Chapter 18
Sunday afternoons were immensely boring.
After lunch and a family walk in the park with her mother, who stopped frequently to talk to her friends (all of whom looked beyond surprised to see Etta), it seemed they were all expected to sit around in contemplation, reading and sewing and thinking about Jesus and stuff. All respect to Him, but no thanks.
Etta had spent all week dying for some alone-time in the city.
She knew it was not the ‘done thing’ but, well, what if something happened to the bracelet and she didn’t have another chance?
Now she was (according to her mother) dressed respectably, she figured there was no time like the present.
With her mother holed up planning her coming-out ball with the housekeeper, servants running around like mad with bunches of flowers and chairs and things, and Bessie away somewhere having (Etta could only assume) illicit pre-marital relations – well, there wasn’t even anyone to say goodbye to.
Excited to see anything that wasn’t the inside of a carriage or the church, Etta grabbed her pelisse.
She’d been fascinated, having read about these so extensively in her favourite romances, to discover that pelisses were just long coats. Her mother had impeccable taste; she paired her beautiful, vivid blue one with a light blue bonnet.
Despite all regency novels maintaining that the ‘Season’ conveniently started in March, it was actually late October and therefore chilly and overcast outside.
She’d had a quick scout round for an umbrella, just in case, but lord knows where Monsett the butler kept them.
If they were even a thing yet, that was.
Nobody in the household seemed to be expecting anyone to come or go, so she only saw a gormless-looking footman carrying a huge vase on the way out. She waved at him and said goodbye, but he just gawped at her.
Looking around the neat square her parents lived on, she tried to orient herself.
She jingled her reticule, hearing the clinking of the unfamiliar coins in it.
Might as well go shopping. Ooh, maybe she could see what people were reading nowadays?
The thought propelled her urgently in the direction of Bond Street.
Surely Bond Street would have a bookshop?
She’d already been forced down the main shopping streets – or glimpsed them from the carriage, at least – and she knew she’d passed a bookshop somewhere. She retraced the route she’d been on and quickly found herself on a deserted shopping street.
She should have known. It was Sunday. All the shops were, of course, closed because it was 1817.
Etta stood forlornly outside a very elegant-looking bookshop and wondered what to do next. She tried to ignore the few passers-by, but felt a prickle of awareness across her body and heard a man clear his throat.
She turned around and there he was, in smart town clothes, looking athletic and, well, not a little surprised. His hair had a slight wave to it, she noticed, before gazing into his wide brown eyes. He squinted at her quizzically.
‘Max?’ she said, fighting the urge to step closer.
‘Lord Stanhope,’ he replied reprovingly. ‘You’re supposed to call me Lord Stanhope. Although, really, you’re not supposed to be here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s Sunday. And more importantly, where’s your maid?’
‘With James, the second footman, I assume.’
Max took a deep breath then rubbed his forehead in mild anguish. ‘And what are you doing here, Henri— Miss Bainbridge?’
‘Henrietta is fine, you know. Etta, even.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he replied firmly. ‘Miss Bainbridge.’
Etta rolled her eyes. ‘I was vaguely hoping to buy some books, but it turns out all the shops are closed. Which is extremely annoying.’
He sighed. ‘Well, yes, it is Sunday.’
She bristled with the injustice of it. ‘Well, what are you doing out and about then if it’s Sunday and we’re all supposed to be sitting around praying to Jesus and stuff?’
Max rubbed his temples again and looked genuinely frustrated. It was a good look for him, Etta decided.
‘Off to see your mates, maybe. Or … your lady friend?’
She’d taken it too far; he looked appalled. ‘Hetty!’
‘You can call me Etta. I’m Etta.’
‘Etta, then! Oh god – Miss Bainbridge, I mean. You can’t— You can’t say things like that!’
Etta examined him closely. She wasn’t sure she liked this conversation. It was very much following the Ladies Do Not pattern her mother was so fond of.
‘Aren’t we childhood friends or something? Ugh. It feels like I’m not allowed to talk about anything in this place.’
Max had gone back to rubbing his temples. ‘Miss Bainbridge, you must learn to behave. You can’t go around asking about “lady friends” – which I do not have – and you certainly can’t wander around London unattended. On any day of the week.’
