Chapter 2 #2
He was right – the cold ran through her strangely unfamiliar body, right to her bones.
They ascended some stone stairs. Looking around, Etta saw she was now in a small room adjacent to the kitchen.
Her only indication that it was a kitchen at all was that it looked like a period house she’d seen on a school trip once.
Moonlight filtered through small windows; beyond the open door she could see a large wooden table covered in baskets of unprepared vegetables and, at the back of the room, a huge old-fashioned black stove, which looked like an Aga’s great-grandmother.
‘Charlie? How can we get her back to her maid without getting caught?’
‘Servants’ stairs. She sleeps next to the nursery.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember the way.’
Etta looked up at him as they ascended another set of stairs, feeling as though every feminist bone in her body should be wailing with protest at being carried like a doll. She hated herself a little for liking it.
Attempting to orientate herself, she looked at the walls and tried to remember more of the school trip. She’d been down a set of stairs like this, but she could tell these walls were freshly painted. It seemed like a lot of effort for stairs made for servants to use.
‘Where are we?’ she croaked.
‘Your country home on the Bainbridge Estate.’
‘But not your home?’
‘No. I live at Stanhope, nearby. We used to play together – don’t you remember? I’m here for dinner with your brother.’
A vague recollection came to Etta. It floated through her consciousness like a ghost: a memory belonging to somebody else. A boy, with Max’s dark hair and soft brown eyes, running past her as she watched the sky.
Etta was a brunette. Always had been. But from the corner of her eye, even in the dark, she could see blonde hair.
‘I remember … but it’s not my memory.’ She paused, very much aware of his strong arms around her. ‘You can put me down, you know. It’s fine.’
His lips quirked in a smile. ‘Don’t you like being carried?’
‘Well, it’s not very feminist, is it?’
Confusion flickered on Max’s face. ‘Seems feminine enough to me.’
‘No, I mean …’ Etta paused, and took a deep breath. ‘Oh god, I suppose you don’t have feminism, do you? No pussy hats, no Vagina Monologues, no Vindication of the Rights of Woman. No contraception, probably.’
She knew immediately she’d erred when his surprised eyes met hers.
‘Perhaps not, but I do, Henrietta Bainbridge, understand Latin, and I can take an educated guess at the last.’
‘Well, it’s not very independent, anyway,’ Etta backtracked. ‘To be carried, I mean.’
Max looked down at her as he finally reached the top floor of what felt like a massive house, yet he was barely out of breath. ‘Humans aren’t meant to be independent. We all rely on one another.’
Etta struggled to understand the expression on his face. Charlie had fallen behind, Max’s long strides taking them quickly across the house.
‘Your face. So different. I don’t understand how Charlie can’t see it. Your features are the same as ever, but every expression has changed.’ His eyes roamed over her, curious.
They stopped by a door and Etta couldn’t help but be a little relieved – she had no response to that.
Max put her down and they stared at one another, still so close they were nearly touching, as Charlie huffed and puffed up the corridor behind them.
Etta could feel the heat radiating from him and had to stop herself from snuggling back into his arms.
Charlie finally came into sight, and she realised she was still staring at Max. He broke eye contact immediately and stepped away, twisting the signet ring on his finger.
‘Your room. Charlie, I can hardly believe your mother still has Hetty in the nursery. She must be very nearly twenty-one by now.’
‘Better than the madhouse, Stanhope. That’s where most people would have her, but Mother’s too sentimental for that. Thinks they wouldn’t treat her well enough.’
‘She’s right,’ said Max. He gave Etta another curious look, arching one eyebrow, and opened the door for her. ‘But, Hetty, somehow I don’t think you’ll be in the nursery much longer.’
She barely had time to register a plain, dark room with a couple of old school desks scattered in front of a blackboard, before a short, kindly-looking woman in her late fifties bustled up.
‘Oh, Hetty, what on earth have you been doing? You should have been in bed a long time since!’
Charlie looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Nanny. I took her for … well, for a talk.’
‘Now why would you want to be chatting with Miss Hetty, Lord Bainbridge? You know she barely says a word. And her in her nightdress, too! Why, it’s past midnight!
’ It was at this point Nanny spotted Max.
‘My goodness, Lord Stanhope. I hope you’re well?
Excuse me if I don’t curtsey. My knees aren’t what they were. ’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Cummings. I spent so much time here as a boy that you’re practically my nanny too, and I wouldn’t want Nanny Berkins curtseying to me either.’
Mrs Cummings blushed as she raced to smother Etta in a large and rather itchy blanket. Feeling it was time to say something, Etta stuck her hand out. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Cummings. I’m Etta.’
She had never seen a blushing woman turn so pale so quickly. ‘Hetty! You … you spoke! Bless my days. Did you really speak?’
‘Well … yes?’
Mrs Cummings looked at Max, and then over to Charlie, as though needing their confirmation. Charlie pulled a face, then nodded in a non-committal manner. ‘Yes, well! I cured her. You’re welcome.’
‘Master Charles! Sorry, I mean Your Lordship. But – well, I never! You haven’t been experimenting with your sister again, have you? You know your mama forbade it!’
Charlie shrugged again. ‘I don’t see the harm. She has no idea what’s going on half the time. More! And anyway, as I said – I fixed her this time.’
Mrs Cummings looked cynical through her amazement. ‘We’ll see about that. Come, Hetty. Let’s warm you up by the fire. Off you go, Your Lordships.’ She shooed the two men out with the confidence of an old retainer.
Etta wasn’t sure what to say to the older woman, but it turned out she didn’t need to say anything at all.
She found herself quickly ushered next door to a small bedroom, tucked into a rather uncomfortable bed and, although her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and conjecture, exhaustion soon overcame every other thought.
She dreamed of her last holiday – an ill-fated hen-do in Ibiza that happened too soon after her dad had died. The end of her family and the beginning of the end for her friend group too, before a global pandemic and romantic relationships had scattered them around the country.
If those eccentric old ladies were right and this truly was a holiday, then perhaps it would be more exciting than crying and watching a former friend shag her way through every nightclub on the island without even taking her engagement ring off.