It was really quite a magnificent dress – his opinion of that had not changed in the least – but it just didn't suit him the way it did Madam Red, Grell thought with some sarcasm. By a sadistic turn of fate, the accursed bodice had fit him, somewhat snugly actually, and effectively dashing his last hopes of evading the plan. He stood now in his bedroom, facing the wall mirror but trying not to look too long at the humiliating sight within.

As for many of the details, certain decisions had already been made. He was to wear one of the madam's wide-brimmed hats whenever possible, and to pull it down slightly in order to conceal part of his face. When this was not convenient, he was to instead use a fan or a handkerchief. It was also deemed that his shoes would be easily identifiable as a man's, and although not much could be done about this, Madam Red thought it best to undo the normal black laces and replace them with red ribbons. His hair was to be pinned up in a tight knot, and despite the fact that his was not even a shade close to the radiant gold that Rachel's had been, Madam Red was convinced that it would make no difference to her aged and forgetful grandmother.

And then, there was the matter of his voice – a dead giveaway to his true gender, should he utter a word. Madam Red, however, had had the brilliant idea that he should pretend to be somewhat ill and unable to speak – all he needed to do was communicate with nods or shakes of his head.

He was still waiting to awaken from this senseless dream.

"Grell, please turn around." He obeyed, the skirt swirling with him, a quite foreign sensation. With a critical gaze, Madam Red examined him up and down. "I don't know…I still think you don't appear thin enough. If only you would try the corset…" Grell immediately blanched, much like he had a short while ago when she had initially made the suggestion, and retreated a step, shivering in trepidation. "…but I know you will not go that far. Hmm…"

Grell pushed up his spectacles, an item which he was (very gratefully) permitted to keep. "Madam," he asked, timidly, "with all due respect, is the…bustle* truly necessary to the dress?" The concept of the device seemed so silly, now that he was wearing one.

The look she gave him would have been enough of an answer. "Of course it is, unless you want to look like a woman from the lower classes, with no sense of style. If you refuse the corset, you absolutely cannot do so with the bustle. Now, there must be another way to make you look a bit slimmer…and to more effectively hold up your 'chest'." She gestured to his torso, where, inside the dress, were stuffed quite a number of his own rolled-up (and clean) socks. This aspect of the facade was likely the most awkward part of all, and Grell was trying desperately to ignore it. "I wonder," she continued slowly, still scrutinizing him, "if a waistband of some kind would help. A wide ribbon, perhaps? Yes, let's try it. Wait right here; I'll be back shortly."

She returned with a maroon ribbon, and insisted on fastening it around his waist herself, cinching it just tight enough so that he could still breathe, although just barely. He adjusted the socks pressed against his front, and looked up to see her smiling and nodding in satisfaction. "That's better. Not ideal, of course, but better."

"My lady…please do pardon me, but don't you think that all this is…um…disrespectful to your sister's memory? Would she not be offended by an ignoble, unrefined creature such as myself… and not even a female…calling himself by her name?"

She paused, clearly unprepared for this profound question, which she appeared to not even have considered until now. "…you may think so, but I believe Rachel would understand. She would not want to see the ring that she also loved given to someone outside the family, I am sure. Anyway, now that your appearance is more or less decided upon, it is time to run a basic course in proper female etiquette. Start by simply walking. Don't rush; take small steps. Come on, now…that's it…"

Inevitably, he stumbled.

And while he couldn't speak for his lady, he could not help but take it as a bad omen.

/

Omen or not, the morning of departure finally dawned, and all too soon. Grell, who had acquired little sleep the night prior, did not feel any more like a woman than he ever would, but he couldn't say he hadn't learned anything. Even after the countless hours of rehearsal however, applying his newfound knowledge would still take much focus.

The plan for traveling to Edythe Harvey's home, some sixty miles north of London, ran thus: they would board a train out of the city and up to the town of Saffron Walden, Grell in his own clothes. There, they would stop at an inn, where he would don his disguise, and a carriage would be hired which would then drive them the remaining ten or so miles to the village of Castle Camps. A single night would be spent in the home of their elderly hostess, and by mid-afternoon tomorrow, the cunning duo would be well on the return trip home, stopping at the inn once more for Grell to transform back into his un-womanly self.

