Chapter 4
The first thing Etta heard the following morning was birdsong, and the sound of a fireplace being scraped out. Her body was heavy with blankets and she knew immediately that she wasn’t in her poky studio flat under her duvet.
For a moment, she lay still and went over the events of yesterday. Increasingly, against every logical fibre in her being, she was beginning to feel that something momentous had happened. That maybe, just maybe, Doctor Who was onto something – time travel was indeed possible.
Her every physical sense told her that she was not where she had been only hours before.
These sheets felt different against her skin; her very skin felt different against her bones.
The bed sheets smelled different – still clean, but not of cotton-scented non-biological detergent.
Thicker, rougher, heavier. Etta took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of dried lavender and soap powder.
She’d breathed too hard and started hyperventilating.
Etta rolled herself in a ball and counted in, one, two, three, four, and then out, one, two, three, four – an old pandemic trick, from when she’d strained at the four white walls of her flat – and finally managed to get her breathing under control.
Roll with it, she remembered. Roll with it, because let’s face it, this can’t be real.
She sat up, discovering the room to be much colder than she expected, and felt smooth wooden floorboards under her feet as she looked around.
She was sitting on a tall, metal-framed bed with an ominous-looking chamber pot by her feet which she was going to have to make immediate use of.
She shed the old-fashioned quilt and sheets, and looked around to try to distract herself from the fact she was crouching down, weeing into a little bowl, in the middle of a freezing cold bedroom, with no toilet paper in sight.
She hadn’t had to drip dry since a memorable childhood camping trip.
Etta winced as she recalled being towed along on an interminable hiking trip with her dad who, unable to find childcare, had forgotten his daughter might need such luxurious amenities as toilets and showers.
At least he’d remembered to take her along in the first place.
She could see a writing desk with piles of papers and notebooks next to it on the other side of her bed.
A quill and inkpot sat on top. Etta looked down at her hands and saw ink stains on her fingertips which she hadn’t noticed last night.
So she was a writer, she thought. Well, that was going to be something she’d struggle to live up to.
If she was going to have some kind of historical adventure, writing was probably the last ladylike hobby she’d put on her list. Music she could do, and her embroidery was great – her last commission had been rather too obscene for yesteryears, but she could happily confine herself to throwing in the odd suggestively-positioned lily.
But writing? Not her strong suit. The C she got in her GCSE had been one of the proudest moments in her scholastic career, and she was very much going to miss spellcheck.
Besides the writing desk, the room was sparse and cold.
Paint flaked from the walls and a few threadbare rugs were scattered across the bare floorboards.
The only adornment on the walls was a child-like illustrated watercolour alphabet and some framed pressed flowers.
Etta was desperate to look in a mirror, but there wasn’t even one of those.
She’d read dozens of Regency romances, and this was not one of them.
She got up, finding a dressing gown on a chair next to her bed, and sat down at the writing desk. There was a brand-new red leather diary in the centre of the table, which she opened. She read the first page.
Dear Descendant,
If you’re reading this, my calculations were correct and these years of study have been worthwhile. I am unsure how to describe what it is that I have planned to do. The transformation, the metamorphosis … The Switch?
Enclosed is a bracelet of my own design: please place on the wrist of the woman with whom I exchange my life.
To that woman: please, so we may find you, describe your name and direction.
Underneath was a space, and then the words:
I am sure this may seem strange, but then again perhaps in your time this is a commonplace occurrence.
Either way, I hope you will indulge me. I have written some notes in the following pages in order that you might navigate this time, and I have contrived that if the bracelet is broken we shall switch back.
Yours,
Henrietta Bainbridge
Etta sat back and stared at the empty space on the page, unsure what to think, then unscrewed the top of the ink bottle and dipped in the quill. The nib spluttered, but she managed to scrawl her name and address well enough. In for a penny, in for a pound.
She flicked through the diary for a moment, seeing pages and pages of elegant handwriting and knowing she should read them, but now wasn’t the time for homework.
