A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  But she was already speaking to him sternly. “I assume that you are Brandon, the new footman. I am Miss Sarah Chatsfield. Your place is below stairs. Leave here at once, or I shall summon Mr. Veeriswamy, and you will be held to account.”

  Who does she think she is, Brandon thought? She’s only a kid. He felt his temper rise. He wasn’t about to let some little kid make him feel like a cockroach. “So how come it’s okay for Henry to be in here?” Brandon demanded.

  “That’s not your business,” said the girl snappishly. “Come along, Henry,” she ordered. “We shall play a game of cards. Brandon, you must return to the kitchen.”

  Remembering what he had learned about the French Revolution, Brandon wondered why the British hadn’t revolted, too, and chopped off the heads of the likes of Sarah.

  But suddenly, as she turned to leave, he saw her in profile against the sunshine pouring through the windows, and it was then he realized who she reminded him of. It was Verity. She reminded him of Verity as she had been in 1940, bossy and sure of herself, although Sarah certainly would have beaten her in a Miss Junior Bossy Hertfordshire contest. It must be something in the Hertfordshire water, he thought, that makes girls act like this.

  Later, when Brandon went upstairs to collect more silver, he looked longingly out of the window at the beautiful gardens. It was a sunny and slightly warm day, which made it a stunningly rare day in England in April. He longed to be outside. He watched as a small figure ran across the lawn toward the fountain. Sarah was wearing a large wide hat bedecked with ribbons, which she was holding onto with one hand as she sprinted across the grass. Brandon felt a pang of envy.

  Shortly, he was back in the kitchen, taking out his frustration on the silverware by polishing it within an inch of its life. A hesitant rap on the window made him look up, but he couldn’t see anyone, and assumed it must be Henry. Since nobody else was around to answer, he reluctantly got up, and wrenched open the door.

  But it wasn’t Henry. It was the Professor, and she was carrying a basket filled with straw, in which rested a number of eggs and, more surprisingly, a can of Coke. Wordlessly, she handed the Coke to Brandon with a mischievous smile. He did a double-take, and then giggled at the sight of this object from the future. Popping it open, he took a big swig. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t mind.

  “That’s better,” said the Professor. “So how is life in service?”

  Brandon exhaled sharply and shook his head slowly from side to side, giving a little burp. “Huh,” he said. “Time travel was so amazing the first time, but I just don’t know about this. You know, it’s so boring to just do stuff like dig coal and polish silver, while kids like Sarah and Henry get to play and do whatever they like. And I miss my family. Nobody loves me here. Heck, nobody even likes me here. Last time, I had Oliver to look after, but now I don’t even have him. Henry is obnoxious.”

  The Professor smiled gently at him as she sat down. “Henry is obnoxious, I entirely agree, but don’t be too hard on him. Like you, Henry is living in a world in which he doesn’t belong. Have a heart, Brandon. He’s a clever kid, but he’s a cook’s son, and if Lady Chatsfield hadn’t arrived this year, he would probably have been destined to work as a servant, or in the fields. She’s offered him a way out. But the price he’s paying is that, if things carry on as they are, he will be sent off to India at the age of eighteen, and that’s not good.”

  “Why isn’t it good?” Brandon asked, then took a slurp from his Coke.

  “Because it isn’t supposed to happen,” the Professor said. “And I think the reason you’re here is to prevent it happening.”

  Brandon was taken aback. “But why would you want me to stop him from having a chance to do something with his life. I mean, you just said…”

  “Oh, I know what I said, but don’t you remember? Henry Watson doesn’t grow up to be an officer in the East India Company, which will pretty much go out of business in about six years anyway.”

  But Brandon had another question. “Why is Lady Chatsfield interested in Henry? Or…” Brandon hesitated.

