacking and emptying the dishwasher).

I dusted and vacuumed all the rooms at the front of the house, and cleaned the windows, throwing them wide open so that I could be seen from the gate as the Countess’s diligent housemaid, working hard to keep her mistress’s home spotless.

Susie was still in charge of our evening meals. I volunteered to learn to cook but she insisted that cooking was her contribution to our domestic bliss. But it wasn’t easy for her. Wainwrights were working her hard. She rarely made it home before six and it was often much later.

So we worked out a compromise. She would decide on the evening meal and write down a recipe. When necessary, I would go to the supermarket (unnoticed and as good as invisible in my ladies’ coat and a headscarf) to do the shopping. When I got home I would lay out the ingredients and do the simple tasks like peeling potatoes or putting rice on to boil. When Susie returned, she would do the difficult stuff.

While the food was cooking, she would bathe and change, often with my help as her lady’s maid (which always risked ruining our dinner). Then we would eat together. Sometimes I would change into one of Martha’s casual dresses.

One evening Susie called to say she was going to be later than usual, and suggested I organise a takeaway, but having watched her cook so often, I thought I could do better than that.

When she eventually got home at nearly half-past seven, she found me on the sofa in the drawing room with my feet up, a glass of Merlot in my hand, watching a soap opera I was finding surprisingly interesting.

She burst into laughter at the incongruous sight.

“Well really, Martha!” she admonished. “This is hardly how I expect to find my maid when I come back from a hard day’s work – her feet up on my best sofa, drinking my husband’s expensive wine!”

“Hey, I’ve had a hard day too… M’Lady,” I said. “It’s been more than a week since the real Martha or the J & J girls were last here.”

“You’ve been cleaning?”

“And doing the laundry, and… cooking.”

“Brilliant! I’m really impressed! What are we having?”

“Some sort of stew, I think,” I grinned. “I just slung together some leftovers and hoped for the best.”

She sniffed. “Well it smells pretty good. Let me just have a quick wash and get changed.” She paused and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Of course, my lady’s maid should be helping me with all that…”

I perked up. Suddenly I wasn’t quite so tired.

“I’ll be right with you, M’Lady. I’m sure the stew will keep for half an hour.”

“What a good maid you are, Martha,” she said with a smile. “But you should be a little more careful when you loll about on the sofa like that. You’re giving the world a clear view of your frilly knickers.”

“Well there’s only you here to see, isn’t there?” I said. “And it’s all your fault I’m wearing them, isn’t it? Anyway, they’ll be coming off in a minute, won’t they?”

* * *

My earlier fears about my wife attending fashionable parties and dances without me started to resurface. Now I couldn’t go out as the Earl even if I wanted to, which of course I didn’t. Sensing my unease, Susie had started to cut back on her social events.

To compensate, she had offered the Hall as a venue for the annual office Summer Ball. Old Mr Wainwright quickly accepted. Hadleigh Hall was much more prestigious than the town’s largest hotel, and also cheaper. It was quite a coup on Susie’s part, and would raise her profile still further at Wainwrights. It would be a significant financial windfall for us too. Unfortunately it came up at the end of my first full week as Martha. I just hoped I could match my behaviour, movement and mannerisms to my new outward appearance.

It was a huge affair and partly a marketing event, so not only were the company employees in attendance, but also all of their clients – past, present and – hopefully – future. When I saw the invitation list, it included all the great and good of the county.

Wainwrights hired a catering company to provide the food and drink for the party, cooked by top chefs and served by uniformed waitresses. Susie negotiated a small reduction in the price by offering her own maid, me, to be one of the waitresses. The company’s manager was happy to concede that. She knew that my familiarity with the venue would be helpful.

I was provided with a uniform to match the other girls, a black dress with white piping, white half-apron, and a little lace headband. It was more attractive, though a little less practical than my everyday maid’s uniform. They even provided a name badge with ‘MARTHA’ on it in large capital letters.

I was trying it on the night before the party when my wife came in and saw me admiring myself in our bedroom mirror. I quickly discovered that with her help I could get my uniform off in much less time than it took to put it on. I was lucky it didn’t get torn. Not for the first time I wondered why seeing her husband in women’s underwear - bra, granny panties, and tights - always got Susie’s juices flowing.

On the day of the party, dressed in my smart waitress uniform, I showed the catering company staff where everything was, and helped the chefs fathom the idiosyncrasies of our huge kitchen, its ovens, refrigerators, plumbing, etc.

Susie was resplendent in a gorgeous full-length Royal Blue, column, sweetheart, high-slit, sweep train, strapless evening dress. She welcomed the guests as they came into our handsome entrance hall with its oak archways and Victorian floor tiles. I stood beside her with a tray of champagne and Bucks Fizz.

My wife had never looked more beautiful. I felt like the luckiest maid/waitress in the world, though I also felt a little guilty that I wasn’t squiring her properly at this shindig, but I shuddered at the thought of pressing the flesh as Lord of the Manor all evening. When it seemed all the guests had arrived, I adjusted my apron, tidied my cap, and returned to the kitchen.