‘Well, I’m not alone now, am I? You’re here. And since you’re Lord something-or-other—’
‘Stanhope.’
‘Well,’ Etta continued, ‘since you’re Lord Stanhope, can’t you get this bookshop to magically open? My father’s library has absolutely nothing worth reading, and the piano music here is just awful.’
Etta heard a mild groan escape his lips. Very manly lips, she thought, gazing at him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. So why was she not doing her usual thing, blushing her face off and stammering?
She’d absolutely never seen him before that night in the cellar – she knew for sure – but she felt comfortable around him.
He just seemed … Right. Just right. Like the porridge Goldilocks ended up eating.
Warm, comforting. She could be herself around him – a brand-new feeling, and one she had stopped hoping to find anywhere in life, let alone so far from home.
Etta felt a zip of excitement as she nudged him in the side. ‘Come on. If anyone can get this bookshop open, it’s you,’ she cajoled, eyes shining.
For a moment, Max looked at Etta like he wanted to eat her up.
Then he seemed to recall himself and ran a hand distractedly through his hair, completing the overall look of a deeply ruffled man.
He took a deep breath. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, in a vaguely desperate voice.
‘I can’t exactly leave you out on the street unchaperoned.
I’m already here to meet Higgins anyway. ’
Etta cheered, wholly inappropriately, as he knocked on the door. Higgins, who must have heard them talking from his rooms upstairs, was already hurrying through the shop towards them.
‘Lord Stanhope! How excellent to see you. And … Miss—?’
‘Yes, good afternoon, Higgins. I’ve brought Miss Bainbridge.
’ Max ushered her inside brusquely. ‘I don’t suppose you could help her find the books she’s looking for, could you?
And perhaps one of your sons might kindly run to the Bainbridges’ London residence at St Peter’s Square and alert her parents as to her whereabouts – I believe her maid has taken a wrong turn. ’
The older man looked disapprovingly at Etta; evidently them being here together was not the done thing. Oh dear. But Mr Higgins took his cue from Max thankfully.
‘Not a problem, my lord,’ he said. ‘Perhaps my daughter could help the young lady while we discuss that book you ordered. I’ve had a letter back, and it is all most mysterious.’
Etta loved a mystery more than almost anything in the world. ‘Oooh, what’s mysterious?’
‘Miss Bainbridge, no,’ Max said, goaded into mild exasperation. ‘Stay here with Miss Higgins and choose your books. I’ll be back for you shortly. Do not even think of leaving without me.’
Etta glared at him, turning pointedly towards a slightly intimidated Miss Higgins. ‘Tell me, Miss Higgins. Do you have anything naughty?’
Max appeared to grit his teeth, but gestured to Higgins to lead the way.
Etta turned back to Higgins’ daughter. ‘No really, though, do you have anything naughty?’
Miss Higgins giggled, and Etta instantly knew she had found a kindred spirit.
She was blissfully piling armfuls of classic novels onto the elegant wooden counter when she next heard Max’s voice emanating from Higgins’ office in the back.
The bookshop had exceeded her expectations; she had rarely been so excited – first editions of Jane Austen novels! – but her ears pricked up nonetheless.
‘Going to be named? So you’re telling me they haven’t gone to print yet?’
‘No, my lord. In fact, the publishers are over in Finsbury Square. Lackington and Co. They’ve asked where you’ve heard about the novel. They’re quite curious about it, as Mrs Shelley is still making some last-minute changes before it goes to print.’
She heard Max groan slightly as Higgins continued, ‘They are concerned it will not take. I imagine your enquiry will be quite reassuring.’
‘Reserve me a copy, then, Higgins. And if you will, reserve a copy for Miss Bainbridge, chalked up to my account. I imagine she’ll enjoy it, too.’
Could they be talking about Frankenstein? When had she mentioned that?
Oh yes, back in the cellar, when Charlie had her strapped into that chair like an experiment gone wrong. Oops. Would this alter the fabric of time and space or something?
The floorboards creaked as Max and Mr Higgins reappeared from the room behind the counter.
Etta felt the smooth leather covers of her pile of elegant books and smiled.
