I grew up working in a regency-era American country village.
It was called a “living history museum,” which meant I dressed up in period clothing and pretended not to notice any planes that flew overhead. Think Colonial Williamsburg, but 1830s Indiana.
Most of the time on the grounds, I was the kitchen maid. I got very good at churning butter (pro tip: avoid working at high noon, or the butter will just melt back into hot buttermilk froth). I gardened. I tended to the hogs. I used corn cob bristles and lye soap to scour dishes clean.
Basically, if the zombie apocalypse happened, you better believe I was set.
Of course, the zombie apocalypse did NOT happen. Only college, and then grad school, and then a career that swapped all those petticoats for Outlook pings.
And, as Bridgerton took over our Netflix screens (incidentally, during an apocalypse of a very different kind), I remembered my time in America’s regency era, on the museum grounds.
In character, we all had sipped tea in crowded parlors. Attended dances. Gossiped and courted and laughed. Maybe we could’ve even fallen in love, with stories unfolding very much like anything in those English country homes.
Except, it would all be taking place in a small American village. Not across the pond. And with nary a Duke in sight.