  “Or you?” The Professor finished his question for him. “She’s a complicated woman, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to guess at all her motives just yet. Trust me, they will soon become clear. Has she told you her little plan for you to speak to her anti-slavery ladies?” He shook his head, and she continued, “I see. Well, she will. I’ll be honest: She doesn’t see you the same way she sees Henry. She just considers you useful. But you might be able to turn the tables on her. I think you’ll find you can make her very useful to us, as time will tell. I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on now, I think, and I can advise you to be patient and hang in there. Keep polishing your silver, and doing your chores, and don’t let Henry annoy you. Remember, he’s very insecure: He’s a kid from a humble background who has been raised to believe that he’s practically a separate species from the likes of Lady Chatsfield. If you play your cards right, her taking an interest in him won’t work out as she intends, but she has already given him the skills and confidence to become a famous novelist…”

  Slapping the table, Brandon cried, “I remember now! He was born in Verity’s house, except Eric couldn’t prove it, or wasn’t sure, or something…”

  The Professor nodded. “Exactly. Now you have the perfect opportunity to settle once and for all whether Henry Watson was born in their house, or whether he was born here in Balesworth Hall.”

  The mention of Verity’s name reminded Brandon of something he wanted to ask. “You know, Sarah Chatsfield looks a lot like Verity. Are they, like, related?”

  The Professor gave a small smile. “Oh, yes. Absolutely. You see, Sarah Chatsfield is Verity’s great-grandmother.”

  Brandon’s eyes practically fell out on stalks. “She is? So she must be Mrs. D.’s mother. Wow…That’s…Wow. Maaaan…”

  “Of course, you have met her before.”

  Brandon’s mind really boggled at this. “I have?”

  “You met her when she was called Mrs. Hughes,” said the Professor. Brandon gasped as he remembered meeting Sarah in 1915, when she was in her seventies. She had become a very proper and snobbish Victorian, who often argued with her headstrong, independent, and thoroughly modern daughter, Elizabeth Devenish… Brandon’s head was spinning.

  “Mrs. D. never said anything about being Lady Chatsfield’s granddaughter,” he said wonderingly.

  “No, I know she didn’t,” said the Professor, and Brandon asked himself how she could be sure, as she continued speaking. “Just as Henry moved up in the world, Sarah moved down, and it was something to which she didn’t draw much attention if she could help it. By the time Mrs. D. was born, in 1885, Sarah’s parents were both dead, and things at Balesworth Hall had… changed. Sarah Hughes, as she was by then, considered Balesworth Hall very firmly part of her past.”

  “But how did Sarah become poor?”

  “Oh, not poor,” laughed the Professor. “You saw her house in Bedfordshire in 1915, didn’t you? But as an adult, Sarah was no longer upper-class, just middle-class.”

  “Okay, so why?”

  “That’s something else for you to find out,” said the Professor.

  Brandon had to admit to himself that he was intrigued, and strangely excited. He asked, “And then will I get to go home?”

  “Oh, I should think so, but you have work to do first. Now finish up that Coke, because I need to take the can with me. Don’t want to confuse the poor old archeologists, do we?”

  After she had gone, Brandon felt giddy with relief. His first time-travel adventure in the twentieth century had been so exhilarating. He had felt confident when he had returned to Snipesville, so sure of himself in learning new things and dealing with new people. But that feeling had slipped through his fingers, faded with his past. In 1851, he had felt uncertain of himself, unable to much improve his own circumstances, and, worst of all, despised as a member of the lower classes. But at this moment, for the first
time in weeks, he felt cheerfully optimistic.

  Chapter 11: A Change of Scene

  Hannah stood at the head of the queue in the ticket office of the Dundee, Perth and London Shipping Company, wondering what the problem was. She had presented the money for her fare, so why was the ticket clerk giving her grief? Leaning forward with his hands on the counter, he looked down on Hannah with contempt. “I cannot possibly allow you to board one of our steamers in that state. Look at yourself. You’re filthy. And how someone like you came about this great sum of money, well… I cannot believe you did it honestly. I am tempted to send for the police. Move along now, lass.”

  Hannah was outraged, and stamped her foot. “You see if I ever ride on one of your stupid boats again!”

  The ticket clerk repeated firmly, “Move along or I will send for a constable.”