Staring at the luggage that sat waiting in the foyer, and with the reality of his part in the scheme sinking even deeper in, the overstrung butler almost considered asking Madam Red to kindly call it all off. But then he remembered the contract which had been written up and signed by them both, and which made escape impossible. He was the one who had said that letting the dress go to waste would be a shame, after all, a fact which she had not failed to recently throw back in his face.

In all honesty, Grell didn't remember too much about the journey, so preoccupied was he with innumerable worries. After what was undoubtedly a much too short train ride to Saffron Walden, lady and servant arrived at a fairly respectable (and thankfully, nearly empty) inn, where he squeezed himself into his costume and allowed Madam Red to artfully bunch and arrange the back of the blue underskirt in what was supposedly a stylish fashion. After his brunette mane had been combed and twisted up into a neat bun and the other odds and ends were accounted for, they at last exited the building (Grell holding on to Madam Red's arm while descending the staircase) and boarded a coach for Castle Camps. When they arrived at their destination and the disguised butler, hiding his face, had been assisted out of the carriage by the driver (an unfamiliar experience indeed), Madam Red touched his arm lightly, and leaned over in order to whisper, "Look over this way – this is the house."

He turned to where she indicated. Beyond a considerably sized front lawn (the grass a fresher green than any growing in London), and past a well-tended garden of tulips, zinnias and other flowers, sat a fine country home constructed of brown stone. It was by no means one of the great, upscale villas that could frequently be found in those better-known areas of the countryside, but it was obvious to any onlooker that the resident of this place was well-off nonetheless. If Grell hadn't been so distracted by his rapidly intensifying dread, he would have perceived that the house was about double the size of Madam Red's town home.

It was no exaggeration to say that by the time they had walked up the path and were standing at the house's entrance, an inferno had taken hold of his nerves. Noticing his paleness and the way he shifted the fan he held from hand to brown kid-gloved hand, Madam Red reached over and poked her "sister", causing him to twitch and yelp. "Grell, calm down," the true and experienced noblewoman hissed. "Just try to remember everything I've taught you, and if you aren't sure, you need only to follow my lead. And most importantly – don't speak."

And with these final admonishments, she extended her arm and rapped smartly on the door.

Grell hardly had time to yank down the edge of the maroon hat he wore over his anxious eyes before it opened. From what he was able to see, it was a servant who had answered the knock, a maid. Her countenance was hidden from view by his hat, but her voice revealed that she was quite young. "Good morning. Madams Phantomhive and Durless, is it?"

Madam Red did not hesitate to smoothly respond. "That is correct."

"Come in, please; I will show you to the parlor. Mrs. Harvey is expecting you. Will your driver need any assistance carrying in your bags?"

"I don't believe so; there are merely five cases between us," Madam Red replied, and advanced inside a few steps as the maid held open the door. Grell however had gone rigid, and, scarcely breathing, stood planted outside, staring at Madam Red's back as she moved away from him.

Realizing that her companion was not with her, the scarlet-clad woman turned, and it required everything in her power not to roll her eyes and sigh. With a voice laced with an odd gentleness, she called to him. "Rachel. Is everything all right?"

It took a moment for the name, and for what was occurring, to register. Jerking his head, he opened his mouth to reply, but at the last second clamped it shut, remembering the all-too-vital rule. Instead, he nodded weakly.

"Good," came her unusually amiable reply. "Come, then." As Grell slowly and unwillingly ambled into the house, he could hear her explaining to the maid, "Please do not mind my sister if she seems a bit out of sorts – she has been sick of late but insisted on coming."

With his limited vision, Grell followed them as carefully as possible down what seemed to be the front hall, and making a right turn, into a parlor. Seeing that the backs of the women remained turned, he peeked out from under the wide rim of the hat to survey the room. It was a relatively small space, containing rustic furniture and knickknack-filled shelves, with the focus consisting of a low round table adorned by a vase of freshly-cut blooms from the garden. Like in the madam's own home, the rugs and curtains were of a heavy material, but here in rich shades of green. It was a simple yet appealing room, possessing a sort of coziness which Grell had not felt anywhere else.