‘You won’t believe what I’ve found! First editions of several of Jane Austen’s books!
Fiona didn’t think she had any, did you, Fiona?
But we found them in a stock room out back.
And so many other first editions! I don’t know how on earth I’m going to carry them all!
’ Then Etta had a crushing, sudden realisation, as she looked at the piles in front of her.
‘Oh! And I don’t even know if I have enough money, actually. ’
Etta hadn’t earned a big salary at her job in 2023 and she’d had to budget carefully, but still, she’d had her own money.
She made the choices on how she’d spend it.
Her new Regency family were certainly richer than Etta had ever been, but she realised now that she didn’t have any financial independence whatsoever.
It was a strange feeling. Strange, and deeply unpleasant.
‘Higgins, you might as well chalk this lot up to my account, too,’ said Max.
Etta was appalled. ‘You can’t do that! There must be hundreds of pounds’ worth of books here, even in old money.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Miss Bainbridge. I’ll stand the nonsense. Send them round to Bainbridge House in St Peter’s Square, Higgins. But perhaps you might get your man to deliver them anonymously.’
‘Very well, your lordship.’ Higgins picked up a pile of books and took them through to the back room.
‘Anonymously, Max?’
‘Lord Stanhope,’ he corrected her, smiling. ‘And yes. I’m not sure I’d like your parents knowing you’ve just managed to persuade me to buy up half of Higgins’ bookshop.’
He laughed at her obvious dismay, but she was horrified by his generosity. Back in 2023, she felt bad even when a date bought her drinks. ‘Then perhaps don’t buy up half of the bookshop!’ she said. ‘I’m sure I can always come back for them later, once I’ve saved up or something.’
‘Books are really quite expensive nowadays, you know, Miss Bainbridge. It might take you a while. Better let me get them. Call it a gift to the little sister of an old friend.’
Little sister? She wasn’t sure she liked that.
‘Well, okay then,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘But only because I really, really, really need the books. You can’t even begin to imagine what they’ll be worth in— well, one day. In the future. Thank you.’
They left the shop and Max led Etta back towards home. ‘In the future, you say. At which date do you feel they’ll reach maximum profitability?’
She thought fast, or at least tried to. ‘Um, I dunno. In, well, about two hundred years, maybe. If, you know, these authors become incredibly famous and well known and studied in schools and universities across the world. Which they could be.’
‘Yes, I suppose they could well. And what might they be worth then, do you think?’
‘Oh, thousands of pounds. Without a doubt. If we look after them.’
Max let out a strangled cough.
‘Well, that would be quite something, looking at the size of that pile. We shall be millionaires.’
‘Surely you’re already a millionaire? You own a house in Central London, I bet. Even for a one-bed flat, you must have at least a million quid.’
Max looked gobsmacked. She was clearly going to have to google the price of things – oh god, no. Maybe she could ask Bessie.
She looked back at Max, biting her lip. ‘Oops! Did I say millions? Gosh, that’s a lot now, isn’t it? Um, thousands? Hundreds? Yes, that’s right. Or maybe dozens? Of … of shillings?’
He seemed to be trying to take it all in. Oh god.
‘Ices.’ She cut through his confusion with a sudden, determined statement. ‘You promised me an ice.’
Relief flooded his face; ices were safe territory.
‘Not today, Miss Bainbridge. You have forgotten it’s a Sunday. Seeing as nobody has come for you yet, I shall take you back to your mother and we shall both hope nobody shall mind you walking out without your maid.’
‘Oh, but look, I’m absolutely fine. It’s all fine and dandy. Anyway, you’re walking me home, aren’t you?’
‘We’ll both be lucky to escape this episode without the gossipmongers having – oh! Is this her?’
A harried-looking Bessie was running down the pavement towards them, her skirt pulled up and hair flying in all directions. ‘Miss! What on earth were you thinking?’
‘Oh, Bessie. Is it really all that bad? Look – Max found me.’
Bessie continued to scold her for the rest of the brief walk home. He left them both at her door, with a promise to attend her coming-out ball a week on Monday.
A week on Monday felt worryingly soon, given half her dresses hadn’t even arrived yet. She was going to have to make sure whatever she chose was absolutely spectacular.