Chapter 8
Charlie dumped Etta at the door to a room full of extremely elegant antique furniture. Alone at long last, Etta retrieved the letter Bessie had given her from her bodice and unfolded it.
Dearest Descendant,
I am sorry for what I have done, but only a little. I hope that this age will benefit immensely from your presence in it, and that you shall, too.
I have suffered from a darkness that has threatened to overtake me over the past years.
It has become insufferable to live, and yet I feel certain my fate is not to die.
Discovering a solution to this dilemma has been the focus of my life’s work, and if you are reading this I must have succeeded.
I hope you shall humour me as we live out the consequences; at least for a while.
I hope you can find it in your heart to take pity on me and give this era a try.
For the sake of posterity and so that you may be found, I request that you complete the diary. I feel convinced that you shall be braver than I: that you will achieve great things.
You will find it is safe to remove the bracelet, so long as you do not break the chain. Break it, and we will both be instantly returned. But I beg you to give this life a chance. For my sake, but also for yourself.
Yours,
Henrietta Bainbridge
Etta folded the letter carefully, feeling a wave of immense pity.
She felt so sorry for this poor woman: a time-travelling genius ahead of her time, yes, but also clearly showing symptoms of what would be recognised in her time, she felt sure, as depression.
‘I have suffered a darkness’, Hetty had written, and Etta remembered her father, in his worst moods, talking about the black cloud he always felt on his shoulder.
It would explain a lot – why everyone was so stunned at Etta turning up to breakfast, even her ability to speak. After all, so far nobody seemed to be able to label what Hetty had been suffering from; did depression even have a name in 1817?
She knew some people – her own poor father included – felt that weight every single day. Poor, poor Hetty. Perhaps Etta had landed in the middle of something a little more serious than some fun Regency romp.
She carefully smoothed the letter out, resting it on a table as she walked over to a huge, ornate mirror over the fireplace which was reflecting late morning light across the room.
It was the first time she had looked directly at her reflection, and she was surprised to realise she recognised her face.
Her nose was still straight and her face still oval.
Her eyes were still a vague greenish-blue and her mouth still small and plump.
Her wild shock of freckles was still there, she was relieved to see, and she traced her fingers over her skin as she admired them.
She vaguely recollected that her father had told her once, in one of his better moods, that they were where fairies kissed her as she slept.
And freckles were so in right now that her hairdresser drew them on his face every morning.
Her eyebrows could do with a good plucking, though. They were lighter than before, to suit her new blonde hair, which was a good thing given how unruly they were. And she could do with having her fringe back.
If this were a dream, it was certainly the strangest one she’d ever had.
She’d usually be at work by now. Long ago, in fact.
Was it Wednesday? She’d be halfway through her tedious weekly team meeting, discussing the upcoming forestry management conference in Norway.
But in this reality, her life as a major gifts officer felt unreal.
This should be a good thing, shouldn’t it?
There was very little upside to wrangling euphemistically titled tax refunds for bland-faced CEOs, after all.
But she suddenly felt unmoored. What would her life be like here?
And how long would she be here for, anyway?
This was so much more serious than a solo holiday in Spain or a date with a dodgy Tinder match.
This was real life, two hundred years ago, when women didn’t have the vote and nobody had invented stretch cotton knickers.
A floorboard creaked, breaking her reverie. She turned to see Max staring at her, his wavy dark hair nearly falling over one eye. My god, she thought, the man’s got bloody good hair. Then she noticed he was clutching Hetty’s letter.
‘Why are you reading that?’
She sprinted over, grabbing it from him and re-folding it.
‘I’m so sorry. I thought I saw …’ He paused, looking at her thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ she demanded, examining him speculatively, deciding whether or not she could trust him. ‘Slightly ungentlemanlike, isn’t it, to read a lady’s personal correspondence?’
Max stiffened at the accusation.
‘Perhaps I might make it up to you by asking if you will let me have the first dance at the ball your mama shall no doubt wish to hold for you.’
‘And what if I don’t say yes?’
Max paused. He clearly hadn’t thought of that.
Etta decided to step into the breach, hauling out one of her favourite romantic novel wish list locations from what she liked to think of as her Georgette Heyer mind palace. ‘How about you take me to get ice cream at Gunter’s? I’m sure I’ve read about that.’
His mouth twitched again. ‘Gunter’s? A flavoured ice?’
Etta was horrified. ‘Have they not invented ice cream yet? Oh my god, this is terrible.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get used to it. But yes, I shall happily escort you to Gunter’s, where we can discuss iced cream.’
‘Ice cream, not “iced” cream. Although it’s more like a frozen custard, I suppose.’ She paused, starting to freak out again. ‘Oh god, how on earth am I going to get through this wild adventure without a big tub of triple chocolate fudge caramel?’
Etta was too devastated by the realisation to pay any attention to Max’s face, but she heard his laugh with dismay.
‘It’s not funny! At least there’s coffee, I suppose. Ugh, I bet there aren’t even flushing toilets yet either! Or running water!’
‘Oh, there’s running water, don’t worry. I’m sure water will always run.’
‘You have no idea what I mean,’ she said. ‘Oh, I don’t know how this is going to work at all. And I’m trapped! Unless I break this bracelet, I suppose … Oh, I don’t know what to do!’
Max paused, taking one of her hands in both of his. ‘Calm yourself, Miss Bainbridge. Your family will be back at any moment. You are perfectly safe, with many people to help you.’
She looked at him despairingly, wondering how much of Hetty’s letter he had read. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’
‘No, for some strange reason I can’t quite explain, I don’t. But I do think I shall see you in town any day now, rigged out in the latest fashions, ready for me to take you to Gunter’s for strawberry ices.’
His reassuring tone calmed her more than she liked to admit, and she found her hand tingling under his warm, calm fingers. He took her other hand and clasped them both together, giving her a firm squeeze.
She forced herself to focus. ‘Okay. Okay. Yes. I can do this.’
‘You shall. And you must. We both know your mind is sharper than it has ever been. It is time for you to go to London and take your place in the Ton.’
‘Well, I definitely can’t stay here and keep writing my diary and floating about in my nightie and stuff, can I? What on earth would be the point?’
She looked up at him and saw determination, mixed with something else she couldn’t recognise. He gave her hands another, final, squeeze and let her go.
‘Precisely, Henrietta. Ices and dancing.’
Etta sighed. ‘Only if you promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Introduce me to whoever does your hair.’
Max’s laugh was broad and deep. She knew she couldn’t steal his barber – my god, how did people even get their hair cut in 1817? – but it was worth it to make him laugh.