These observations abruptly ceased however, as the hat was suddenly whisked off his head. In panic, he threw both hands up in an attempt to grab at it, but was met only with empty air. No-! Come back-!

"Do not be startled, Rachel; our outdoor wear is only being taken and put away," Madam Red said calmly. "Is it not wonderful to come back to this house so full of dear memories?" Watching the maid proceed to help her out of her duster, Grell quickly slipped out of his own (a dark gray one he was borrowing) and pushed it awkwardly toward the servant before she could come too close to him. Once she had finally exited the room however, Madam Red abandoned the false tone and spoke to him as she always did, her casual look replaced by one of seriousness. "You're doing well so far, I suppose…but do try not to be so easily alarmed. How many times, after all, have you taken and hung up my hat and coat at home? Now quick, cover yourself; she will be here shortly."

Heeding her instructions, he unfolded the black silk fan and held it up to conceal all but his uneasy eyes, heart rate rivaling that of the speediest trains in England. It would only be moments now before they would know if this farce would have any chance of succeeding. She might be old and out of touch with reality somewhat, but how could the madam's grandmother possibly be fooled into believing that he, a clown trying to function outside of the circus tent, was her granddaughter?!

A long few minutes passed, and just when Grell was sure that his agitation would burst forth in the form of tears, their hostess made her entrance. Stopping before them, Mrs. Harvey looked first at Angelina, and then at "Rachel". "The both of you made it, I see," she greeted, her tone warm and genial. "Welcome back, it has been far too long!"

Through his disquietment, Grell regarded his "grandmother". Age had not been so cruel as to diminish her stature – she appeared to be about the same height as Madam Red, and their similar facial features betrayed their relation. The elderly woman's silver hair was pinned up at the crown of her head, and her navy blue dress was not of the current fashionable style, but of a less complicated type only seen outside of the great cities. Grell felt his body go stiff again when her brown-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Yes, it certainly has been, Grandmother!" Madam Red returned hastily, averting the other's attention and smiling. "We are both so glad to have come. It is good to see you well, as you stated in your letter." She embraced Mrs. Harvey, swiftly placing a kiss to her cheek while Grell watched in horror from behind the fan. "I know we will have an enjoyable stay."

"Yes, I am sure that leaving the city for a spell will do you both much good," Mrs. Harvey replied, moving toward Grell. In delight, she faced him, while he pleaded inwardly that she would not come any closer. "My word, Rachel, you have shot up like a tree! How is the family? You did not return my letter to you…"

He couldn't help it; as she moved in on him, he leaned back, eyes wide as saucers. No one had said anything about this sort of thing! Overcome by fear, he missed the harried look that came upon Madam Red as she swooped in beside them and laid a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Grandmother, I am afraid that Rachel is recovering from illness – a rather serious cold and sore throat, you see. As a consequence, she has temporarily lost her voice, and wishes also to keep her condition from spreading to anyone else. Please understand…despite not being entirely well, she was so very set on coming to see you." She cast a glance at Grell. "Isn't that so, Rachel?"

Much too rapidly, he nodded.

"What a pity," Mrs. Harvey said sympathetically, and to Grell's indescribable relief, backed away a step. "Perhaps the country air will be a help to you while you are here. I so wanted to hear about how you are getting on, however! And about that darling boy of yours! How I wish Vincent would consider bringing you all to live closer to Castle Camps; I've missed our conversations." Although unnoticed, Madam Red narrowed her eyes just slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down as all attention was directed to "Rachel". With a silent scoff of repugnance, she looked away at hearing the next words spoken to Grell. "Won't you at least grace me with that beautiful smile that I recall so well?"

Smile?! Oh, unknowing woman, why must you ask the impossible?! After a pause of uncertainty, he glanced at Madam Red, whose only response was a nod of affirmation. Mustering up the happiest expression he could given the circumstances, he lowered his shield and, after flashing the briefest of smiles, whipped it back up once more.

"Ah," sighed Mrs. Harvey, "you have not changed in the slightest, Rachel, and for that I am glad. Now," – and here she again addressed both of them – "let us all sit down and have tea. Angelina, since your sister cannot speak, would you be able to inform me of all that has been happening between the both of you?"

