WIP Wednesdays

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Reflection characters on WIP Wednesday

Every hero and heroine needs someone to talk to, even if it is only their pet. How else is an author to let the reader know what’s going on in the character’s head? A reflection character is a bit more than a sounding board. A reflection character gives our protagonist a timely push to be the person they can be.

This week, I’m looking for excerpts where your hero or heroine is talking to their friend. Mine is from House of Thorns. My hero Bear is about to be confronted by his manservant.

Bear was examining the tankard from which he had been drinking. He was nearly sober again, since he’d slept properly for the first time since leaving his poor wife crying in the garden. He could finish the tankard and demand another, or he could go home and pay for his sins. Neither option was appealing.

He looked up as a shadow fell across his table. “So, there you are, Mr. Gavenor.”

“Jeffreys?” What was his manservant doing here?

“Two days, I’ve been looking for you.” Jeffreys shook his head slowly. Even watching the motion sent Bear’s head and stomach into rebellion. “Ever since you run off from poor Mrs. Gavenor, leaving her in such trouble.”

“Rosa is in trouble?” That brought him to his feet, though he groaned as the full weight of his headache hit him.

Jeffreys leant a supporting hand to Bear’s elbow. “Need to get you cleaned up so you can go home and help her.”

“Redding can help her,” grumbled Bear.

Jeffreys cast his eyes upward and sighed. “That’s just nonsense, and you know it. He’s telling people he got his black eye when he rescued Mrs. Gavenor from that swine Pelman, but Pelman is saying you gave it to him. And if you did, then you should be ashamed, sir. And Pelman, too, assaulting the poor lady with her father sick and the poor London lady on her deathbed.”

“Mrs. Clifford is dying? Hell and damnation, Jeffreys. I have been an ass.”

Jeffreys kept his face bland. “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t presume to argue with you, sir.”

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Weddings on WIP Wednesday

My House of Thorns is for a series about Marriages of Inconvenience, which means the wedding falls about halfway through the book. Do you have a wedding scene in your book? Please share in the comments. Here’s mine.

Rosa glowed. It was the only word Bear could find to match the reality. From the moment Jeffreys had handed her down from the chaise and delivered her to Bear’s waiting arm, he had been awestruck. She had gained a little weight in the weeks since he first met her, and of course she was wearing a pretty new gown. But there was more to the change than added curves and fine feathers. She looked happy. Happy and confident. The glow suited his fairy but made Bear nervous. It would be over to him to keep her happy, and he was by no means certain he was up to the job.

The usual Sunday service first, where their banns were read for the third time, and then the wedding ceremony. Bear had Caleb as his witness, and Rosa had asked Sukie.

Neatham, neatly dressed and carefully attended by Jeffreys and Maggie, sat in the Thorne Hall box, watching the proceedings with interest. “I am glad he married her,” he said loudly, at one point. “Rosie will be pleased. She does worry about Belle.”

Bear had assumed that would be all the congregation, but many of those who’d been to Matins stayed on, and Bear and Rosa exited to the church to the acclaim of dozens of well-wishers.

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The first meeting on WIP Wednesday

I’m doing the final changes and a line edit on The Realm of Silence before sending it to the copy editor, and I’ve just been working on the first meeting — or, at least, the first meeting in this book. Gil and Susan have known one another since they were children.

So this week, I wanted to share the first meeting in this book, and invite you to share the first meeting of your main characters. Here mine is from Gil’s point-of-view. He has just arrived at an inn in Cambridge to find Susan asking the stable master and an interested crowd whether they have seen her daughter.

Four years since he had last crossed verbal swords with Susan Cunningham, and she looked no older. Did the infernal woman have the secret of an elixir of youth? She had been widowed long enough to be out of her blacks, and back into the blues she favoured: some concoction that was probably the height of fashion and that both hid and enhanced her not insubstantial charms.

As always, she was perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, and perfectly behaved. And he undoubtedly looked every bit as if he had been travelling for four days; two weeks apart from the brief stopover in Derby with Mina.

He opened his mouth to reply, and changed his mind when the watching crowd leaned forward to catch his words. “Is there somewhere we can discuss your business in private, Mrs Cunningham?”

That fetched a considering nod. “Miss Foster, may I present Colonel—no, Lord Rutledge? He and I grew up on neighbouring estates. Lord Rutledge, Miss Foster’s niece Patrice is, we presume, with my daughter.” She indicated the child standing nearby, with Miss Foster firmly gripping her shoulder. “Patrice’s sister Clementine. But shall we seek privacy for our discussion?”

