What if a sword-wielding, outspoken time traveler found herself stuck in Regency England?
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Clara Eaton has a secret: she's a member of an elite time-travelling society, concealed in the heart of London.
Clara has spent the last six years learnin...
"A practical woman is as essential to the British empire as a good cup of tea."
-Andrew Hamilton in 'A Treatise on the Duties of the Female Sex' (1797)
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Violet Pemberton considered herself to be a practical person.
By the age of three-and-fifty, Violet had managed to marry off both her sons to girls from respectable families. She read Byron instead of gossip tabloids, and she never had more than one biscuit with her tea (unlike her daughter Francesca, who thought it a travesty to have no less than three biscuits with each cup). And if Violet was growing a little lonely now that her husband had passed on a few years ago, well, that was no matter; she simply had more time for her embroidery.
Yes, Violet Pemberton was a terribly practical woman.
So, when a girl dropped out of the sky and into the middle of her drawing room on a Sunday afternoon in April, Violet Pemberton was rather ashamed that she screamed and upset the tea service on the carpet.
"Oh, dear," she gasped.
The girl in question gaped right back at her. She was dressed in what looked like men's breeches, but indecently tight. Her overcoat — if it could even be called that, Violet thought — was made of the ghastliest black leather that she'd ever seen.
And most troubling of all, she was raising a rather large knife.
"Good lord," the girl said, looking bewildered. "Who are you?"
Violet blinked. "Me? Who in God's name are you?"
Then she reprimanded herself for blaspheming. Really, it wasn't becoming of a woman to do so, even if a girl had just fallen out of the sky and into her drawing room. The girl lowered her knife, and Violet noted with approval that she had the good grace to look at least a little bit embarrassed.
"I'm Clara."
Violet waited politely for the girl's surname, but after a few moments, it became clear that Clara was only going to provide her Christian name. Very well, then. Violet turned her attention mournfully to the overturned teacup, which was now leaking the Pemberton blend on to the French carpets. She should really ring for a maid, but she couldn't very well explain how Clara had entered the parlor unannounced. Or why the girl was wearing such outlandish clothes.
She sighed.
The French carpets would simply have to go.
"It's a pleasure, Clara," Violet said, rising to her feet. "My name is Lady Violet Pemberton, Countess of Gainsborough."
"Lad—-?" Clara broke off, her mouth popping open in horror. "Oh, my god." She collapsed on a chair. "What year is it?"
Violet frowned. "Why, it's 1816."
"Oh, my god." She closed her eyes. "Lady Pemberton, my name is Clara Eaton. I'm from the year 2020." And then she said the most frightful news that Violet had ever received in her fifty-three years of life: "I fell through the clock; I'm here by complete accident, and I have no wayto get back."