As they began moving toward the table and chairs, Grell's mind, overwhelmed to a whole new degree, finally caught up with him. Dropping the fan away again, he looked to Madam Red in open-mouthed amazement. The old woman really did think he was Rachel – slim, blonde, glasses-less (and not to mention dead) Rachel! Rather than being seen straight through, he had only been met with acceptance…an acceptance by means of deceit. In return, the madam only shook her head at him and beckoned, urging him to come and sit.

Once they had taken their places and Mrs. Harvey had ordered tea to be prepared, the conversation between she and Madam Red commenced. Grell found himself quite content with the taciturn aspect of his role, as he would not have known how to respond to much of what was being discussed. They spoke first about the Phantomhives and how young, innocent Ciel was doing (these, of course, were all lies), and then went on to the topic of Madam Red's daily life and occupation. The tea was served not long into the talk, and Grell, although still uncomfortable with being here masquerading as he was, tried to remember Madam Red's instructions in taking afternoon tea. Sips and bites were to be small, and movements deliberate, he recalled. And in this way, despite the obvious shaking of his hand each time he raised the teacup, he was able to progress through the light meal.

But how he could not seem to quiet his nerves, or drive away the visions of disaster that kept assaulting his mind! How long would it be until the madam's grandmother came to her senses? And that maid – what suspicious looks she had given him! What if she would be the one to expose him as a fraud? What if –

" – Rachel!"

The start that this call caused him was a bad one indeed. Caught unawares, Grell, whose unhappy musings had led him to stare off into space, jumped wildly in his seat, and a hot, scalding sensation was promptly felt all over his right hand, seeping through the glove he wore. At the same time, splashing was heard, and when he looked, a brown stain was spreading fast over the white linen tablecloth.

Filled at once with sickened terror, he dropped the cup he had previously been holding, agonized cries of self-loathing already forming in his throat. All that escaped was a croak however, before a hand came crashing down over his mouth.

"Mmfph!"

Madam Red was near him suddenly, her face wrought with panic. "No Rachel, you mustn't strain your voice! Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you!" Although she professed concern, Grell could easily detect the underlying glare of warning.

As she slowly eased her hand away, Mrs. Harvey spoke up. "Heavens, Angelina…there was no need for you to give your sister such a scare." Turning to Grell, she went on kindly, "Now don't fret about the spill, dear…such an incident does not spell the end of the world. Why don't you go on and clean yourself up?"

His hand soaked with wasted Darjeeling, he found he did not have much of a choice. Madam Red, who was most likely trying to ignore the mild reprimand she had received, was the one to respond however. "Grandmother, please allow me to escort Rachel to the wash basin…it has been so long that I fear she has forgotten where it is."

Mrs. Harvey hesitated, but then consented, and called for the maid to tend to the sopping mess as Madam Red and Grell took their leave. The latter, having forgotten to snatch up his fan on the way out, instantly snapped his head in the opposite direction as said maid passed them in the hall, only to find himself in a collision with the madam's back. Turning, she threw him a black look, but continued to lead him toward the scullery.

No sooner had the door safely shut behind them than the eruption of scoldings began. "What just happened, Grell?! No; I'll tell you what happened. The behavior I saw in there was beyond unladylike. For one, you were fidgeting quite a bit in your seat, and for another, your concentration fell away and you began staring about the room! Didn't I tell you that your attention must not wander? I should not have had to call out to you as I did! Do you know how that made me look?!"

Cowering, he could only cry out, "I am sorry, my lady! I know I have shamed you – if your grandmother thinks badly of you I am entirely to blame!"

"Shush! They will hear you if you make a racket. Now, over there." She pointed to the wash basin, and the melancholy butler stepped toward it, peeling off the drenched and dirtied glove and cooling his overheated hand. "I must go back now or she may become suspicious. Just leave the gloves here and we will get them later. And from here on, mind yourself!" So saying this, she marched, grumbling, from the room, leaving him disheartened and alone.