Until this moment, Gil had wondered if he was setting up a false trail. After all, he was not certain he’d seen Amy in Stamford. Why would the goddess be hunting for her in Cambridge if she was a day’s hard ride away? But the girl had been dressed like the child Clementine, and was of the right age and appearance. Besides, if he were wrong he’d make it up by devoting himself to helping with the search. He was in no hurry to arrive at the interview in Essex with his reluctant sister-in-law.

He gave Moffat the nod to deal with their mounts and the packhorse, and followed Mrs Cunningham into the inn. Susan, his mind said, though underneath were earlier names. Joan. Athene. Boadicea. Her father had named his sons for kings and emperors who led successful armies. His daughter, too, was named for warriors: a saint, a goddess, and a queen. The ten-year-old girl who followed the boys at their games demanded and won a more common name, but to his mind it had never suited her the way her baptismal names did.

He expected her to demand answers as soon as they were private, but she had never behaved like the other women he knew. She stood, seemingly at ease, one golden brow arched, and waited for him to speak. She took his breath away. She always had.

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Character studies on WIP Wednesday

I’m back at the beginning of the process again. House of Thorns is off to the publisher, and The Realm of Silence is having line edits and a few rewrites after beta reading, and will be with the copy editor by the end of the weekend. So it is time to start again, and I have two stories waiting in the wings.

So far, I have only the sketchiest of plots. I need to write those down, and then I need to do character sketches for the main characters. As I get to know them, the plot will firm up, and I’ll be able to fill out my hero’s journey sheets, exploring their external and internal story arcs. Then I start writing the story, and let the plot reveal itself as I go.

So this week, I’m giving you a snippet of a character interview — one I did for Rosa Neatham who is the heroine of House of Thorns. How do you get to know your characters? If you write stuff down about them, or interview them, will you post a bit in the comments?

A wish or dream: I would love a place of my own; somewhere that belongs to me, and that no one
can put me out of. Somewhere I can grow a few roses, and perhaps keep a cat to sleep by the fire
and keep me company.
One thing that makes your character laugh: Many things. I do believe that my sense of the
ridiculous has saved my sanity more times than I can count. Finding the humour in things was a
game I played with my mother, and playing it still makes me feel close to her.
A fear: I am afraid, so afraid, that I will fail my father. I am afraid that Bear will not return, and that
I’ll be left to the mercies of the steward. I would rather die. I would rather sell myself to the first
man that passes. Oh, I hope Bear comes back.
Something they’d like to learn: How to attract Bear so that he wishes to bed me again. I am sure I
did something wrong the first time, but I have no idea what.
Something they’d like to forget: My wedding night. It was memorable, but not in a good way.
Something they’d never do: I would never disgrace or leave my father. Never.
A quirky habit: I have a pocket tied under my skirts into which I put my paintbrushes.
A secret: I would secretly like to know why someone would wish to be a courtesan, and how one
goes about it.

And the two stories I’m about to start?

One is a contemporary for a summertime anthology for Authors of Mainstreet. The unifying theme of the book is summertime at the beach, (which for me, in New Zealand, means December/January).

I know my heroine is an environmentalist lawyer, fighting corporates and governments on the world stage. Burnt out after her latest case, she has come home to a small community on the Wairarapa coast, to the bach (New Zealand North Island word for a holiday house; the South Island has cribs instead) she used to visit as a child. Wanting to do repairs,  she calls on a local building firm, and finds that she once faced the man they send over a courtroom.

The hero was once part of the high-powered business world. Heir to a huge family-owned company that made chemicals and medicines, he had trained as a lawyer, and fought for the continuation of his family’s privilege. His conscience pricked by a feisty lawyer, he had begun to check his facts, and his odyssey brought him here: estranged from his family, disinherited, working with his hands, and happier than he has ever been in his life.

Storms and coastal change play into it, and I can predict sparks will fly. I hope one of them will turn into a title!

The second is late eighteenth century, and is set mostly in Persia and partly in the Kopet Dag mountains between Turkmenistan and Persia. And yes, it is about James Winderfield, father to the hero of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, and his wife Mahzad. It takes place sixteen years earlier than Bluestocking, so 1796. I’m busily researching Persia at that time, since interesting things were happening. The story is for the Bluestocking Belles Christmas anthology, which has a prodigal daughter theme.

