‘The food really is much better, though, Aunts! Such a delicious abundance of fat and sugar, and available to nearly all! Pineapples and bananas in every shop and even in the flavours of children’s sweeties! That’s fabulous news.’
Aggie put her bowl of crisps down. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely good news, you know.’
‘No, it truly is,’ Hetty insisted. ‘I know not everyone has enough food to eat, and that is a real worry. But very few people are starving and malnourished, by comparison.’
‘Not none, though,’ said Jemima, frowning.
‘And the television. That truly is a remarkable invention. So much better than the printed word.’ Hetty backpedalled. ‘Come, don’t be cast down. Let us watch more of thisBridgerton. It really is most fascinating.’
Aggie picked up her wine glass, downing the lot in one, then picked up the remote.
‘One more before bed, Jemima? I think I’ll crack open another bottle of red.’
Chapter 29
1817
Etta sighed at her lamb cutlet. God, she missed takeout. She’d been secretly working with the chef downstairs to try to make a pizza, but the cheese just wasn’t the same. Fried chicken wasn’t the same either – she couldn’t seem to get the spice mix right, or the oil hot enough.
She’d made a few more acquaintances now – insipid girls, largely, whom she carefully said hello to in the park. Clarissa didn’t seem to have a great deal of friends, but they spoke to her, too. She had to watch her words very, very carefully around the lot of them, Clarissa included. It was exhausting.
Etta was vaguely aware that there were much more fun-looking twenty-somethings at the parties and dances she accompanied her mother and Clarissa to, but they didn’t tend to stick around for long – quickly disappearing into what she suspected were raucous parties within parties in other rooms into which she was most definitelynotinvited. She was left with all the other respectable young misses and their mamas. It was just like VIP sections in night clubs all over again, except this time the red ropes were invisible.
At any rate, she had enough acquaintances to be fairly confident of a good showing to the dinner her mother was hosting this evening. She was very much looking forward to it, mainly because they’d apparently all be singing and playing the piano afterwards and she’d been practising harder than she’d ever practised in her life.
Etta generally had far more spare time than she knew what to do with. Regency ladies tended to spend a good part of their afternoons writing letters to each other, but given all the people she knew in this era were in town, this seemed a waste of time. Having already given her descendants what she figured was a clear path to financial success – she might not have memorised any lottery numbers, but ‘Invest in Apple’ was a clear no-brainer – she didn’t feel the need to work out further ways to help them.
So now, most days, she spent her time doing what she’d always loved – singing, playing piano, making music. It was wonderful to finally let herself indulge in music again. She had spent a fair bit of time transposing her very favourite pop bangers into piano music and was immensely proud of her work.
Her mother would often come and quietly listen while she did her embroidery; although she remarked at her daughter’s odd choice of song selection, she seemed extremely impressed. Her brother would often tell her how much he enjoyed her voice echoing through the house over family dinners in the evening.
And so here they were, chairs arranged, waiting for Maria Marley of all people to take her place at the piano. Etta could only hope the ogre didn’t bash her poor piano keys in.
Miss Marley was with Smythe again, who was apparentlya childhood friend – the gruesome twosome, Etta thought. She had no idea why Marley and Wobbly kept gracing her vicinity with their odious presence, but she had noticed with grim delight that they too had the most exclusive doors closed to them at parties. She barely concealed her glee as she realised Smythe was about to sing and caught Max’s eye across the room.
It had been days and theystillhadn’t spoken about the electrifying kiss in the carriage. She could almost see it hovering there in the air between them. But tonight was unlikely to provide an opportunity to talk about it. As Smythe warbled nasally through some kind of appalling folk tune, Etta’s mind turned instead to more practical matters: what she’d sing tonight. Her mother had advised against any of the pop songs she’d managed to work out arrangements for.
But … Etta wondered. A few people had sung traditional folk songs which she personally had felt were chock-full of innuendos. Only a complete child would have failed to catch the double entendre in the song about the milkmaid’s heavy jugs, surely?
Her mother’s wine was good stuff and although the group was hardly rowdy – Great Aunt Maude was openly snoring in the front row – she began to feel that her audience was ready to be enlightened.
And before Etta knew it, it was her turn. Maria Marley, whom Etta had noticed poring through the Bainbridge’s large collection of sheet music after dinner, handed her a couple of Etta’s own neatly composed pages as she gave up her seat at the piano.
‘One of your own … unique … compositions, Miss Bainbridge? Your turn toentertainus. I wonder what kind ofentertainment we can expect?’ Miss Marley raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘This one looks a little complex for someone of your intellect, though.’
What a bitch, Etta thought, taking the sheet music off her and plonking herself down at the piano ever so slightly drunkenly. She looked at what Maria had chosen. For someone with such a crappy choice in singing partners, she had chosen surprisingly well. So Etta settled in with one of her favourites: Hozier’s ‘Take Me To Church’. She was fairly confident she’d got the lyrics right, but as she suddenly reached the line ‘worship in the bedroom’ she finally realised her mistake and looked up from the keyboard.
Great Aunt Maude had finally woken up and was watching intently. The rest of the room stirred uneasily.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Perhaps the rest of it wouldn’t be so bad. It was about church, for heaven’s sake. How offensive could it possibly be? Etta found herself carried along into the chorus and the song wrapped itself around her as she leaned into the melody.
Next time she looked up, her fingers froze immediately. The room was almost completely empty. A few stragglers were making their excuse to her mother by the door. The last thing Etta saw was the triumphant face of Miss Maria Marley, as a faux-scandalised Smythe led her away with her outraged mother. Even Clarissa was going, Lady Best frog-marching her away indignantly. Lady Bainbridge looked absolutely lost as her evening circled the drain. Etta looked around to find Max was still present, but he looked pained as he downed the last dregs of his wine glass and made his excuses to leave.
‘Well, carry on, girl! Why’ve you stopped?’ Great Aunt Maude called out. Her voice cutting across Etta’s panic.
Etta turned her attention to the old lady, still sitting on the front row. ‘Aunt Maude … Can’t you see everyone’s gone? I don’t think my song – well, I don’t think it was perhaps as appropriate as it could have been …’
Maude was having none of it. ‘When you’re as old as me, young lady, you’ll find you won’t care a jot for the opinions of insipid idiots like the ones your mother invited to this party. Now sing on.’