Several minutes later, once he had located a clean rag and used it to wipe off the water, he made his way, bare-handed, back to the parlor. Upon arriving, he saw that the tea-things had been cleared away and the sullied tablecloth removed, leaving only the vase of sweet-smelling flowers behind, but the two ladies were no longer there. Producing a low whine of anguish, Grell retrieved his discarded fan and re-entered the hallway, looking about uncertainly. He was already tired of this charade, tired of being all dolled up, especially with the embarrassing false bosom and the ridiculous bustle. If I remain undiscovered to the end of this visit, nothing in this mad world will ever again astonish me! Oh, Madam, why must this ring mean so much to you – and when will we see it, anyway?

At any rate, there was nothing to do now but search for his so-called relatives. After combing the whole of the first floor (how utterly restraining these skirts were!), he at last located them in the drawing room, appearing to be engaged in conversation. Noticing an available chair, Grell began making his way over – but in a hurried moment of forgetfulness quickened his pace, striding in the way he was used to doing in trousers, and the result was unavoidable. Lurching ungracefully, the butler-turned-lady sensed his balance abandon him…at least, until his frantically waving arms found the upright piano.

CLANG!

Everyone jumped, including himself – but at least he did not fall down. As the resounding and spontaneous chord died away, Grell was not at all surprised to find Madam Red glowering at him, while Mrs. Harvey held a hand over her heart.

"Goodness Rachel, I did not know you wished to play for us…but I am afraid the piano needs tuning, so it is not possible at this time. I am so sorry, dear. Come, sit down and join us. Angelina has just offered to help me with the quilt I have been working on." It was only then that he saw that each of them held a sizable patch of fabric in her lap, made up of multiple squares that varied in color and pattern. "Will you not help as well?"

Sirens abruptly sounded in his head. Sew? Him?! Without hesitation he looked at Madam Red. Surely she could invent some excuse!

But to his utmost shock and disbelief, she merely nodded at him and gestured to a nearby basket filled with scraps of cloth and sewing supplies. How could she be serious? This was most definitely not in the contract! Or…was he to simply pretend to sew?

With extreme unwillingness, and with his mouth itching to cry out in protest, he retrieved a segment of the quilt from the basket. Conveniently, an already-threaded needle was stuck into a light blue square, and from the looks of it, someone had left off in the middle of attaching it to the yellow square adjacent. Grell sat down and carefully laid the fabric across his knees. Furtively, he glanced over to the busily sewing women to observe how they held their needles. How can they do it so easily and so fast? he couldn't help but marvel, watching their deft movements and the needles flying in and out of the cloth. Looking back down, he clumsily took up his own needle.

"…and that is why I absolutely refuse to travel by locomotive," Mrs. Harvey was saying, as she concluded a tale about an acquaintance who had suffered from heart complications while riding from Shelford to London (never mind that he had been a frail person to begin with). "By the way, Anne, I have been meaning to ask you – why ever did you chop off that pretty hair of yours? No woman I have ever seen wears it at such an irrational length. Long and swept up is truly the becoming way to keep it – like your sister's, for example."

Had anyone looked closely enough, they would have caught the way Madam Red bristled in her seat at these blunt remarks, but in any case, her chance to reply to the criticism was abruptly stolen away. Across from where she and the older woman sat came a short, stifled cry. When her eyes darted to Grell, she found him with shoulders slightly hunched, biting his lip and staring with a pained expression at his hand.

Immediately guessing what had occurred, but masking her exasperation with a sweetly concerned tone, she gave voice to the impending question. "Rachel, whatever has happened?"

Raising his misery-filled gaze, Grell reluctantly displayed his left hand. Her thoughts were indeed correct: he had managed to prick his finger with the needle, and consequently draw a trickle of blood. Why, oh why had she not been able to predict something like this sooner?!

Mrs. Harvey gasped, but before she could react further, Madam Red quickly spoke up. "Grandmother, please allow me to tend to Rachel's wound…it would seem she is not well enough to focus her energies on handiwork right now."

"…of course, please do," the elderly gentlewoman agreed, and turning to Grell in oblivious compassion, added, "and Rachel, perhaps it would be best if you partake of a…different sort of activity, regaining your health as you are."