In my story, Mahzad returns to Persia to visit her dying father, whom she last saw when he sent her off as to China on the command of his Khan, as a gift to the Chinese emperor. With James’ help, Mahzad had escaped in the mountain passes of Kopet Dag. Things are vague after that. I need to read up a lot more about Persia and surrounding nations in the time my story covers, since I think I’ll be doing a few flashbacks. James doesn’t approve of Mahzad’s trip. I know that. He doesn’t trust the Persians. And Mahzad’s English grandmother, who raised her and who helped her escape comes into it somehow.

All shall be revealed. Character sketches first.

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Clothing on WIP Wednesday

Today, I’m looking for excerpts that include a description of clothing. I’m not a great one for writing these, but sometimes they really matter to my characters. I recently included in a blog post the clothes that Aldridge wore to Becky; his waistcoat was a subtle jab at Hugh. Often, a person’s clothes (observed by the protagonist) tell our hero or heroine — and the reader — something about that person. Sometimes, the protagonist’s reaction tells us something about them. In House of Thorns, I have Bear making assumptions about Rosa based on her clothes.

Which left him here, with an unknown female under his roof and not another human being within a fifteen minute walk, if Pelman was to be believed.

He peered more closely at the female in question. Could she be Pelman’s sister, come to secure her position? On the whole, he thought not. She looked nothing like the rather fleshy steward, whose receding hair was a dirty blonde rather than this tiny lady’s rich chestnut. Besides, would Pelman dress his sister in near rags, neatly mended and clean, but much washed and threadbare? And the boots displayed by his careless disposition of her skirts were likewise clean and polished, and worn to the point that the woman had tucked cardboard inside the sole.

Poor thing.

And I’ve just written a description of Rosa’s gown for her wedding.

Once Sukie had been despatched with the dressmaker’s maid to fetch Rosa a cup of tea, Rosa asked the dressmaker for directions to a place she could send her letter. Delighted that it was no more than a couple of streets away, she then put the letter out of her mind to focus on the gown.

It was the most beautiful gown Rosa had ever seen; not the light-weight shimmering silk that Bear had initially picked, suitable only for evening, but a figured silk in a slightly heavier weave, made up as a day gown, with a modest scooped bodice and long sleeves. The dusky pink ground bore a repeated motif of stripes and flowers, and the effect had been enhanced by embroidery on the cuffs and hem, using the same shapes and slightly darker colours.

The dressmaker and her seamstresses fussed over the exact fit of the bodice, and the length of the cuffs. There was a pellise, too, short waisted and in a darker rose.

She enjoyed the fitting much more than she had expected, which made the hour fly past. “We have little to do, ma’am,” the dressmaker said, at last. “An hour, no more. You are welcome to wait, or if you have errands…?”

An hour. With the rest of the hen money in her reticule, and a wedding present for Bear to purchase, it would be barely enough.

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Penitence on WIP Wednesday

I had two choices today, since Wednesday this week is both St Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent. I’ve gone with penitence, saying sorry, or failing to do so when it was called for.

Do you have that in one of your stories? Share an excerpt. Doesn’t have to be a main character, either, although mine is. In both of my current works-in-progress, my main characters put their foot in things. Here’s my hero Bear realising that he has messed up. Don’t worry, Bear. You’ll do worse before the story is over.

As Bear drove away from the cottage later that day, he was berating himself for being every kind of idiot.

Today, he had failed Rosa not once, but several times. First, he should have realised she had nothing fit to wear to church. He’d see the much-mended and faded gowns she wore every day, and knew she’d had little to no income for years. He’d had not time to repair the matter, since it wasn’t until she paled and stiffened at the church gate that he’d even thought about what she was wearing.

What courage she had. Head up, back straight, she’d marched into church beside him as proud as a duchess in silken splendour, and if her hand trembled on his arm not a soul but him would ever know.

Second, he had not thought about the reaction of the villagers when they heard the banns. Not until the rector started speaking and the whole church went silent. Then came the buzz of whispers, and Lady Hesquith standing. They brushed through it, thanks to the squire’s intervention and the rector’s support, but Bear could have bypassed the risk by simply not taking her to Matins today.

She’d impressed him again after the service, accepting good wishes with a smile and word of thanks, and ignoring those who glowered from the distance.

Third, he’d mentioned her relationship with the squire’s family, and followed up by telling her the full story. Of course she went straight to her father when they arrived at Rose Cottage, and demanded to know whether it was true.

