Part 1 of this story was inspired by the fragment entitled 
"Manderley," putatively written by "Ashley Mortenson" and 
"Lady Charlotte de Winter" (not Mme. Athos).  It appeared on 
a short-lived and now defunct site.  I sent Lady Charlotte 
a copy of "Time and Tide," and she liked it.  

Note: In a sort of special effects attempt, I have affected 
British diction and spelling.





                

                        TIME AND TIDE
 
                              by 

                         C. Lakewood



Part 1          

    Cassandra Rigsby leaned back in the red leather chair and 
sighed, partly in resentment and partly in resignation.  She 
looked unseeing at the dossier in her hand, then suddenly 
lurched to her feet and across the darkling study.  She flung 
the file into the fire with a grimace.  There were other copies, 
of course, but at least no one would read that one ever again....

    It had all seemed so delicious in the beginning...so thrilling.  
She had supposed it simply romantic derring-do, only theoretically 
dangerous.  It had begun as a Robin Hood-Raffles-Zorro sort of 
adventure and had now become a potential Philby-Burgess-Maclean 
disaster. 

    She trudged up the stairs toward her bedroom and what 
awaited her there.  She glimpsed herself in the upper 
hallway's big mirror and paused, the image was chic and 
impeccably groomed...but her expression was now impossibly 
woebegone.

    There were things to do before she headed off to "Marchfield" 
house to surrender herself to Amy -- the Hon. Amelia Alnwick -- 
who had been her good friend and social equal...until today.  She 
sighed again and entered the bedroom, flicking on the light to 
reveal the hideous uniform hanging there like a bird of ill omen.

    She grudgingly stripped to the skin and went into the bathroom 
and, as ordered, shaved off her pubic hair.  Then down the hall to 
her exercise equipment.  Again following Amelia's instructions, she 
worked out until she was running with sweat, then dashed back to 
the bedroom and huddled into her uniform. 

    There was no bra or knickers, merely a cheap suspender-belt and 
a couple of once-white half-petticoats.  She put on and attached 
the pair of coarse black stockings and levered her feet into the 
black, imitation leather, t-strap shoes that were slightly too 
small.  Then came the dress -- black with white trim on cuffs and 
collar.  Last was the white apron, edged with pathetic imitation 
lace, and the ludicrous maid's cap.  The fabric throughout was some 
thin, cheap polyester that apparently couldn't breathe.  (She 
imagined she was sweating even more heavily now.)  How different 
it was from the silk -- and even the 600 tpi Egyptian cotton -- 
that she was accustomed to.  
 
    The skirt was very short, but not stylishly so, and the bodice 
was tight enough to minimise her breasts, but also coarse enough 
to irritate her nipples so they stood out, embarrassingly obvious.  
Amelia had clearly devoted a great deal of thought to this uniform.  

    Cassandra gazed into the mirror.  Her sweat-damp hair hung, 
lank and lifeless.  Later, it would frizz.  She was not a 
soubrette; she was a frump.  

    Then the long case clock downstairs struck the quarter hour, 
and it was time to leave.

		******************************
      
    It was warmish out, and Cassandra was glad of that, for Amelia 
had not allowed her a coat.  There was a breeze blowing between her 
moist thighs and across her bare crotch, however, and it made her 
wobble from time to time as she clicked down the shadowy street to 
the bus stop.  She carried only enough money for the one-way trip.

    There really wasn't much traffic at that hour, but, each time 
a car went by, she flinched and prayed she wouldn't be recognised.  
 
    When the bus arrived, she went through the next few minutes in 
a sort of daze...paying her fare, finding a seat, trying to be 
inconspicuous.  As her perceptions gradually sharpened, it seemed 
that many of the other passengers were foreigners, non-European 
even.  The bus stank of beer and suet and B.O. -- and it mortified 
her to realise that part of this stench was HER.  

    (Amy always referred to this thing as a "'bus" -- even when 
speaking, she managed to imply the apostrophe -- and, until now, 
Cassandra had found that amusing.)

    As reluctant as Cassandra had been to board the grubby bus, she 
liked getting off it even less.  When she stepped down onto the 
pavement, she was acutely aware that her appalling future lay only 
a 10-minute walk away.  Too soon, she was stumbling down the alley 
behind the big house and then approaching the servants' entrance, 
as befitted one of her new class.

    She rang the bell. 

		******************************

    Hours earlier, the Hon. Amelia Alnwick had put down her coffee 
cup and, in response to a timid knock, called, "Come in, Trina!"
 
    Her eyes downcast and shoulders drooping, a 30-something 
housemaid entered, curtsied, then waited submissively just 
inside the door, hands folded over her apron.

    ("There's not much left of the creature who was once the Rt. 
Hon. Katherine Grey," Amelia thought.  "But there is a morsel, 
apparently, and I shall enjoy reminding it of its past...and 
then....")

    "Trina, you've become slovenly lately and want smartening up."

    The maid looked up, apprehensively.  "I-I'm sorry, ma'am."
 
    Amelia smiled -- as Caligula might have smiled.  "I get the 
distinct impression," she cooed, "that you have not completely 
accepted your change of station, even after these months.  I 
think you are delusional still...." 

    "Oh, no, ma'am...." 

    "So.  You are arrogant, impertinent, and argumentative in 
addition?"
 
    "No...."
 
    "Then be silent."  Amelia sighed.  "You simply must try harder 
to learn your place....  

    Just then, the housekeeper, Edith Bramble, knocked and entered, 
bearing a small bundle.

    "Ah, perfect timing, Mrs. Bramble," Amelia purred.  Turning 
back to Trina, she ordered, "Strip yourself naked, girl, and 
don't dawdle."

