Young Writers Society

OK, this story is where my teacher supposedly sends us back into a time and place of our choice. I chose 1603, Surrey, England. Then entire story starts when I was just sent back. R&R, please!

DAY ONE ONLY

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[pre]Day 1 Sunday April 15

It’s a funny thing, time traveling. You never know exactly where you’d end up, what situation you’d be in, if everything wikipedia and google told you was true or not. You know better than to take everything they say for granted, even though, unconsciously, you do it anyway.

I’ve been sent to Surrey, England, in 1603. All I know right now is that it’s April, and something big is happening. It’s Sunday, and people are currently in church – at least, they should be. That’s what the textbooks say – but then again, the textbooks also say that I am currently in the dawn of the Age of Reason, so they might be busy blowing chemicals up or something.

I expected to arrive in peasant’s land. I was dressed up as one, and I was quite ready to talk like one. I had not, however, intended on landing in the home of a very wealthy person. As luck would have it, I did. Murphy’s Law – never fails.

It took me a few moments to adjust to the lack of electrical lighting, but when I did, I was sorely disappointed.

It was not a hovel. As previously mentioned, it was the house of the wealthy, and it was quite fancy – but I had not expected to end up here. Intricately carved chairs surrounded a similarly carved table, and on the table lay what appeared to be a flute. Curtains were spread open, I assumed to allow sunlight to enter the otherwise unlit room.

Someone walked in – and screamed. Alarmed, I whirled around, looking for the cause of the noise. It was a maid – a young, handsome looking, black woman in a funny, chunky pale blue dress with an apron and a cap. I would have introduced myself, and tried to calm her, only she was already running away.

Oh dear. That was not a grand entrance.

Now my main problem was to find a place to hide – I doubted I’d be welcomed with open arms, especially after that entrance. Wildly, I whirled around, looking for a place that I might duck under – the table perhaps – but it was too late.

A young, pale woman walked in, looking haughtily at me, eyeing my vagabond clothing. “Who are you, and why are you invading my home?” I blinked. That was rather forthright. “Well? Go on, answer me.”

“I’m sorry!” I blurted out. She cocked an eyebrow at me. “I – I…” No excuses came into my head. The entire readily formed plan was falling apart before my eyes. I was scared, and it’s only natural that this intimidating woman would frighten me.

“Well, if you can’t explain why you’re here, I suppose you’re insane, and I should just send you to an asylum, shall I?” She was threatening me.

“I – I – Um, I’m sorry…” I drifted off uncertainly.

“Come, name.”

“Bia – er – ” Bianca was an Italian name, a Spanish name, not a Christian name, and hardly the sort of name that would be found in Britain. “Elizabeth?” I said, stabbing a guess.

“How rude of your parents,” she said, sniffing. “To dare name you after her Majesty the Queen, bless her soul.” Those last few words seemed rather chilling

I was terrified of her. “Come, child, “ she urged. “It’s Sunday, and I’ll not let anyone ignore such a day as the day of the Lord.” I complied. I’m not sure why I did – did I really believe that she, as a stranger, would take me to church, without even knowing why I was in her house?

“Saree,” she said, addressing the maid, “please remove her vulgar clothing at once. They will be burned, of course. Dress her in some of Rebecca’s old clothing, I dare say she’ll fit well enough. Rebecca’s my daughter, fully grown now,” she added, talking to me.

Dear God, I hope Rebecca’s clothes fit.

Saree led me to a room near the back of the large home. It gave me a chance to admire the moulds and carvings that filled the house, as well as notice several instruments that reminded me of some modern-day ones. No pianos. I suppose they haven’t been invented yet, which is odd, because I always thought of pianos as the sort of thing that has been around forever. Well, there are several flutes to make up for it, and one very large harp, as well as something that looked like a cross between a harp and a recorder – buttons decorated the top. I asked Saree about this one, for it puzzled me greatly. She eyed me oddly, saying “Tis a Zither, and why aren’t you knowin’ that?” I shrugged, thinking that it looked like an instrument I recall my elementary music teacher was fond of playing in class. She opened the door for me, and there I saw the strangest instrument yet. It resembled a cross between a trumpet and a snake. Privately I thought it looked ridiculous.

Saree pulled out a lot of fabric from the closet, and I realized that I was to wear it. All together, I saw a petticoat, a corset that I was positive would not fit me, a ruff, and a gown that looked both extremely elegant and very uncomfortable. She shook out the skirts, and I got a better view of the heavy fabric, which did look nice. It had a high neckline, and some sort of puff in the shoulders – wings – long, tight sleeves and a deep ruff, with small beads. In fact, beads decorated the entire outfit – the chest, the ruff, the collar, and the long, sweeping gown was chock-full of them. There was a bodice, which looked threateningly tight and longer than my waist was, and the entire outfit was a deep blue, almost black color. Oh yeah. That was definitely a church gown.

Going to church? This must have been what the textbooks meant by the Age of Reason. She wasn’t going to take me to church at all.

Saree commanded me to undress. I did so with great reluctance. She tutted a bit, eyeing my bra as though she’d never seen one before – which, I realize, she hadn’t – and then turned to the drawer again, pulling out some linen chemises that resembled – well, I’m not quite sure what it resembled, and assisted me in slipping into it. It was quite uncomfortable. Then came hell – she tried to wrap the corset around me. In fear of losing my ribs, I stood very still, trying not to fidget when she began pulling at it. I realized I was whispering a prayer, and stopped – no need to waste air that could contribute to my breathing, which I was already having enough trouble with.