At first, he had been bewildered by the question, then he took one of his erratic dives into the past, and began berating Rosa, calling her Belle.

“All you thought of was yourself, Belle. You knew better than to sneak off with a gentleman, and no true gentleman would have asked it of you. Especially since Pelman was all but betrothed to your cousin. And look where your selfishness led. You disgraced and abandoned. Your uncle sick from the horror of it all, and your cousin so bitter against you that she has had Rosie thrown out of her home. The best thing you can do for any of us is go back to London and leave us alone.”

And after that, he would only say, “Go away,” until Rosa gave up.

His outbreak seemed to confirm the rector’s story, but raised more questions. How did Pelman get into the story? Not the current Pelman, clearly, since he would have been a small child or not even born at the time of the scandal. And which sister gave birth to the baby?

“Ancient history,” Rosa said, her eyes damp but her lips smiling.

Not ancient as long as it had power to affect Rosa. Bear was two weeks away from vowing to love and cherish her all his life, and he was doing a poor job of it so far.

He could fix the wardrobe; had already invited her to take a day trip to Liverpool with him on the first fine day, so they could buy what she needed without the villagers commenting. He couldn’t help but wonder about Lord Hurley’s will. Did the old man truly make no provision for his librarian and the librarian’s daughter? By all accounts, Mr Neatham had been given a pension when he retired, and Rosa had been Lord Hurley’s pet, whatever the propriety of the relationship. It needed further investigation.

As for Rosa and her cousins, he had no idea how to fix it. Rosa’s naive belief that families did feud across generations brought a grim smile. She’d never met his mother.

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Danger on WIP Wednesday

Nothing like a nice fictional piece of disaster to get our heart racing. The heroine or the hero has to survive to the end of the book, which is comforting to know, but meanwhile we authors can put them through all kinds of trials.

This week, I’m looking for excerpts about danger — physical, emotional, moral, societal: you decide. Mine is physical, and is from the subsriber-only newsletter short story I’m writing at the moment, with the plan of getting a newsletter out this week.

One more race, and Rhi would be free. No horse in all of England could catch Atlanta. By the terms of her agreement with her father, she had merely to win next week, and he would sign the new will and rip up the old one.

Her resentment rose, all the more fierce because she understood that Father acted out of love. He wanted to see her married to protect her, he said. She was too young, too inexperienced, too female to own and run the finest racehorse stud in Great Britain. And Father was dying, fading a little more with each day, which she resented more than all the rest.

Atlanta tossed her head and whickered, sensitive to Rhi’s mood. She took a deep breath, and another, letting the anger drain from her with the air she exhaled, emptying herself of everything but the joy of the horse’s movement, the freedom of the gallop, the love of the wild heath across which they raced for the sheer glory of the speed.

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Cen watched from the shelter of a copse of trees. The mare lived up to all he’d read about her, and the rider too. He had known Rhiannon Enright would be good, but she had more than lived up to the promise she had shown as a child. Back then, she rode astride — and the gossip in London that had sent him here said she did so still, in the races held once a month for the past four months. Today, she was properly and sedately side-saddle, but the way she raced had nothing proper or sedate about it.

She flowed with the horse, the two moving as one beast, all grace, power, and beauty. The horse was magnificent, but Bucephalus was better.

As if on cue, Bucephalus whickered. Cen had tethered him upwind of the mare, and out of sight, but that meant his stallion was downwind, and would be picking up messages on the breeze. Unlikely that Rhi would hear, but better to play it safe. He’d come to find out if Atlanta was as good as they said; if the heiress was as appealing. Not that he had doubted the latter. She had won his heart when she was a baby just old enough to toddle to the stables and he perhaps a year older, if they’d guessed his age right when they found him. She had been just thirteen and his affection beginning to turn carnal when her father exiled him.

No point in dwelling in the past. The army had given him a new name, new skills, friends and a future, and now he had come full circle to the place where he began, able at last to reach out for the prize he had once believed beyond his reach. He had made up his mind, as if there had been any doubt. He would enter the race, and win her for his bride. Yes, and the stables where once he had been the lowliest of stablehands.

But as Cen stood, taking care to stay behind the undergrowth and to move smoothly and slowly, something caught his eye on the valley floor.

There. Beyond the racing mare. Movement in a hollow screened by bushes. He frowned even as he squinted to refine his focus. Horses; two, no three. And men preparing to mount.