We were lucky with the weather, and the party started with drinks and nibbles on the lawn. I had never practised walking in high heels on grass, and came close to tripping a couple of times, which would have propelled a tray of hors d’oeuvres onto some unfortunate guest. I don’t think anyone noticed my stumbles, apart from my wife, of course. She didn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off me whenever I came near.

I overheard several guests asking Susie where her husband was. She told everyone that the Earl was away on business, and anyway he had thought it better not to intrude on the Company’s office party. When I served people out of Susie’s earshot I heard them comment that the new Earl seemed to be something of a recluse, which was true. He liked it that way. In social events such as this I was much happier as the waitress, or the maid, or whatever lowly role kept me firmly in the background.

As darkness fell, the party moved indoors. There was dancing to a small live band in the Great Hall, while all the ground floor reception rooms were available for flirting, social chitchat, and networking. I spent the evening scuttling in and out of the kitchen, offering trays of canapés, sandwiches, barbecued chicken legs, and endless glasses of champagne. Waitresses don’t have to make conversation and I’d never been happier at a posh party. Later on, when several of the male guests had enjoyed one glass of champagne too many, I even had my bottom pinched – not that I could feel it as he only gripped fake flesh. Luckily, I happened to look over my shoulder at just the right time to catch him in the act. He grinned saucily and walked away. When I was over the surprise, I felt flattered rather than aggrieved.

Company taxis and minibuses started arriving at midnight and the last guests left a little after one o’clock, leaving the catering staff, including me, to clear up. The chefs, being mostly men and paid twice as much for their expertise as us waitresses, had departed hours ago, when the last of the food had been cooked.

The team had brought all the glasses, plates, dishes and cutlery with them and would take them away, neatly stacked in special cases, to be washed at the company’s HQ. All we had to do was collect, and stack, and load up the van.

I had got to know most of the other waitresses during the evening and was enjoying gossiping with them while we were clearing up. Some of the guests had got very drunk and disgraced themselves badly, which gave us all a lot of amusement. Suddenly to everyone’s astonishment Susie swept in, donned a long bib apron over her beautiful dress, and started pitching in. I thought she’d gone to bed and was actually feeling a little bitter about it. I should have known her conscience wouldn’t let her leave me to be part of the clean-up crew without her.

She quickly showed herself to be a Countess with the common touch. She had us all enthralled with a ribald story of old Mr Wainwright’s clumsy attempts at feeling up Vivienne, his long-time secretary. According to Susie, Viv let him do what he wanted in the office behind closed doors, but this do was a little too public for her liking.

“She must be fifty, if she’s a day,” said Susie, a little cruelly, for her. It was then I realised she was more than a bit drunk herself.

“The Earl must be very confident to leave you alone with all those horny men, My Lady,” said one of the waitresses, emboldened by Susie’s approachability.

“Oh my husband is a very special guy,” she said. “None of those pompous idiots could hold a candle to him.”

She turned to me and pulled me in for a hug. Given what she’d just said, I was sure she was about to expose me in her sozzled state.

“I’m lucky with Martha too,” she said with a wink at me. “She’s not just a superb housekeeper. She’s also my best friend.”

I blushed deeply. Good recovery, M’Lady, I thought.

We both helped load up the company van with the dirty crockery and waved them all off at about two o’clock.

“We need to get to bed,” I said. “The J & J girls will be here for the clean-up at eight.”

“How do you think it went?” Susie asked, removing her apron.

“Seemed pretty successful to me,” I said. “Old Wainwright seemed to enjoy himself. Thanks for coming and helping with the tidying-up, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I had a good time at the party while you were working your big round bottom off. It was the least I could do.”

“Or was it that you didn’t trust me alone with all those lively young women in the kitchen?”

“Like you didn’t trust me with all those thrusting young solicitors? Funnily enough, Martha, I wasn’t too worried about preserving your chastity,” she said with a scornful smirk. “There’s not much you’d be able to do, locked away as you are, is there? To make proper use of your equipment, your bed partner has to have the knack of unwrapping it. Shall I show you?”

“Yes please, M’Lady,” I said deferentially, curtseying deeply.

And she did.

* * *

Getting used to my place as full-time housekeeper and maid of all work, I was now always careful to curtsey and call Susie ‘M’Lady’. It started to feel natural, and completely appropriate for my role and appearance. I admitted to myself that I was actually happy in my work for nearly the first time since I’d inherited the title, and I wouldn’t have minded if my situation continued indefinitely. But I think Susie was starting to find it awkward, despite it having been her idea to treat me as her maid in the first place.

She decided we could be ourselves – more or less – when we were alone together in our bedroom, whose curtains remained closed. I made sure I always looked and acted as a maid whenever I was near a window that could be seen from the road, albeit only with powerful binoculars. It was unlikely we were being watched, but we could never be sure.

I kept all my Martha things in the little back bedroom which had once been hers, but at bedtime I padded along the corridor in my sleep bra, nightie, dressing gown and slippers, a bonnet on my head instead of my wig, and took my rightful place in the Countess’s boudoir.