Chapter 22
The morning after the ball was, according to Bessie, not to be spent doing anything other than resting after a long night of dancing. Lady Bainbridge took her own breakfast in bed, at about eleven o’clock.
Etta wasn’t as exhausted as all that. Max’s dance request had set the tone for the evening and she’d enjoyed several more dances until the waltzes started.
She wasn’t allowed to join in on account of not having been approved by someone or other at something called Almack’s, which had been a blow, but overall she’d had a surprisingly successful evening, socially.
Etta hadn’t seen Max again after their dance, but her promise to explain things with a letter never really left her mind.
And now she had an entire morning to write to him.
The biggest question, of course, was what she dared put in writing in the first place.
Then again she instinctively felt she could trust him.
She sat at the writing desk in the family morning room at the back of the house, clutching a pencil, desperate to be interrupted.
The piano looked at her. She could almost feel its woody little eyes.
It was so long since she’d played and the one at the Bainbridges’ house was beautiful.
When she played nowadays, it was at the old uprights found at various train stations.
She’d lost her piano along with her family, her dog, their home and everything else when her father died.
There was no room for a piano in the tiny studio flat she’d ended up in after uni, all alone and frantically job-hunting.
But once upon a time she’d hoped she might be on track for a career as a musician.
As a teen she’d played at every school event she could, backing up the school choir and teaching younger students for extra cash.
She once even optimistically applied for a place at the brIT School, although the family finances would never have stretched far enough to relocate if she’d got in.
But she hadn’t got in, and she’d focused on other things at school, keeping her playing for herself and Dad. She’d always sung for Dad, but then one day he wasn’t there to listen – and after that it had all seemed so pointless.
Perhaps it was time to see if Hetty’s fingers and voice were as strong and agile as Etta’s had been. She took her paper and pencil along with her, placing them on the stiff padded leather piano stool next to her. She could compose the letter in her head as she played.
Etta picked up the easiest piece of music she could see and flexed her fingers.
The piano keys were far softer than she was used to so the lack of strength in her fingers wasn’t too much of a problem, and her new voice – thin from disuse – was going to need some work, but even so it was a rush to be playing again.
As she learned this new piece, she formulated her letter to Max one line at a time, pausing between pages to get her thoughts down as they came.
Max,
I am not Hetty Bainbridge, as you’ve guessed. I am Etta Moore, and I was born in 1998. Hetty might be 21, but I’m actually 25.
Yes, that seemed like a good, strong opening. She took a moment to try some vocal exercises. Her lungs weren’t even half as strong as her old ones. Hetty hadn’t used them even a fraction as much as Etta had, and it wasn’t as though Etta had been sociable.
I was on my way to work one day in 2023…
(How to explain the Tube, Etta thought? Pointless.)
… when two old ladies approached me. They told me I would be swapping lives with Hetty and put a bracelet on me. The next moment, I found myself looking out of Hetty’s eyes, in Hetty’s cellar, and you were there.
She’d been thinking carefully about this next part. Who in 1817 would possibly believe what 2023 was like? They barely had decent toilets here. The house in London was better than Bainbridges’ country estate in that regard, but only just.
I daresay you’d like to know what the future is like, but I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.
I myself can barely believe that I’m here and keep wondering when I’ll wake up.
They did say I could break the bracelet if I wanted to and Hetty and I would switch back, but I’m not sure I do yet TBH. to be honest.
Thinking of Max’s broad shoulders, intelligent eyes and cynical smile didn’t encourage Etta to think too much about waking up. Waking up would be far more attractive if she woke up next to him, she thought, as she practised her arpeggios.
Etta gave herself a shake. It had been too long since she’d slept with anyone, never mind a boyfriend – the last time had been with a one-night stand, and the time before that was with an over-earnest but short-lived friend-with-benefits called Ken.
Sadly, much like his beige, more plasticky namesake, Ken hadn’t exactly been blessed in the lower abdomen.
Lord knows what kind of cobwebs Hetty would find if she decided to give Etta’s ladyparts a test run. Yes, back to Hetty.
I think Hetty made this happen. She has left notebooks outlining various scientific methods and theories. But obviously it could be the old ladies, too – who knows what they have planned?
She was beginning to write like a proper Regency Miss. Oh well. Inevitable, really. She stopped to flex her fingers, then moved on to the next section of music. Her fingers would ache all afternoon if she continued like this.
What next? Max was an old friend of Hetty’s, she thought. If she’d had any friends, they might have been wondering where she was right now. Max would no doubt be wondering the same of Hetty.
The old ladies told me it was a swap, so if they are to be believed then Hetty is now in 2023, in my body. Personally I lived alone and had few (she couldn’t quite bring herself to write ‘no’) friends or acquaintances, but the ladies told me they would look after her.
I think I’m actually a distant descendant of the family in some way, so hopefully your kind gift of books will find their way to her – they will become extremely valuable, so hopefully they are looked after and passed down the generations.
If not, I did have a small amount of money from the death of my father many years ago.
So, overall, I believe Hetty to be safe and well.
And perhaps, if she was as depressed – melancholy, I suppose you might say?
Low? Anyway, if she was as sad as Bessie has insinuated, she will find modern medicine helps her quite a bit.
She’ll have a lot to wrap her head around though, thought Etta. A lot.
If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them. I’m still working out what all the rules are – we didn’t have so many in 2023. Plus now I think back, the old ladies mentioned I have to find a marquess and lord only knows where I’ll find one of those.
Yours
Etta
There, that would do. The piece was played, and so too was her letter.
Etta took the letter over to the desk and folded it up.
There was some sealing wax and a stamp, but she had no idea how to light the wax candle thingy, so she decided to leave it at that.
Anyone reading it would think she was mad, of course.
But then, didn’t everyone already think that?