My Dearest Elsie,

I scarce have the strength to hold this pen, my fingers are near numb from scrubbing silver and folding napkins into what Master calls "swans" and I call "lumpy potatoes." Another party tonight; can you believe it? The third this week! The drawing room reeks of cigar smoke and desperation, and Lady Fenwick insists the champagne must be chilled exactly to "the temperature of a winter’s kiss," which I reckon is just a fancy way of saying "freezing," though I wouldn’t know, having never been kissed, winter or otherwise.

The guests arrive in flocks, all feathers and false smiles, rattling on about "the jazz" and "the motorcars" and "the scandal of poor Mr. Pembroke's trousers" (apparently, they were green; how dreadful). I drag myself up and down the stairs with trays of these canapé things shaped like tiny hats. The footmen smirk and pinch my backside when they think no one’s looking.

We don’t clock off till past two, and then I must polish the silver again because Lady says last week’s shine was "lacking in lustre." Lacking in lustre? My eyes are lacking in sleep, my dear, and my soul is lacking in joy. I sometimes think I’ll die folded inside a swan napkin.

But enough of my drudgery—how fares your quiet corner of the world? How is life in sleepy Little Cliphorn, where the most exciting event is when the vicar’s cat climbs the church spire?

Your ever-worn-out sister,
Mabel

Dearest Mabel,

Your letter arrived with the morning post, and I must say, I nearly dropped my teacup.

Oh, Mabel, I envy you your parties! Here, the most thrilling occurrence this week was when Old Man Cricklepit’s goat ate the rector’s sermon notes. The rector had to preach from memory about "the virtues of patience"; how fitting.

We rise at six, we breakfast at seven, we dust at eight, we lunch at twelve, we nap at one, we tea at four, we dine at six, we retire at eight. The clock here doesn’t tick, it snores. Mrs. Wade hasn’t entertained since the Boer War, and even then, she says, "the lemonade was tart, and Colonel Stewart complained of indigestion."

I polish the same silver candlesticks every Tuesday, and they gleam so brightly I fear they’ll start a fire. The Master, bless his heart, spends his days fishing in the same pond, catching the same fish (a grumpy old carp), and releasing him with a solemn bow.

The only excitement is when the postman arrives. Even then, it’s usually just seed catalogues or a letter from Mrs. Wade’s sister, who lives in Bath and apparently writes only about t he quality of the thermal waters.

I sometimes stand before the mirror and wonder - do I even exist? Or am I just a blur in the background of this sleepy play?

Your ever-dull sister,
Elsie

My Elsie,

I have had the most dreadful dream—I was trapped in a cottage with a sermon-eating goat and a fish called Reginald, and I had to polish silver for eternity while a woman in a mob cap droned on about Bath water. I woke in a cold sweat—only to realise, that’s your life!

And then, a thought struck me like a saucepan to the head. A mad, glorious, perfect idea.

Next week, you will receive a telegram: "Aunt Agatha taken ill. Must come at once. Bring smelling salts."

I will receive one too: "Great-Aunt Maud passed. Funeral imminent. Wear black. No lace."

We shall both "travel" to care for our ailing relatives.

But instead, Elsie—we swap.

I shall come to Little Cliphorn and live your quiet life. You shall come to London and endure my champagne-swans and bottom-pinching footmen.

We look exactly alike, after all. Same freckle by the left eyebrow. Same way of tilting our head when we’re suspicious.

We shall switch places for one month. And then, we shall see if anyone notices?

Will Lady Fenwick spot her maid’s sudden love of fishing? Will Mrs. Wade question why her housemaid now flinches at the sound of champagne corks?

I dare you, Elsie. Say you will do it.

Let’s give them something to gossip about.

Your identical, and utterly mischievous twin,
Mabel