Enclosed is a bracelet of my own design: please place on the wrist of the woman with whom I exchange my life.
To that woman: please, so we may find you, describe your name and direction.
Underneath was a space, and then the words:
I am sure this may seem strange, but then again perhaps in your time this is a commonplace occurrence. Either way, I hope you will indulge me. I have written some notes in the following pages in order that you might navigate this time, and I have contrived that if the bracelet is broken we shall switch back.
Yours,
Henrietta Bainbridge
Etta sat back and stared at the empty space on the page, unsure what to think, then unscrewed the top of the ink bottle and dipped in the quill. The nib spluttered, but she managed to scrawl her name and address well enough. In for a penny, in for a pound.
She flicked through the diary for a moment, seeing pages and pages of elegant handwriting and knowing she should read them, but now wasn’t the time for homework. Yes, she was extremely curious about the previous owner of the body she was in, but right now her primary feeling was one of gnawing hunger.
Her golden bracelet knocked against the diary as she set it down, reminding her of her supposed get-out clause. The old ladies had said the same. In the unlikely event that this really had happened – that she reallyhadtime-travelled to Regency England – at least she had an escape route.
Smelling the welcome scent of toast, Etta padded into the next room. Mrs Cummings was there, sitting by a pile of sheets, which she appeared to be embroidering.
‘Good morning, Hetty dear. It’s a cold one today. You sit next to that fire and let Nanny sort everything out for you.’
‘Hello. Morning.’
Mrs Cummings recoiled, blinking furiously, then appeared to collect herself.
Etta drew closer to the nursery fire as the older woman bustled around her, covering her shoulders in a shawl and bringing over a tray. It had a pot of tea and a plate with a slice of now-cold buttered toast.
Etta eyed it distrustfully. ‘Mrs Cummings – Nanny? – is this what I always eat for breakfast?’
Mrs Cummings looked like she hardly knew how to answer. ‘Why, yes, as well you know! Miss Hetty, I really can’t think what’s come over you. To hear you call me Nanny again …’
Etta saw tears building at the corners of the older woman’s eyes. As confused and taken aback as she was, she felt compassion for this strange woman who clearly loved her very much.
‘Please don’t cry! I’m as confused as you are, but I’m sure everything will be okay.’
‘Oh-Kay? What can you mean, child?’ cried Nanny, looking at her in tearful confusion.
Etta mentally checked herself. She’d read enough Georgette Heyer novels and seen more than enough episodes ofBridgerton(if there could ever be enough episodes ofBridgerton!) to know she was going to have to think carefully about her language – and everything else, for that matter – if she was going to survive this odd dream-slash-holiday. Although she’d covertly pinched herself three times now.
‘Fine. I mean fine, Nanny. I think everything will be wonderful.’
‘It is wonderful indeed, my dear. I never thought to hear you speak to your old Nanny again, as though you were a grown-up lady. My goodness, what will your mother say?’
It began to sink in: in this version of her life, there was a mother. A family.
Until now, Etta had had no family left in the world. Her mother had died giving birth to her and she had only ever seen her face in photographs, while her dad – always somewhat distant to begin with – had been killed on the M6 by a sleeping lorry driver soon after she left home for uni. She never had siblings; she hadn’t so much as a cousin to her name.
Luckily Nanny didn’t appear to be expecting an answer. She poured Etta some tea, which she drank gratefully. Her throat still felt cracked and dry.
Eyeing up the toast with mistrust, she found it was delicious – fresh, solid, and quite different from the squishy bricks she was used to buying from the local corner shop. If an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley had inexplicably squeezed this one on the shelf ‘for freshness’ then at least it had held its shape.
Nanny was bustling around in a room next door to the nursery. Peeking through the open door, Etta could see her pulling clothes from a wardrobe. She sipped her tea and began to formulate a plan.
Clearly, in this dream, her character Hetty was being treated like a child. Etta recalled Charlie – her brother – treating her like an idiot last night. But she was clearly rich, or from a rich family, at least. This was a big house, and Charlie and Max had been dressed in very fancy clothes. Max, in particular, had been exceptionally well-dressed in those tight capri-style trousers …
Moving on swiftly from that distracting image, Etta thought about the books she read. Max had mentioned shewas nearly twenty-one. That meant she should be in London, right? Probably should have been for at least three years, swirling around ballrooms in fancy dresses meeting potential suitors. But not if everyone thought she was some kind of billy no-mates who stayed in her nursery all day working out how to time-travel.
Well, that was going to have to change. Etta was absolutely buggered if she was going to be magically transported into a Regency fantasyland and then sit about in a draughty nursery all day. The old ladies had called this a holiday. Who spent their holidays barefoot in an attic? That was more Charles Dickens than Jane Austen.
