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sense.

Chapter Four
     
    I half wondered
if I’d stumbled across the filming of a Regency drama, but there were no cameras or anything else
to suggest a film shoot and, what
was stranger still was the fact that the day was bright and sunny. As real as any moving image on a
cinema screen men, women and children
paraded, along gravel paths I no longer recognized, parasols and walking sticks in hand.
Vibrant cloaks and pelisses gave a
glimpse of the white muslin dresses fluttering back in the breeze beneath them and a hundred straw
bonnets, feathered and flowered,
were tied under the pretty chins of flirting girls in a myriad of silken, ribbon hues. The objects of their
smiles looked equally
wonderful, bowing before them, in breeches, frock coats and boots. I was rooted to the spot, my heart
hammering in my chest, and a
thousand questions running through my mind. As the image became sharper, so I became more aware of
myself. I still held the glove,
though the hand that held it wore a glove of its own. It wasn’t my hand, yet it moved with me and was
fixed to the pale arm, which
disappeared into a long sleeve, pointed at the wrist. I touched my cheek, and brushed the brim of a straw
bonnet where a silk ribbon was
tied in a bow under my chin. As my senses kicked in the rigidity of bone-stiffened silk, tightly laced
about my body, made it
difficult to breathe properly. A crisp, cotton petticoat was layered next to my skin and over that, I discovered
an outer gown of fine,
diaphanous muslin. A square shawl with a floral border, draped over my shoulders, complemented my
beautifully tailored coat of
soft, apricot wool. To complete my outfit, a reticule of silk satin, embroidered with a basket of roses, was
suspended from my wrist on knotted
strings. Looking down at my feet, I was glad that at least they were comfy in leather half-boots,
even if every other part of me felt
squashed and pummelled into shape.
    There seemed no
explanation except the one that immediately popped into my head. I must have gone back in time,
I said to myself, but just
having that idea was so ridiculous I dismissed it at first. Slipping the glove into the reticule, I took
a step on shaking legs. The trees
around me were moving. My feet were taking steps, one in front of the other, but I had no sensation
of movement in my legs. I seemed
to pass over the grass, over gravel pathways, hovering six inches above the ground without
feeling the surface below my feet.
The sun felt warm, everything appeared so intensely brilliant that bright tears smarted in my eyes
because the light was so
fierce. When at last my feet touched the ground my hesitant first steps soon quickened into quite a pace, which felt
no more peculiar than wandering
around Sydney Gardens dressed in nineteenth century costume would be at any other time. Feeling
really uncomfortable
and totally self-conscious, as the bonnet on my head wobbled about unnervingly, I wondered how on earth
anyone would ever get
used to this feeling of being trussed up like a Christmas turkey. I hadn’t a clue which direction
to take; the gardens looked
so unfamiliar until I came out from one of the narrower walks onto a wider path. I recognized the
museum at the end, but even
this looked different with its rotunda style front for a bandstand and wings of boxes on either side, hardly
recognizable to the building
I’d seen with its modern additions of glass and ceramic. The exit lay ahead and I was just
wondering what might happen if
I made it back to my aunt’s house in Sydney Place, when two young women came rushing through the gate
talking nineteen to the dozen.
One of them waved energetically before running towards me, holding onto her hat with one hand as
she hitched up her long skirts
with the other.
    ‘Miss Elliot!
How pleased I am to see you,’ she cried, taking both of my hands in hers. ‘You are well, I hope,
though I must add, you are looking
a trifle pale.’ She hesitated and I felt her clear hazel eyes,