‘It’s not what I thought, you know,’ Hetty mused, prodding at her strange bubble tea drink with its ginormous tube and chewy lumps of goo.
‘What, 2023?’
‘No,’ said Hetty. ‘London.’
‘How are you feeling, dear? I did wonder if this might all be a bit much for you, but you seem to be taking it all rather well.’
Hetty thoughtfully sipped at her tea, before nearly choking on a boba and coughing. Jemima slapped her on the back.
‘I never thought I’d say this, but I’m feeling much brighter, you know. I wonder if I was perhaps just not in the right frame of mind, before.’
As she said it aloud, she wondered when things had started to change. Was it the medication, or was it being out in the world again?
It all felt so wonderful. Not so long ago, Hetty would have shuddered at the very thought of wandering through crowds of chattering people and loud traders, but instead of shielding herself against it she’d allowed the noise to run through her body and energise her; to power her heart.
Nowadays every morning felt full of promise. She was starting to wonder – was it finally time to start working on her wish list?
Chapter 18
1817
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 ignorethe 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.’
