‘The what?’
‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Aggie, putting a reassuring hand on Hetty’s arm. ‘If you are to be kissed, it can’t hurt to dance first.’
‘I can teach you. Dancing, that is,’ added Jemima.
Hetty considered this. ‘And I suppose dancing here, alone, doesn’t count?’
The aunts only laughed.
‘But I have felt such a darkness. A bizarre heaviness that defies description – a cloud hanging over me. And it seems it has followed me, even here.’
Hetty sighed, twisting her fingers together on her lap.
‘I have never met anyone who has been able to understand it, and I fear I shall never, ever escape it.’
Aggie reached over, stilling Hetty’s anxious hands.
‘Darling child. It was like this when I was much younger, but we have much better understanding of these things nowadays. And ways of escaping them, too. You will dance again, Hetty. You really will.’
‘How could I ever expect to dance, when at times I have struggled even to move?’
Aggie squeezed her arm. ‘We can help you with that, dear. You must keep talking to us about it, when you’re feeling like this, because we can do things to help.’
Hetty sighed, feeling immensely reluctant. ‘If only you could. My family tried. I think I have seen every doctor in the country. No one could help me.’
‘We have a name for this feeling, now – depression. We have new doctors now; new treatments,’ Aggie said. ‘At least let us try and help you. We’ll do our best to get you dancing. Will you at least consider it?’
Hetty looked between them, at their earnest care for her. They really seemed like they wanted to try – what was there to lose? Surely things couldn’t get any worse. She felt a shimmer of possibility run over her skin as she pondered it. If she had travelled through time, surely advancements even more striking had been made in other fields?
‘Very well,’ she said eventually.
Jemima leapt up excitedly. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you said yes! I know some epic clubs, dearie. So many good ones have closed down now, of course, and our weed dealer died last month, but I’m sure we can still go on a proper rager.’
‘Calm down, Jemima. First things first. Let her settle in for a while. Let’s book that doctor’s appointment.’ Aggie leaned back, returning to her newspaper. ‘Besides, I’m not sure we’ll need Uzzy. It says here in theGuardianthat Generation Z don’t like to take mind-altering substances these days, even of the herbal variety.’
Hetty bit her lip pensively. What on earth had she just agreed to?
Chapter 12
1817
It looked like the last day of a long summer so, on the first free afternoon she’d had after several days of dance classes, table-manner lessons, shoe-fittings and other forms of manic preparation for her journey to London, Etta decided to take one of Hetty’s notebooks outside to read. To avoid the heat, she headed for the woods just past the gardens.
As she wrapped herself in her shawl and spread herself under a tree to read, sunlight dappling her face through the leaves, Etta realised she might as well not have bothered. She had chosen at random and Hetty’s handwriting was close to illegible. It was going to take her quite some time to decipher it and, having wrangled with it for at least an hour every evening so far, she decided today was not going to be the day she managed to crack the case. Time for a day off.
She’d promised the old ladies on the Tube that she would write a diary herself, so settled on that and tried to offload as much as she could. But Etta tired of that quickly, too – after a while she lay back on the grass and stared at the sky. It was idyllic, really. There was no sound at all, besides the wind in the trees and the birds calling to one another. Puffy clouds passed overhead peacefully, no criss-crossing contrails marring their beauty, and birds flew on their long journey to sunnier climes. Or were they returning for winter? Migration patterns were not in her wheelhouse.
The longer she lay there, the more connected she felt to the ground. The trees swayed lazily in the wind above her, scattering the odd leaf, trunks ripe with lichen and mushrooms. Life was everywhere.
Her mind wandered to something one of her colleagues had said once. She hadn’t been friends with anyone at work, particularly. But she’d enjoyed listening to office small talk, even though she didn’t partake herself. And once, Dave from IT had been sounding off loudly in the break room about, yes, mushrooms, of all things.
It had been some nonsense hot take on anxiety and depression, she remembered. Dave had really been on his hobby horse about it. In the olden days, he’d opined in the confident bellow of a middle-aged white man, livestock had eaten wild magic mushrooms. Then, said Dave, these hallucinogens had made their way into the food chain. This meant that everyone in history was microdosing. Of course, modern cows, sheep, chickens, etcetera, weren’t fed ‘naturally’ any more so no more mushrooms, said Dave, hence the ‘crashing tidal wave of poor mental health’.
He’d been laughed out of the break room, probably because his whole rant had been a response to their boss banning his ‘totally not illegal’ mushroom-based chocolate-flavoured protein powder.
Etta wasn’t missing her office, not one bit. Not Miranda the nosy receptionist, not Pervy Colin, and certainly not Dave.
She smiled, feeling overwhelming relief as she closed her eyes against the warm sun. No more stifling commute, no more wriggling into too-small tights, no more microwave meals for one. All she had to do was try on beautiful dresses, help her mother decide how to redecorate the house while they were in London, and eat gorgeous, elegantly cooked fresh produce. Even the most anxious servant in 1817 was infinitely more relaxed than a typical 2020s office worker. She had never known such freedom.
