Jemima sighed. ‘It’s the same nowadays, my love – or at least it is most of the time. But Stella has always struck me as an imaginative type – give her some time to process everything. I’m sure she’ll come around. And anyway – would you really want anyone who only liked you for your money?’
Hetty sniffled. No, she supposed not. ‘How do I make her come back, Aunt Jemima?’
‘You can’t. That’s for her to decide.’
Chapter 35
1817
Etta played out her ill-fated conversation with Max a million ways: all the things she could – should – have said. She longed to tell someone what had happened between her and Max and as she stood next to Clarissa Best in a ballroom a week later, she was sorely tempted. Clarissa had been a good friend to Etta so far, but she had not one shred of gossip to her name. She knew her timid friend would be way beyond outraged by even the hint of a midnight tryst.
No, Clarissa was one more ally than Etta had had back in 2023 and she was determined to keep it that way. Clarissa might be kind, but she would undoubtedly draw a very solid line at as little as demure handholding, never mind third base. Etta was stone-cold certain that the merest hint of any ‘coupling’ with Max would rock Clarissa to her very core.
So instead, Etta and Clarissa were giggling over a particularly dreadful hat – green, orange and purple – when Lady Best kicked off. Time and time again, Lady Best would drag her daughter to a ball, then nearly as soon again leave as she insulted or was insulted by someone or other. Beinginsulted seemed to be Lady Best’s favourite occupation: she was marvellous at it.
Her imperious tones cut through even the noise of the busy ballroom. ‘Why, Mrs Blackwell, I do declare! I have seldom been forced to witness such boldness as this!’ Her tone ascended in pitch like a roller coaster cranking up a particularly unpleasant track. ‘To sully the Best name in such a manner as this! The audacity! Clarissa, let us go at once!’
‘Oh no, not again,’ Clarissa cringed. ‘Etta, I’m so sorry.’
Etta grimaced. ‘Leaving me on my own again, are you? Abandoning me to my terrible fate?’
Clarissa looked guilty as sin. ‘Oh, Etta. I’m so, so sorry …’
Etta bit her lip awkwardly, inwardly appalled that her friend hadn’t realised she was joking. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m just having a laugh. Come on, let’s do a discreet circuit to your mother and you can drop me off with Max’s sister, Lizzie, and that other preggers lady next to her.’
A slightly turned-about Clarissa blinked and nodded, curtseying to Lizzie, then departing to follow her mother’s imperious (and very loud) exit.
‘Evening, Lizzie. How are you doing?’
Lizzie sighed. ‘Oh, you know. Still terribly, terribly pregnant.’
‘I suppose it must really suck to have to stay sober at a party as boring as this one.’
Her friend looked at her quizzically. ‘Sober? Do you know, I do prefer not to drink alcohol. But how did you know?’
Etta blinked, taking another drink off a passing tray, then blinked once again as Lizzie’s heavily pregnant companion took one for herself. Etta watched as the woman downed what she absolutely one hundred per cent knew to be fortified champagne.
It felt like every time she thought she was used to 1817, she was brought back down to earth. She paused, weighing up what to say next.
‘I had read, lately, in … in a magazine? A periodical … I read that it was, um, safer, for pregnant women not to drink. Alcohol, I mean.’
Mrs Something-or-other – was it Henley? Who knew? – eyed her up while rubbing her belly smugly, almost resting her glass on her bump. ‘You mean, in case one imbibes too freely and falls?’
Etta took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘No, I mean, that it can cause the baby to be born with foetal alco— sorry, um, intellectual difficulties. Of the mind.’
Mrs Henley – it was definitely Henley – scoffed. ‘But what else must one drink, dear? Lemonade? Milk? How dull! And besides, I’ve already delivered Henley of a son. What more could one want?’
Etta bit her lip. She saw Lizzie watching her sympathetically, and they shared a Look.
Etta took another glass of champagne, then excused herself. She needed a break from all this … 1800s stuff. She wanted to find Max. She was long, long overdue a conversation with him. But right now, there were other pressing matters to consider. Like her bladder, which was full of champagne and telling her very loudly to make a quick exit.
A crowd was gathering in one corner of the ballroom – right in front, in fact, of the most direct route to the ladies’ loos. She ambled over tipsily, somewhat dreading the amount of time it would take her to free herself from her skirts.
The effete Mr Smythe was the centre of the crowd, Etta saw, as she fought her way through to the chamber pots. Hewas clutching a pair of gloves and seething with anger, Miss Marley hanging from one elbow, looking equally furious.
‘Sir, I demand satisfaction! Your insult to myself and Miss Marley will not stand!’ he declared pompously.
The impeccably dressed blonde man Smythe was facing off against looked slightly pale, but louche nonetheless.