Yes, she was extremely curious about the previous owner of the body she was in, but right now her primary feeling was one of gnawing hunger.
Her golden bracelet knocked against the diary as she set it down, reminding her of her supposed get-out clause. The old ladies had said the same. In the unlikely event that this really had happened – that she really had time-travelled to Regency England – at least she had an escape route.
Smelling the welcome scent of toast, Etta padded into the next room. Mrs Cummings was there, sitting by a pile of sheets, which she appeared to be embroidering.
‘Good morning, Hetty dear. It’s a cold one today. You sit next to that fire and let Nanny sort everything out for you.’
‘Hello. Morning.’
Mrs Cummings recoiled, blinking furiously, then appeared to collect herself.
Etta drew closer to the nursery fire as the older woman bustled around her, covering her shoulders in a shawl and bringing over a tray. It had a pot of tea and a plate with a slice of now-cold buttered toast.
Etta eyed it distrustfully. ‘Mrs Cummings – Nanny? – is this what I always eat for breakfast?’
Mrs Cummings looked like she hardly knew how to answer. ‘Why, yes, as well you know! Miss Hetty, I really can’t think what’s come over you. To hear you call me Nanny again …’
Etta saw tears building at the corners of the older woman’s eyes. As confused and taken aback as she was, she felt compassion for this strange woman who clearly loved her very much.
‘Please don’t cry! I’m as confused as you are, but I’m sure everything will be okay.’
‘Oh-Kay? What can you mean, child?’ cried Nanny, looking at her in tearful confusion.
Etta mentally checked herself. She’d read enough Georgette Heyer novels and seen more than enough episodes of Bridgerton (if there could ever be enough episodes of Bridgerton!) to know she was going to have to think carefully about her language – and everything else, for that matter – if she was going to survive this odd dream-slash-holiday.
Although she’d covertly pinched herself three times now.
‘Fine. I mean fine, Nanny. I think everything will be wonderful.’
‘It is wonderful indeed, my dear. I never thought to hear you speak to your old Nanny again, as though you were a grown-up lady. My goodness, what will your mother say?’
It began to sink in: in this version of her life, there was a mother. A family.
Until now, Etta had had no family left in the world.
Her mother had died giving birth to her and she had only ever seen her face in photographs, while her dad – always somewhat distant to begin with – had been killed on the M6 by a sleeping lorry driver soon after she left home for uni.
She never had siblings; she hadn’t so much as a cousin to her name.
Luckily Nanny didn’t appear to be expecting an answer. She poured Etta some tea, which she drank gratefully. Her throat still felt cracked and dry.
Eyeing up the toast with mistrust, she found it was delicious – fresh, solid, and quite different from the squishy bricks she was used to buying from the local corner shop.
If an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley had inexplicably squeezed this one on the shelf ‘for freshness’ then at least it had held its shape.
Nanny was bustling around in a room next door to the nursery. Peeking through the open door, Etta could see her pulling clothes from a wardrobe. She sipped her tea and began to formulate a plan.
Clearly, in this dream, her character Hetty was being treated like a child.
Etta recalled Charlie – her brother – treating her like an idiot last night.
But she was clearly rich, or from a rich family, at least. This was a big house, and Charlie and Max had been dressed in very fancy clothes.
Max, in particular, had been exceptionally well-dressed in those tight capri-style trousers …
Moving on swiftly from that distracting image, Etta thought about the books she read.
Max had mentioned she was nearly twenty-one.
That meant she should be in London, right?
Probably should have been for at least three years, swirling around ballrooms in fancy dresses meeting potential suitors.
But not if everyone thought she was some kind of billy no-mates who stayed in her nursery all day working out how to time-travel.
Well, that was going to have to change. Etta was absolutely buggered if she was going to be magically transported into a Regency fantasyland and then sit about in a draughty nursery all day.
The old ladies had called this a holiday.
Who spent their holidays barefoot in an attic?
That was more Charles Dickens than Jane Austen.