  Hannah charged out of the office, pushing through the crowd. But now she felt scared and vulnerable: Lots of people had overheard her say that she was carrying a large amount of cash, and that wasn’t safe in a city like Dundee. She screwed up her face, and tried to look fierce and possibly dangerous as she headed up an alleyway toward the city center. At that moment, she felt a heavy hand landing on her shoulder.She flailed her arms and gibbered in panic.

  “Calm down, calm down, it’s me! Here to save the day!” The Professor turned Hannah around to face her.

  Hannah struggled, wild-eyed and hyperventilating, until she focused on the Professor’s face and recognized her. “Don’t DO that! I thought you were trying to rob me. Oh my God, I almost wet myself.”

  “I’m sorry. Look, I just reckoned you would need help getting on board the steamship.”

  Hannah threw up her hands. “What can you do? That moron wouldn’t let me on board even if you bought the ticket for me.”

  The Professor gave her a patient smile, and ushered her back toward the bustling main street. “Of course he won’t. Working class people aren’t welcome on the Great Exhibition steamer. And that is why you must become middle class. Hannah, it is time for your transformation. Oh, and my name is Miss Davies, by the way. I am your governess.”

  Hannah curled her lip. “You’re my… Whoozie whatsit?”

  “Your governess. Don’t you know what that means? Your tutor. Your homeschool teacher.”

  “Whatever,” Hannah said, waving a dismissive hand at her. “Look, I don’t care if you’re, like, my personal tooth-flosser. Just get me out of this dump.”

  “Come along, then,” said the Professor. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Hannah followed her to the High Street. To her amazement, the Professor walked toward McNaughtan’s Royal Hotel. “I can’t go in there,” she said. “That’s a seriously posh place. I’ll get kicked out.”

  “No, you won’t,” said the Professor, taking her by the hand. “Just stay with me, and let me do the talking.”

  As they paraded through the hotel lobby, past gilded chandeliers and potted palms, the desk clerk looked on in amazement as his grandly-dressed guest Miss Davies entered with a ragamuffin girl. He opened his mouth to object, but the Professor silenced him with a firm “Good afternoon,” as she guided Hannah by the elbow and hustled her toward the stairs. The clerk recovered his voice enough to call after her, “Madam, unregistered guests are not permitted in the hotel….” But by that time, the Professor was steaming full speed ahead, room key at the ready.

  Two narrow beds took up much of the room. Hannah asked, “Where’s the restroom?”

  The Professor was removing her bonnet, untying the strings under her chin that held it on. “Oh, there’s no separate room for the loo,” she said. “If you want to use the one in here, it’s behind the screen.”

  A folding screen stood in the corner, and Hannah ducked her head around it. “No, there’s only a small table,” she said to the Professor, with more than a touch of annoyance.

  The Professor nodded. “That’s it. Just lift the top.”

  Hannah turned back to the odd bit of furniture, lifted the lid, squinted, and pursed her lips. “Um, it’s just a hole in a piece of wood over a chamberpot.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s right.”

  “I thought the Gordons don’t have real toilets because they’re poor. What gives? Doesn’t anyone have flushing toilets yet?”

  “Oh, they’ve been invented,” said the Professor. “But most people can’t afford them, and even people who can afford them often don’t want them: Some doctors are convinced that it’s unhealthy to have flushing loos in bedrooms. The early Victorians didn’t understand that germs cause disease, you see. They thought that epidemics started with smelly, dirty air, which they called miasma, and since early toilets often belched up sewer gas, it was assumed that they were part of the problem. But probably the main reason why rich Victorians refused to install loos was that it cost more to do that than it did just to have servants empty out chamberpots.”

  Hannah sighed heavily. “Whatever. TMI. So what do I do with this portapotty when I’m done?”

  “You ring the bell pull,” said the Professor, and she did it to demonstrate. “Now a servant will come and take the slops, as they’re called, to the slop room. There, some lucky person will wash out the chamberpot, and someone else will return it. There’s a servant for practically every task. It’s not so bad being well-off in 1851, is it?”

  By the time the footman arrived, Hannah was washing her hands in the washbasin. As he carried the chamberpot toward the door, he asked, “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  “Man, I hope not,” said Hannah with feeling. She wondered how he could bear spending his days carrying around other people’s poo.