Back to the scullery the pretended sisters went, and once more Madam Red wasted no time in expressing her deep displeasure at her cringing accomplice's most recent conduct. One was never to touch the piano in another's home unless granted permission! And a lady never had reason to hasten her steps, as he had! Once again, Grell begged for what seemed to him unobtainable forgiveness, only to be fiercely shushed a second time.

"I will admit, however," the madam said begrudgingly as she finished tying a thin strip of cloth around his injured fingertip, "that I am at fault for assuming you could merely hold a needle without sticking yourself…I didn't expect you to actually sew, you know. There; now let's go. You will probably have no choice but to simply sit and listen to us talk now."

This was precisely what Grell found himself doing for the next several hours, and he could safely say that those were the most boring hours of his life. Mrs. Harvey spoke more about her day-to-day existence in Castle Camps, and along with Madam Red recalled many events from their family's history, which he could only feign to remember with occasional nods of his head. When this awful period of sitting at last came to an end, it was well into evening, and time for supper. Although the meal to be consumed was not by any means an elaborate one, he knew that this did not change the rules of table etiquette, and while he tried ardently not to make a spectacle of himself, some mishaps were bound to and did take place. A hot potato that burned his mouth, the glass of cordial which nearly took a tumble, the knife that briefly shrieked against the plate as he attempted to properly cut his portion of Cornish hen. But each time, the odd look which he kept fearing to receive from Mrs. Harvey never came; instead she would only shake her head and smile in pity, commenting that a good night's rest would certainly aid his recovery and leave him in a better state tomorrow.

At long last, the time for slumber arrived, and Grell could not have been any more eager. To be out of the confines of these tight torture devices, even for only a night, would undoubtedly be like time spent in Paradise. Once they had bid goodnight to Mrs. Harvey, he and Madam Red made their way up to the guest bedrooms, where their luggage was found waiting outside of the doors. Having divided and taken hold of their individual cases, the two of them straightened, and looked at each other.

"Good night, Grell," spoke Madam Red, voice hushed, and added, "Just think – half of the visit is over now, and you have seen for yourself just how unsuspecting of you she is. Tomorrow we will have what we need and it will all be over. I will stop in in the morning, to arrange your hair and make sure you are presentable."

"Yes, my lady," he whispered. "Thank you, and please sleep well."

They parted ways, and no sooner had Grell closed and locked the door of his room and lit the oil lamp than he hurriedly reached behind him and undid the sash around his waist, releasing his aching middle from its merciless hold. The stuffing of the bust was next to go, as he unbuttoned the bodice as fast as possible and pulled out the rolled-up socks, hurling them away as though they stung him. The skirt took more work somewhat, what with disconnecting it from the bodice and then fumbling with the bustle, but eventually he was free, and, having dressed himself in his familiar nightshirt, felt the unparalleled bliss at being himself again. Looking around, he couldn't deny that the room he was to use here seemed much more comfortable and appealing to the senses than his own drab and dingy one back in London, but it didn't matter, for he still wished with all his being that he was home. As he slid under the blankets within the strange country darkness, the promised reward – the two days off – momentarily crossed his mind, and he realized with a heavy sort of dullness that he didn't care anymore.

And not far away, as she thought of her dedicated servant, her faultless sister, and of the grandmother in whose eyes she had always been second best, Angelina wondered whether everything had been a mistake.

/

I usually don't write OCs…but I hope I will do a decent job writing Mrs. Harvey.

Now for some more historical notes:

I found out while I was researching Victorian fashion that wide-brimmed hats, like Madam Red's in the series, didn't come into style until the 1890s, while I'm pretty sure Black Butler takes place (or starts in) 1888? I guess Yana got that detail wrong, but it worked out for me since it was a convenient way for Grell to hide his face.

*A bustle is a type of framework that was worn under the back of the skirt to make it look fuller or to keep all the heavy drapery from dragging on the ground. They changed in size and shape during the period when they were popular, and are the reason why women from those years appear to have unnaturally-sized rear ends. I like to think that the one Grell is using doesn't make him look too ridiculous.

I feel so bad for him, I really do. XD

Chapter 3 will be next. Until then, please drop a review!