But if she was expecting pity for Mad Hetty Bainbridge, she saw only curiosity.
‘Actually, I do believe you,’ he replied in a thoughtful tone. ‘You see, I was looking up the latest exploits of one Mrs Mary Shelley.’
‘Oh! You mean the author ofFrankenstein?’
‘Yes. You mentioned that, I believe, when we first met,’ Max said. ‘Did you know thatFrankenstein, or The ModernPrometheusis still at the printers? There is no possibility you could have known about that book. It seems the publisher and Mrs Shelley hadn’t even considered “Frankenstein” as a potential title – although the main character does have that name, I believe. Along with everything else … Well, for some reason, I do believe you.’
Etta exclaimed. ‘Good thing I mentioned it, then, really, isn’t it?’
Max ran his fingers through his perfectly dishevelled hair. ‘Well, I must admit it does move the plot along somewhat.’
Etta had rarely felt so relieved: He believed her. The secret wasn’t just between her and Bessie any more.
‘So, what is it like, in the future? How did you spend your time? Are there friends and family who’ll be missing you?’
‘Nobody special. I don’t know whether to be upset or relieved, to be honest. I only had my job and my tiny flat.’
Max looked confused. ‘Your job?’
Of course. Hetty had had no job, like the vast majority of Regency poshos. ‘Yes, my work. I had to earn my rent somehow.’
He looked more intrigued than ever. ‘But what kind of work did you do? You’re clearly not a labourer.’
‘How do you know that?’
He paused. ‘Well … I suppose …’
She laughed. ‘No, I’m not a labourer. But I could be. In 2023, women had equal rights. We did any job we liked. It wasn’t perfect, and we weren’t paid as much as men, but at least I was protected by the Equality Act.’ Etta slumped against the bench. ‘God, it feels weird talking about the future in the past tense.’
Max sat back with her, and their shoulders brushed against each other.
‘I like it,’ he said, shifting slightly along the bench so that there was a gap between them. ‘Equals. It makes more sense.’
She nearly asked him what he did, but then remembered all those Georgette Heyer novels. ‘I suppose you’re dreadfully important and have a whole estate to run and a seat in the House of Lords and stuff.’
He laughed. ‘Oh no. That would be my father, although I do have my own investments to manage, of course.’ He paused. ‘I suppose … Women in this age cannot hold bank accounts, can they? Or even property, really. It never occurred to me how odd that is.’
He looked dismayed and Etta liked him all the more for it. She’d been a good girl and read her feminist history as a teenager, paid attention during her History A-levels, but Max was only just considering the unfairness of it and had no idea of the relatively happy ending she’d lived in.
So she filled him in on Queen Victoria, and Emmeline Pankhurst, and the AIDS crisis, and Section 28. He sat gripped as she described the London she knew, with the Tube and buses and mobile phones, until Charlie’s waistcoat had been shown to half of London.
‘We’d better go,’ said Etta, rising. She automatically took his hand as he stood up.
Of all the things he’d experienced that morning, this one action seemed to surprise Max more than any other; he stared down at their hands, then back at her. Etta herself was equally surprised at herself as she felt the warmth of his hand against hers, even through two layers of gloves.She felt her face burn red for some reason, and his eyes seemed to darken as he looked at her, suddenly intense with focus.
‘Sorry,’ she rushed, starting to take her hand away, but Max stopped her.
‘No.’ He put her hand on his arm and led her back towards Charlie. ‘Never apologise for taking my hand.’
Chapter 25
1817
The parties ramped up as the Season continued. If Etta was lucky, she’d see Clarissa Best who tolerated her forthright statements and continued to very kindly and patiently fill her in on etiquette.
At first, Etta had been quite confused as to why Clarissa hadn’t been snapped up. Twenty-five was quite old to remain unmarried in 1817. However, her confusion was soon clarified. Lady Best was a crazy bitch. No, calling her crazy was offensive to people with actual mental illnesses, Etta decided. Lady Best was a termagant. Etta met many other older ladies with an inflated sense of self-worth, but Lady Best was deemed unacceptable and even vulgar. There was absolutely nothing soft about her underbelly, either: no vulnerability or hidden maternal instinct. If social climbing could be considered a sport, then Lady Best was the national bouldering champion.
Lady Bainbridge seemed laid back enough to countenance Lady Best with her usual smiling tolerance, but most of society found Lady Best to be the outside of enough. Lord Best must have powerful connections, Etta realised, for such a very awfulwoman to be invited to so very many parties. She soon discovered that Clarissa’s papa was bezzie mates with the dissolute Prince Regent, so Etta didn’t blame him for being conspicuously absent – in fact, she hadn’t seen him even once. But then again she had yet to meet the outrageous Prinny, who was apparently down in Brighton overseeing the building of the Pavilion.
