Fancy A Quickie?

Austen-tatious

ABOUT two months ago I woke up in a Jane Austen story. Legitimately. Well, perhaps not one of her stories but in that time period.

I can safely assume I'm in some kind of coma or medically-induced hallucination, or perhaps I've been kidnapped by human traffickers and am chained to a bed pumped full of powerful drugs. I don't believe in supernatural occurrences so this must be it, even though it does feel sickeningly real.

At first I was quite rude with with everyone thinking it was a joke but no, this is my life, and it's so difficult to adjust my mindset to fit in here.

By some bizarre circumstance, no doubt my subconscious throwing me a bone, I am filthy rich and I've quickly learned that this is the only reason I've survived this long. Being opinionated, educated and poor would not mix well.

Apparently I've got sixty thousand pounds, although I really can't find out where it comes from, and everyone licks my arse and sucks up to me constantly.

And the men, oh bloody hell, the men! A bigger bunch of chauvinistic swines I've never met, and I once accidentally attended a Tory party meeting.

They genuinely can't comprehend a woman having ideas outside of home decorations and child rearing. One time at a luncheon I happened to mention the notion of becoming an engineer and the silence that fell around the room was horrendous. You'd think I'd told everyone to take a shaft up the fanny which, incidentally, would probably cheer the women up no end.

I've gained a reputation for being eccentric and rude but this is just their way of understanding my views, and also the only way to keep the creepy men away. Lord Lexington seems to think my rudeness is an invitation to court me and I swear down I might use my wealth to hire a hit man. Or perhaps I can invent hitmen and get even more rich.

So today I am to attend Lord and Lady Sexless (Worthingdale, in real life, but nobody can be that dull and have good sex) have invited me as their guest of honour to  ball this evening and honestly, I hate this shit.

I have to spend hours in an unflattering and painfully uncomfortable dress, doing weird dances with strangers whilst sweating without deodorant being a thing. I try to dance as little as possible but even I have to concede in that area: sadly slut-drops and gyrating haven't been invented yet and I had to hire someone to teach me these shitty dance moves.

Lord Lexington keeps complimenting my eyes and stuff but I can barely hear him over Lady Sexless telling me about her plans for Michaelmas, whatever the hell that is, and Sir Elgy banging on about some war; I didn't like history in my real life so I have no idea what he's on about.

The ball was hideous and really all I ever want to do is hide in my impressive and unnecessarily ornate mansion thing. Not one bit of Ikea in here I can say for sure, but the beds are like sleeping on rocks and I've had back ache since I've arrived.

Besides, my butler Harrison (that's his second name, sadly his first nake wasn't George which would've been cool) is training up his son and honestly, he's hot as balls.

Definitely the most attractive person I've met here, and probably also in my real life, too. I haven't been able to talk to him much as there's always someone around, which drives me mad. A butler or a maid or housekeeper always bustling in and chaperoning me to help me avoid the lustful sin of being alone near a man under 60.

James Harrison came into my study with Charles Harrison the Butler to discuss which thank yous and appropriate gifts to send to the right people. I think Harrison realises I'm useless at this societal bullshit and tends to make helpful suggestions, of which I'm grateful.

"...Lady Worthingdale will expect a reciprocation of favour, by way of tea, supper or even a party," Harrison explains calmly.

I snort. "No way am I throwing a party for that boring old cow," I retort, and I see James smirk from the corner of my eye.