#Look at what your shit-ass children have done look at the mess they've made in their greed and desperation

[chronomally]

Xu Kou really doesn't deserve any of this

[quaylinsims]

True to his word, Henry had the coach driver stop in a town on the way to his cousin's house. At first glance, it was super cute and historic. Everything looked to be from around the Civil War era. Much like Henry's suit and the stagecoach and the "roads" and...

Henry bought a newspaper and asked where one could go to find a pre-made dress for a little girl. He was directed to a corner shop. When we got there, I looked out and noticed the dresses and everything else were also from the 19th century. Henry's newspaper said 1850.

My heart began racing, and my head began pounding. Thoughts started flashing through my mind: How did I end up in 1850? That shouldn't be remotely possible! How do I get home? Can I get home? Do they have plumbing? Does my family know I'm gone? I hate those ruffly hoops skirts. How do I live in an era where women can't even vote? Does my family think I'm dead? Will I ever get home?

I started hyperventilating. Henry patiently waited for me to calm down, and I knew he had no idea how to help. Still, he tried. He put a cautious hand on my back and rubbed it slowly, gently.

Think! Think! One thing at a time! I need to wear clothes. This man is helping me. One thing at a time.

I slowly regained my composure and let Henry know I was ready to go.

Inside, the shop was very girly. The man behind the counter greeted Henry, who in turn said he needed to buy me a few dresses.

A few? Wow.

The man finally looked at me in my tent, his eyes widening. He quickly glanced back at Henry as if to size him up, but the latter was calm as ever.

Soon, I was trying on dresses.

Then our destination rose up amid the fields .s book, and Henry gave him some money.

"I really appreciate this, Henry," I said when we were back in the coach.

"Mr. Baldwin."

"What?"

He sighed.

"It is inappropriate for a young girl to call a man by his first name. Honestly, child, did no one teach you manners?"

Shit. I really messed that one up. That's right. 19th century. I have to be proper. I've read a lot of period novels and watched a lot of period tv. Thank you, Bridgerton. I can do that.

"Apologies, Mr. Baldwin," I correct. "I can do better. Your generosity is deeply appreciated."

I even bowed my head a little and offered a sheepish smile. He looked stunned at my reversal.

"That is much improved," he said. "Now then, Miss Swan, we will be going to my cousin's house. He is Mr. Tobias Nickelby. He has many... people in his... employ... I trust you will be well-behaved?"

"Of course, Mr. Baldwin."

He nodded and fell silent, reading his newspaper. I recalled some genealogical research I had done and the newspapers I had searched for obituaries. They published a lot of local social news, like who was passing through, who was visiting whom, whether my grandparents' homing pigeons made it back to Cleveland. I smiled and quietly chuckled to myself at the memory. I wondered what was in this newspaper.

We had to stay in an inn that night. We weren't far from Mr. Baldwin's cousin's house, but it was too far to venture further in the night. He rented me my own room for my privacy. I was grateful. It did not take me long to fall asleep, what with the eventful day and all.

We were back on the road in the early morning, eating breakfast at dawn and heading out of town. By noon, we were almost there.

"Now remember, Miss Swan, you are to call my cousin Mr. Nickelby."

"Yes, of course, sir."

He smiled.

We took a turn east. Thick trees on the right, vast fields on the left. There were men and women out working in the fields, wielding tools and carrying baskets.

Then our destination rose up amid the fields and we turned down the long driveway.

To call Mr. Nickelby's home a house was an understatement. It was a lovely mansion. Lovely until I got a closer look around me. All the workers wore tattered clothes, and none was white. Except for the odd fellow here or there just standing around barking at the others.

I wanted to cry. This was the past. I knew that. This was 1850. Of course slavery was still a thing. But to see it...

"I don't want to be here!"

Mr. Baldwin quickly turned his head at my outburst.

"I can't!"

"What ever is the matter with you?"

Mr. Baldwin sounded more surprised than upset.

"Th-this," I stammered, tears beginning to fall. "This is-isn't ri-ight!"

He looked out as we neared the plantation house's front.

"You are not wrong, child," he nearly whispered. "But we must be respectful of our host."

I wasn't sure if I could do that. I shook my head.

"How is your imagination? Can you pretend they are not there?"

I must have given him quite the stare because he looked back at me with shock.

"Remember your manners."

His tone was almost scolding, but before I could say anything, he was hopping out of the coach.

Mr. Nickelby -- whose formal name I use out of respect for Mr. Baldwin, not the vile filth that owned humans -- greeted his cousin with a roaring "Welcome!" Mr. Baldwin gestured to the coach, and said something about me. The former waved a greeting in my direction and escorted Mr. Baldwin inside.

I had to leave the coach.

I stepped foot onto a working plantation, and I shuddered. I knew from school and documentaries and movies how frighteningly awful they could be. I looked around for something that didn't seem tainted by malevolence, and I saw a small tombstone under a tree.

