Lizzie’s eyes widened, and Etta briefly worried about having gone too far; then her new friend laughed, openly and loudly, just like her brother.
‘Not right now, he doesn’t, but the old curmudgeon’s bound to come around. He’s all bark but no bite – Max always gets what he wants in the end.’
‘I’d love to meet your father. I bet he’s one of those old guys you can charm the pants off just by being a little too honest,’ said Etta.
She heard Lizzie cough on her wine. ‘Um, not quite, I’m afraid. It’s better to handle our father with kidskin gloves, we’ve found.’
Etta was unconvinced. Older people loved her. She’d spent a summer in her teens volunteering at a care home and always homed in on the battle axes.
After the balloon set off – most impractically, Etta and Lizzie agreed, compared to the intriguing idea Etta had floated of a powered winged craft – they all headed off for lunch at a nearby inn. Max had thought ahead and booked them a private parlour, as well as a large spread of cold meats and cheeses. Delighted, she plonked herself down next to Lizzie and started making herself a sarnie, chatting to her amazed new friend about the infinite sandwich-related possibilities the breadth of Max’s spread had opened up. This was the life.
And yet … a tingle of nervousness rattled across her skin. She couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of Max beneath her, her hands against his body, her mouth against his. She had all but handed herself to him on a platter. She hoped she hadn’t gone too far.
When Etta went to the ladies’ room, she felt Max’s eyes on her and wasn’t too surprised when she emerged to find he’d followed and waited for her in the corridor.
‘Miss Bainbridge, we need to talk,’ he whispered. He looked cautiously around before pulling her into a dark corner. She gripped onto his arms to keep from tripping. ‘Last night. I am heartily ashamed of my behaviour. Of my complete lack of control. I must reassure you that of courseI’m going to ask your brother for your hand as soon as is prudent.’
Her fingers stilled on his arms and she suddenly felt cold with panic. She stepped back from him.
‘You’re going to ask him if you can marry me?’ she whispered. ‘That’s a bit … intense … isn’t it?’
‘But you – you absolutely must of course marry me …!’ She could see fear begin to overtake him as, for the first time, he appeared to question himself. ‘Etta, we … coupled … or as good as.’
Etta was starting to feel claustrophobic. Heat was flooding through her, creeping under her skin. Yes, he was hot as hell. Hotter, even. And of all the people she’d met in 1817, Max was undeniably her favourite. She liked him a lot – more than she was comfortable liking anyone. But she hadn’t really known him that long, had she? To marry him now … And because he felt he had to, out of obligation!
She hadn’t even given him a full test drive in bed yet, for god’s sake. What if he was all bark, no bite? Etta bit her lip, remembering his hard chest and dark eyes. She could always teach him, she supposed. That would be fun.
All the same, this had not been part of her plan. She’d had a five-year plan, back in 2023. It had been recommended to her in some book or other, so she’d bought a sunflower-patterned notepad in Paperchase specially. The plan was to meet a nice man at a party or a pub. An architect or graphic designer – someone vaguely arty, but not a vegan. Maybe they’d share a blinding flash of eye contact then awkwardly look away. She’d meet his Home Counties parents at the end of Year One. Then perhaps in Year Three they’d share a one-bed flat in Ealing. The hope was that by Year Five thegraphic designer/architect would be a senior partner in his architecture/design agency, and they’d move out to Essex or Sussex or something ending with ‘ssex’ and have a lovely little two-up, two-down with Farrow and Ball painted walls and Scandi floor lamps.
Getting married to an extremely rich and privileged Regency nobleman she’d only known for a few weeks had not featured in the sunflower notepad.
‘Etta, please say something,’ said Max, trying to decipher her expression.
‘Eh-uh,’ said Etta, feeling like Jeremy Paxman ending a particularly vicious round ofUniversity Challenge. Oxbridge vs Lincoln, perhaps. Without another word, she turned and left.
If she was still in 2023, Etta would simply have been able to book herself an Uber and cry into a pillow for the rest of the day, but in 1817 she had to sit quietly through lunch, then claim to have a headache so she could retire home. Her mother and brother clearly knew something was up between her and Max, but also seemed to recognise she needed some time to think about it.
‘You rest, my dear, and all shall be well. Nothing needs to be decided in a hurry, after all,’ her mother said kindly, as she pressed a lavender bag into Etta’s palm and kissed it.
Both of them were being remarkably generous, Etta realised, if they knew anything about what was going on. It was 1817, after all, and now she thought back through the last weeks – or was it months, even? – she guessed that she had been spending a lot of time with Max. They had to know there was more to it by now.
And what would be so bad about being married to him anyway? On the face of it, he was rich, generous, kind and definitely seemed like he’d be on board the ‘equal rights’ train. She was sure being married to Max could be wonderful. But like so many heroines of the romantic novels she adored, she couldn’t just marry someone ‘because we coupled’. It would feel transactional. Like he was doing her a favour. Ugh.
She thought back to his face. His expression as he said goodbye to her after lunch. He’d looked how she felt. Awful. Was marriage to her really that terrible a proposition?
Chapter 34
2023
‘Right, ladies and gents. Today’s the day: online shopping. We’ve done our online safety, so now you know whennotto put your credit card deets online. Today, let’s find out when youcan.’
Hetty had been looking forward to this class, and not just because she and Stella were meeting up after. Jemima had finished altering Stella’s dress, so technically they could start making their videos. However, Stella had decreed one evening wouldn’t be enough to film more than a few short videos – Hetty had no idea why not – so that was something for the weekend. Instead they were going shopping – offline shopping.
Hetty had to admit that while her aunts had done an excellent job of finding appropriate clothes for her, they certainly didn’t help her fit in with other women her own age. Etta’s wardrobe wasn’t quite in her style either – stretched finances were probably the reason she’d had such a limited selection of plain dresses which Aggie had informed Hetty were ‘quite suitable for the office’.
But there was no office for Hetty – and an alternative way to spend her time was yet to be discovered. Stella said her Substack was becoming increasingly popular and as a consequence her Instagram following had grown. If that continued, she might be able to do some ‘commercial partnerships’ or make ‘ad revenue’ by ‘influencing consumers’. So making these videos would not only be a nice way to fill the hours, but also ‘commercially savvy’, whatever that meant. She wasn’t entirely sure on the details, but Hetty was more than happy to leave it all to Stella.
As they wrapped up their lesson and headed down the street together, Hetty’s shiny plastic card sweaty in her hand along with her phone, Stella bumped her elbow against hers.