She tugged the dress over me, wrapping the bodice to fit my corset appropriately. The gown was heavy, and I loathed those sleeves. Saree looked in a drawer, and placed a linen cap on my head.

Joy.

The dress needed to be released a bit at the bust, where it was too tight (apparently the corset had worked a little too well there), and hemmed at the bottom, where it dragged on the floor. Otherwise, it fit all right, though I found myself incredibly itchy and pleaded with her to release the entire dress so that it wouldn’t need to press against me – did I mention I truly hate long sleeves? Needless to say, my pleas fell upon deaf, deaf, deaf ears.

Once finished with the alterations, which I’m sure she did in record time, she pulled me to a mirror, and asked me what I thought.

If I was daring enough, I would have pulled my face into the strangest, most repulsive looking one I could muster. Out of politeness, I smiled feebly, and nodded. She nodded back, and then turned, heading for the closet. She buried into it, digging out a pair of shoes that resembled very large flowers. It took me a moment to realize they were high heels with a large, decorative flower placed on the top of each shoe. The effect was horrid, and I wondered if the woman whom I’d seen before was wearing the same thing. It was only then that I realized I hadn’t thought to ask for her name.

“Er- Miss Saree?” I asked hesitantly, adopting an accent (which I’m sure sounded miserably un-British, which isn’t even grammatically correct). “What’s the, uh – the - ”

“The missus’ name?” She supplied, helpfully. I nodded. “Mrs. Annabelle Bradford, she is, and isn’t it a lovely name? Ignore that there line she said, there ain’t no harm in yer parents namin’ you after her majesty. Can’t imagine why she said there was.” I relaxed, mildly. Annabelle Bradford. She had certainly been named richly.

Saree led me to the front, where Mrs. Bradford waited. “Goodness, what took you so long? Saree, you couldn’t find a better outfit for her?” Saree shook her head humbly. I stood, frozen, as Mrs. Bradford stepped outside the (very lovely) door to talk to someone. It took me a while to realize the conversation was about me – and at the same time, about something else. I started listening a bit more.

“…young girl…no idea…leave her here…and Mrs. Francis? Diana?” Who were they?

A man replied to her. “…choice…supposed to meet…young boy…things confused…” What, did he think I was a guy? Idiot.

“…tonight…sure?” It seemed they reached an agreement when she came back in, followed by a young man in whom I was sure I would forever hold an infatuation for.

He had red hair – red hair – blue eyes, and a face that looked as though it would feel most comfortable in a lopsided, wide smile. He had a long nose, lean, lanky figure, freckles and, in my opinion, was extremely elegant in all his lopsided-smiled, lanky glory. It never crossed my mind why he would be here with Mrs. Bradford. I just stood, looking like a fool, for a few moments, before regaining my insignificant amount of composure to stammer out, “I’m a girl.”

There was a long silence.

A long, long silence. And then -

He started laughing. He started laughing so hard his cheeks turned red, and he had to lean on his knees for support. He was gasping for air, and still, he would not stop laughing. Mrs. Bradford joined his laughter in a milder tone, and Saree hid an amused smile behind her hand. My face turned a lovely shade of scarlet, and I’m sure I could have melted had I been the Wicked witch of the West.

“Wow – ‘I’m a girl’ – that should be – that was the best – line –” He lost himself in more fits of laughter. I interrupted him.

“Excuse me,” I said stiffly, winging it, “I believe it’s rude to laugh like so in front of a young lady.” He stifled his laughter quick enough.

“All right, we’ve had our fun,” Mrs. Bradford said. “Eunice – ” Eunice? Oh, God no – “this is Elizabeth – I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t catch your last name, what was it again?” Oh, goody. Well, I could say Potter, but was that name around? Birmingshire? Isn’t that a city? Cardrige, maybe?

“Uh- Cardrige, Elizabeth Cardrige, ma’am,” I said politely. I sincerely hoped she’d buy it.

“Yes, of course. Eunice – ” I cringed again, “this is Elizabeth Cardrige, Miss Elizabeth, this is Eunice Nelor.” I smiled faintly.

Mrs. Bradford hustled us into a carriage – I was actually mildly excited about riding in one.

I soon learned to regret that.

It seemed that they haven’t quite mastered the idea of a smooth ride – it was bumpy and horrid, and when we did reach the destination – which I distantly noted was not a church – I scrambled out and leaned over, fully prepared to empty my stomach onto the street.

And it didn’t help that I could barely breathe.

Eunice – God, I thought I would just change his name to William or something – came out and hunched over me. “Miss Elizabeth?” I shoved him away – which, on later thought, was a pretty stupid thing to do – and leaned over again.

Quite suddenly I wasn’t feeling so hot. I felt sick and dizzy and my air was cut off and I had a headache and something vile was rising in my throat.

It was too much. I barely had time to be disgusted with myself – or groan at the idea of Eunice being forced to carry me in any way to any place, because it was the ‘gentlemanly’ thing to do in a situation – when I stood up, shivered, and fainted. I’m not quite sure what happened next.

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