    Though reluctant to bare herself in front of the two women, 
Trina also knew that any "dawdling" would cost her dearly.

    As Trina stripped, Amelia gloated.  "She's five years older 
than me," Amelia thought.  "At school, she'd been the 6th form 
goddess: trim, tanned, athletic...Head Girl, captain of lacrosse, 
AND of hockey, AND of netball....  ALL the juniors had the most 
frightful 'pash' on her, including me...."  She grimaced.  "Indeed, 
me perhaps most of all.  And the things she had made me do....  No, 
not 'made' me, for I did them willingly.  HA!  She looks quite 
different now: pale, a bit pudgy, washed-out, with an air of defeat 
hanging over her....  Just an occasional, feeble spark, which I 
must nurture awhile before treading on it yet again.  Delicious!"  

    Trina -- the former Katherine Grey, Head Girl, etc., etc. -- 
stood naked before her, shivering slightly.  And she was clearly 
aroused, Amelia noted happily.
 
    "Now, you are surely aware that, since you entered into 
service with me, there have been certain changes at your former 
home, Charterhouse.  Do you know who the present owner is?"
 
    "No, ma'am."
 
    "'Tis Rupert Strangely-Brown, who once honoured you with his 
affections.  Tell me: what was it that you called him?"

    "I...I'm not s-sure I remember, ma'am...."

    "Don't lie to me, girl."  Amelia's tone was deceptively mild.

    "Well...I....  A 'scabrous satyr,' ma'am.  Oh, god!"  

    "Yes.  And I suppose he remembers, too...."

    Trina shivered.

    "In any case, he now owns the estate.  Things change.  But, on 
the other hand, some things stay the same." 
 
    "Ma'am?"
 
    "Your former servants, for example, are still with the house."
 
    Trina blinked.

    "They are not, however, aware that you, too, are now just an 
ignorant menial like them.  But they soon will learn. 

    "Tomorrow, girl, you will be seeing your old servants again.  
But this time, you will be one of them -- the junior-most, in 
fact -- for you are going to work as a scullery maid in Rupert's 
house for a month.  Were you a kind employer, Trina?  I seem to 
remember that you liked to punctuate your orders with a switch.  
How strenuous!  Well, I imagine that the servants, all of them to 
be your superiors, will...um...take you in hand and instill some 
proper discipline.  And, of course, you will be...'performing' for 
Rupert...."
 
    Trina looked stunned.

    "The bundle that Mrs. Bramble has is your new uniform: a short 
-- very short! -- burlap smock and, for outdoors, a pair of clogs.  
Scullery maids don't wear much there, and, of course, I imagine 
that, for certain duties, you won't be wearing anything at all.  
We can't have you looking too drab, however, so we've dyed the 
smock pink -- I believe the shade is called 'shocking' pink."

    She was pleased to see Trina cringe.      
 
    "Rupert will allow you an hour a day to compose a report on 
what occurs to you there, which will be verified and sent on to 
me.  I shall expect full, excruciating detail...."  She smiled 
that smile again.  "A car from Charterhouse will pick you up 
later today; meanwhile, you may 'entertain' Mrs. Bramble."  
Amelia gestured languidly.  "Dismissed."  

    She poured herself another cup of coffee and turned her 
thoughts toward the new trainee maid who would be arriving 
later.    
 
		******************************  

    And, eventually, Cassandra did arrive, escorted in by smug Mrs. 
Bramble.

    Amelia preened.  "Ah, Mimi...."

    Cassandra scowled.

    "Tsk, tsk.  When you are addressed by your betters, girl, you 
will curtsey, answer promptly and truthfully, and address them as 
'miss' or 'sir' or 'ma'am.'  And you will maintain a proper 
demeanour at all times.  Understand, girl?"

    The new maid dipped clumsily.  "Yes, ma'am."

    "So."  Amelia flipped open a folder lying on her desk.  Still 
want to go through with it?"

    Cassandra curtsied.  "Y-yes, please, ma'am...."
 
    "Then come over here and sign.  It's your admission that you 
are incapable of managing your own affairs and the petition to 
become my ward...for as long as I see fit.  Sign...and lose your 
rights...and your past 'indiscretions' will remain our little 
secret.  Hmmm?"
 
    Cassandra's fingers twitched.  But then she took up the pen 
and signed where indicated.  When she put down the pen, she felt 
empty...powerless.
 
    Amelia smirked like the schoolyard bully she had always been.  
"Goodbye, Cassandra; hello, Mimi.  You have now assumed that name, 
have you not?"

    "Mimi" shivered.  "Yes, ma'am."  She felt humiliated, and yet 
there was something else....

    "Of course," Amelia said, "though you have abandoned your 
rights, I suspect you are still clinging to your accustomed 
arrogance.  Well, we shall extinguish that in time, Mrs. Bramble 
and I, and, in the end, you shall thank us for making you a better, 
more humble, more useful person." 
   
    Mimi held her tongue, but looked just a bit defiant.  Amelia 
noticed, with pleasure.

    "Tonight I am entertaining guests for cards and a light supper 
-- Cecily Cardew, Guy Tarkington, and Sir Reynard Willoughby-Gore, 
all of whom you know.  Be a good girl, and I just may allow you to 
stay out of their way.  Once you have finished your services in the 
kitchen, you will go to my bedroom and wait outside the door until 
I retire.  You will help me undress, you will bathe me, and you 
will 'massage' me afterward.  And, all the while, you will talk to 
me about your feelings....  Now, go off with Mrs. Bramble.  She 
will instruct you in the precise nature -- the nuances -- of your 
duties here.  I advise you to pay careful attention, Mimi."

    Mrs. Bramble exhibited a smile not unlike that of her mistress.   
  
 

 
 
 
 