"That there was Mrs. Nickelby's favorite tree," said a voice behind me.

I turned to find a beautiful woman in a yellow dress and an apron standing about four feet away. I could just make out a scar on her left brow under her hair and a tattoo on her right wrist. She caught me staring at it.

"Come, Miss. There is a room for you."

She led me upstairs to a very frilly room.

"Thank you," I said, my voice catching in my throat.

I caught sight of her tattoo again. I knew it was a brand. I wanted to cry again.

"I am so, so sorry," I say, trying not sob.

"I'm surprised you care, Miss. If I may say so."

"Of course you may. And I promise you: this will all end one day."

She gave me one of those looks adults give children when they've said something so innocent that their naivity is both adorable and sad. I knew this look; I'd given it to my nephews. It broke my heart that she didn't have that hope.

I did not go down to dinner that night. For the next three days, Mr. Nickelby entertained Mr. Baldwin, and I ate what little I could in my room. I never met his daughter, and she never tried to introduce herself to me. Though I understood we were about the "same" age.

Finally, Mr. Baldwin knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He entered, took one look at my I-just-finished-ugly-crying face, and frowned.

"What has you so upset, child?"

I couldn't talk about how I was stuck 171 years before my "present" and so far removed from those I cared for, but I felt I could possibly mention the horrors I knew about and even had seen from my window. I took a deep breath.

"I hate this place," I admitted. "Enslaving humans beings, it's just so wrong!"

He pulled the chair from the corner to the side of the bed.

"Just yesterday, I saw an overseer whip a man so violently that--"

I had to pause. I didn't think I had more in me.

"It was awful. The crack of the whip. The blood. I could tell what it was even at night."

I buried my face in my hands and tried some deep breathing exercises.

"I am sorry, Miss Swan. No child should have to see that."

I looked up at Mr. Baldwin.

"No human should have to endure that," I answered.

My tone was harsher than I would have liked it to be, but Mr. Baldwin didn't show any shock or disppointment.

"Well, we will be leaving in the morning," he said, rising from the chair. "Hopefully you will feel better once we are on our way."

Through the lens of the 21st century, it nearly enraged me that he wasn't more upset by things. Everywhere I looked, everything I saw reminded me that I was in 1850, yet I could not wrap my head around what I knew to be an ass-backward, hateful, ignorant way of life.

It was somewhat of a relief that Mr. Baldwin at least also disagreed with what those in the south were doing.

It took two weeks to get to Philadelphia. I was relieved to be in the North. I was just about to ask Mr. Baldwin if I would be staying with him.

"I have written ahead to a cousin of mine here in Philadelphia," he told me over breakfast. "She is a teacher at a school for girls, and I have secured you a room there."

I was stunned.

"Do not leave your mouth hanging open, young lady."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baldwin. I'm just surprised."

"Why? You can read. You are an intelligent girl. Why shouldn't you go to school?"

Well, I can't disagree. I've always loved school, but it's a little elementary for me, my dear Baldwin. I do have advanced degrees.

"You are always so generous, Mr. Baldwin. I wish I deserved it."

"I will leave you with an allowance, and I will send more regularly."

I was speechless. This sort of kindness always made me feel uncomfortable, and I couldn't understand why anyone would want to dote on me.

"Why are you so kind to me, Mr. Baldwin?" I asked quietly.

He smiled and placed his napkin on the table.

"Come, I want to make a stop first."

The stop, it turned out, was for me. Mr. Baldwin took me to a bookstore on our way to the school and told me to pick out anything I wanted. Of course, the books I really wanted to read weren't out yet. But I found a few.

"This may be the most generous thing you've done for me yet," I smiled.

"I'm glad you're happy," he he said with a chuckle. "We are near the school, so you can always come back here."

"Oh, I will."

I wondered about the possibility of somehow getting home and bringing some mint condition first editions with me.

He wasn't wrong; the school was very close. His cousin, much nicer to look at and not a slaver, welcomed us in. She was warm and comforting, not unlike Mr. Baldwin. He left as night fell.

She showed me to my room, which I would share with another girl, Anne. Anne was quiet and very hard to get to know; she mostly ignored me. When I wasn't in class, I was often upstairs reading, sometimes under my blanket, but only when the sun was bright through the windows.

I received regular letters from Mr. Baldwin and his wife, which I did not expect. She seemed like a lovely woman to know. I hoped I would get a chance to meet her.

The Baldwins went to Boston for the holidays. Mrs. Baldwin's father was there, and he was ill. I was glad she had a chance to visit with him. I was homesick, too. I wondered how my mother was and if the nursing home was treating her kindly.

I frequently visited the bookstore, found a few others, and scanned newspapers for any bizarre stories that could be like mine. But to no avail. I had no other way to figure out how to get home.

Late in the spring, I received a letter from Mrs. Baldwin inviting me to stay at their home for the summer months.