Chapter 2
1817
Etta was struck by the sudden, jarring absence of sound. Darkness seemed to surround her; it took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom of, what, a cellar?
She felt cold, dampness clinging to her skin, and realised she wasn’t wearing her coat. She was covered in a blanket. Or perhaps a shawl. And she could feel her hair, usually tied in a tight bun, brushing against her face, neck, and upper arms. Strange, given her hair was still growing out from the bob she’d experimented with earlier in the year.
She turned her thoughts to what was in front of her. She wasn’t on the Tube any more, that much was clear. She was facing rows upon rows of wine bottles, neatly stacked in wooden racks, with hand-written labels on each shelf. A wine cellar, then.
The labels were illuminated only by a flickering light source, which came from behind her. She moved to wipe the dust from a label, only to find her wrists were strapped to her chair.
And then she freaked out.
At least, she thought she was freaking out. She’d never really lost it before – not even when her father died – but it felt like the rational thing to do.
‘What theACTUAL…? HELP! What the hell?!’
She tried kicking her legs, but the chair was surprisingly sturdy. Also, her legs were covered in long skirts, which weren’t particularly conducive to kicking or in fact any kind of dramatic physical activity.
Etta took a long breath. It was all a dream. She’d done a mindfulness workshop at work one time. The woman had told them to notice each part of their bodies one bit at a time – Dave from accounts had fallen asleep. Etta started noticing, but it really, really didn’t help. She noticed her feet, bare on a stone floor. She noticed the long skirts on her unshaven legs. She noticed she had no bloody knickers on. She noticed her small and completely uncontained boobs. She noticed the bracelet, which she desperately wished she could tear off right this moment.
She noticed she was strapped to a chair in a dark and musty cellar, and that she was probably going to be late for work this morning.
This was definitely not helping.
Before Etta had time to notice much more, she heard distant voices growing closer. Male voices, arguing: one stern, one defiant. She turned her head to one side, seeing a dim light coming from a corridor to her side.
‘Charlie, it’s not right. I do understand why you want to try and help, but you need to give up.’
‘Just come with me and see, Max. I swear I saw her shudder.’
‘With cold, probably. Or horror. It’s wrong, Charlie. You shouldn’t experiment on your sister.’
‘Now hang on, don’t you go pinning all this on me. She asked me to. “Charlie,” she said. “It’s time to go to the cellar.”’
The men rounded the corner, still arguing, and Etta saw their faces in the flickering candlelight. One was stunningly, blindingly handsome, while the other looked like a young Hugh Laurie. The handsome one looked angry, so she decided he must be Max. He looked like he was called Max. Tall, dark, handsome. Like a hero from an historical romance, she reflected, right before she noticed what he and his companion were wearing.
1817, the old ladies had said. The Regency era, then. Knee-britches and shiny boots. Cravats and white shirts under dark evening jackets. She must be dreaming.
Roll with it, they’d said.
She cleared her throat. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Etta’s voice was dry, crackly from disuse. The two men turned their attention to her, looking as startled as she felt. This seemed unfair. Surely if anyone had the right to be shocked, it should be the person who was on the Tube in 2023 with two eccentric old ladies only minutes earlier, holding her smartphone in one hand and coffee in another. The one strapped to a wooden chair, surrounded by wine bottles.
Etta felt almost angry with it. Certainly indignant. ‘Why theflying fuckam I in a cellar, strapped to a chair?’
The young Hugh Laurie impersonator’s expression turned from mild consternation to full outrage. ‘Why, Hetty Bainbridge! You harridan! If Mother heard you use language like that … My goodness! She’d have your guts for garters! Where on earth did you hear it?’
‘That’s not Hetty. You’re not Hetty,’ said the impossibly handsome Max.
His friend looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Of course it’s Hetty, Max. She’s just where I left her.’
‘No. That’s not – you’re not – you can’t be Hetty. Your face. Your expression.’
‘Looks the same as ever to me, old boy. Bit less gormless, perhaps. Must be, cursing like that. By god, Hetty, I didn’t think you had it in you.’
Etta recalled that the old ladies had mentioned someone called Hetty. Swapping, they’d said. A blip.Roll with it.
