Living London - By Kristin Vayden Page 0,9
simple muslin dress that looked suitable for wearing around the house.
As I started to undress I ran into another dilemma. Regency London was not familiar with my idea of lingerie, boy shorts, or panties of any sort. I glanced around the room once more. I found a chest of drawers and opened each drawer till I found a light shift that looked like a short nightshirt. But I couldn't find underwear, even after searching meticulously. Did they not wear underwear in Regency times?
In the last drawer, I found a small pair of frilly-looking boxers. Better than nothing. Biting my lip, I decided to look for a bra. To my utter horror, I found a corset lined with stays, ridged and stiff. This can't be happening.
I resigned myself to wearing the offending article of clothing …somehow. The hippy look of "going free" didn't seem like a wise idea. "In for a penny, in for a pound," I muttered as I pulled it over my head and wondered how I could lace it backward. After some maneuvering and a few comments my Nanna would have grounded me for, I managed it. The empire-waist dress gathered slightly under my bust. Its lightweight material made me feel nearly naked. The garment was feminine and beautiful with long flowing lines.
For shoes, I found little slippers that reminded me of my ballet lessons as a little girl. Thankfully, these were more comfortable. As I looked through the rest of the shoes, I found not a high heel in sight, which was promising, but no sneakers, either, which was not.
As I stuck a few pins I had found on the vanity table into my hair, I cursed the inventers of elastic hair bands for being so late in developing their products. But the siren song of caffeine called me, and I left my grumblings behind as I walked out into the hallway of the home I somehow owned.
It was early. The sun was just rising, so it had to be around five in the morning. I guess time travel is also susceptible to jet lag. As I walked quietly through the halls, I took in my surroundings. Candles burned dimly between the stretches of the morning light, bathing everything in a golden hue. Art hung everywhere, with pictures ranging from flowers to scenes to people. Side tables and sculptures tastefully accented the alcoves, and the ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. The doors leading to other rooms were etched with heavy wood moldings I had only seen in pictures.
"Wow," I breathed. If I'm going to be stuck in the past, I want to live here. It's beautiful.
My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten in…wait. With a slightly hysterical laugh, I remembered all the times I had complained to my grandmother when I was hungry. But Nanna, it feels like I haven’t eaten for two hundred years! Who knew that some day it would be true? With a shake of my head and a wry grin I continued on my trek to the kitchen. After searching a while, I finally heard the commotion of pots and pans rattling and inhaled the blissful smell of fresh bread. Carbs. At least no one in Regency England was on the low carb diet. It might have killed me.
I pushed a door open and entered the room filled with smells from heaven. One maid leaned over a pot, stirring something, while yelling at a young boy to fetch some eggs. As I took another step in, all the motion in the kitchen stopped.
"Mademoiselle Westin?" An older woman with rosy cheeks and a thick French accent spoke to me with a question in her voice and a disbelieving expression.
"Yes, ma'am," I responded automatically, forgetting the British accent and whatever protocol I should have followed. Should I call a cook ma'am? If not, what do I call her? I should have paid more attention to Nanna and all my Regency romance novels. By the look on her face I knew I hadn’t addressed her correctly.
Think fast, distract her. "Could I please have some tea and breakfast? I find myself quite famished after yesterday's…ordeal." I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the rest of the kitchen staff's understanding glances. Next I waited for the cook's response.
"Oui, mademoiselle. We will serve you immediately. Please accept our sincerest hopes that you are feeling better."
"Thank you." Somehow the simple words sounded better with a British accent.
I waited, unsure of what to do or where