  “Actually, there is something else,” the Professor said swiftly. “Draw a hot bath for this young lady.”

  The footman took his first good look at Hannah, and his eyes grew wide when he saw her poor and ragged state. Whatever he was thinking, however, remained unspoken. Instead, he bowed stiffly, and said, “Very good, madam.”

  An hour later, as a fire blazed cheerfully in the fireplace, Hannah was taking a lovely warm bath in a copper hip tub that the servants had filled with steaming kettles. “Got any bubble bath?” she asked the Professor, who was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

  The Professor smiled in amusement as she put her book down. “No, dear. Here’s the soap.”

  Hannah accepted the greasy brown bar from the Professor’s outstretched hand, and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, this stuff smells disgusting. Couldn’t you have brought some nice soap from Body Bonanza in Snipesville Mall?”

  The Professor returned to her book and muttered, “Just count your blessings, Hannah.”

  Hannah lazily washed off her arm. “Oh, yeah, I am so blessed. I’m living in the armpit of Scotland, and I’m sharing a room with a psychopath…”

  “Now, now,” said the Professor warningly. “That will do. Finish your bath, and we’ll go shopping.”

  Hannah looked up in surprise. “What, you ran out of oatmeal?”

  The Professor turned a page in her book. “No, I meant clothes shopping.”

  Now Hannah slid herself upright in the bath, and sloshed soapy water onto the rug. “For real?” she screeched with delight, hardly believing her ears. Then she got suspicious. “Like, shopping at the Victorian Goodwill? Or real shopping for new clothes?”

  The Professor laid down her book. “New clothes for your new self. You are now Hannah Day, a middle-class child, and you are returning to London for the Great Exhibition. We must dress you accordingly.”

  When Hannah and the Professor walked back through the lobby, the desk clerk tried once more to protest, but the Professor shut him down. “This is Miss Hannah Day, my charge,” she said imperiously as she marched Hannah through the small lobby. “I am a governess. Now kindly add Miss Day’s name to the hotel register and cease from your harassment, or I shall have words with the management.”

  On this visit to Moon and Langlands’, Hannah actually went inside. Her dirty mill
-girl clothes drew shocked stares from the shop clerks. One of the staff, a short man in a long gray coat, hurried forward from the back of the store to greet the Professor and her odd little companion.

  “Here comes the floorwalker,” the Professor muttered to Hannah.

  “The what?” said Hannah.

  “The department manager,” the Professor said under her breath, before wishing the floorwalker a gracious “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, madam,” he replied with a deep bow. “May I be of assistance?” He gave a pointed look at Hannah.

  The Professor clasped her hands before her waist, and looked down her nose at him. “Yes, you may indeed. I am Miss Davies, and I am governess to this child, Miss Hannah Day. As you can see, she has met with a mishap, and I must purchase new clothing for her. How quickly can clothes be made to measure?”

  “As quickly as you require, madam.” The floorwalker bowed his head again.

  “I shall require them by tonight,” the Professor said firmly.

  He blew out his cheeks. “Hmm….Ah….Well, we shall do our utmost, to be sure, but our ability to provide bespoke service at such short notice may rather depend on the extent of your requirements, madam. Perhaps I can show you some of our ready-made articles, which may be altered to suit?”

  “Very well,” the Professor said. She and Hannah settled into upholstered chairs, and the staff began a parade, bringing clothes for their inspection. By the time it was over, Hannah had picked out three dresses, along with bonnets, gloves, petticoats, and shoes. A very pretty pink dress seemed to be a good fit, and she disappeared into a private changing room to try it on, with one of the female staff assisting her. Soon, she reappeared in the dress, feeling very glamorous, and the Professor agreed that she should keep it on. As the Professor paid the bill, the floor-walker bowed again, practically wiping his nose on the ground, and murmuring promises that the remainder of the order would be delivered to the hotel that very evening.

  As she left the store, Hannah almost collided with a shabby little figure, who stepped back and glared at her. Hannah grabbed her by the arm and said, “Maggie, it’s me!”