And there! Caught in his peripheral vision, two more horses on a hillock like his own, but on the opposite side of the valley. One of the riders raised his hand in a signal to the men in the hollow, and they mounted, keeping low over their horses’ backs.

A threat to Rhi? Cen made up his mind, whistling the signal that told Bucephalus to pull at the tether and come to him. In the time it took for the horse to trot up the hill, and for Cen to adjust the tack and mount, all five of the stranger riders were ahorse and heading on an interception course for the lone female rider. What was she doing out without a groom?

Rhi had noticed her pursuers, and Atlanta was lengthening her stride, aiming for the gap between the two groups. She had the speed, if she was fresh. But Rhi and Atlanta had been racing the heath for an hour. The other horses were gaining.

Cen and Bucephalus, coming from a different vantage, might be able to put themselves between the chasing men and the woman, if they were fast enough, if she kept on the same tack. At the very least, the rogues might hesitate if they knew he was watching, though men who would assault a woman would not hesitate to dispose of such an inconvenient witness.

Atlanta faltered. Ah. Rhi had seen him. He pointed to the other riders and gestured her to keep coming, and after a moment, she nudged her horse on. But the hesitation had the nearest of her pursuers right on her heels.

The look of mingled panic and determination on Rhi’s face as she approached removed any lingering thought that the scenario might have an innocent explanation. Cen pulled the cudgel he kept in a holster hanging from his saddle, holding it aloft as Rhi passed him, and swinging it down on the shoulder of the man immediately following.

The man behind swung wide as the first rider fell, and kept after Atlanta, but Cen faced two more, and beyond them another, muffled in a greatcoat and scarf, shouting, “It’s only one man. Get rid of him.”

Cen grinned. Only one man and his horse. More than enough, though they were coming at him with guns. At his cue, Bucephalus spun around and caprioled, his hind hooves connecting solidly with one of the attacking horses as Cen ducked a bullet and threw the knife from his sleeve at the rider of the other.

A shout from the direction Rhi had fled caught his attention. A party on horseback, and known to Rhi, apparently, for she continued her wild gallop towards them. And the would-be assailant who had followed her had pulled up, and was looking back for directions.

In moments, the attack was over, the fallen men collected by their companions and the group fleeing back the way they had come. Cen let them go. A sting in his arm hinted that he hadn’t entirely evaded the bullet, but it was no more than a scratch.

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Gossip and scandal on WIP Wednesday

Gossip and scandal are the refuge of the bored, and our stories abound in people who have too little to do and too much time to take an interest in the doings of their neighbours, sometimes with malicious intent.

Today, I’m looking for excerpts where gossip, or the consequences of gossip, take centre stage. Mine is from House of Thorns.

Two weeks of mostly fine weather saw the standing part of Thorne Hall made weather tight, and had the local farmers scurrying to salvage what they could of the harvest. Papa seemed slightly better, too, enjoying daily outings in his chair as he lectured Brownlee on herbal lore and the romance poetry of medieval France.

Rosa’s new gown was delivered, and she wore it to Matins on the second fine Sunday with the new bonnet and shawl, feeling a guilty delight at outshining those who had scorned her. With an effort, she reminded herself that she was here to pray, not to show off her fine feathers, and she did penance by praying for the Pelmans and the Benfords.

The two women were waiting outside, talking to the vicar who had ridden over from a neighbouring parish since the rector had gone to stay with relatives for his convalescence. He was a young man, new to the area, and employed to cover the parish for an incumbent who had another living in Lancashire. “The wages of sin, I assure you,” Rosa heard Maud Benford say.

Rosa set her jaw, straightened her back and swept up to them, holding out her hand to the vicar as the other two drew away as if to avoid contamination. “Vicar Watson. I am Mrs Hugh Gavenor My husband and I own and are restoring Thorne Hall. I see you have already met my cousin, Maud, and her friend.

The vicar, with a nervous look at the other two women, tentatively took her hand and bowed slightly. “Mrs Gavenor. Ah… Er…”

Before he could figure out a way not to take sides, or to decide which side to take, a relief force of Rosa’s supporters joined them, introducing themselves and taking over the conversation. Miss Pelman and Mrs Benford withdrew, and the vicar, though not without several sideways glances at Rosa, accepted her presence in the middle of the chattering group.

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The would-be other woman (or man) on WIP Wednesday

In my stories, I quite often have a rival for the position of beloved. Usually one that the hero or heroine would not consider, and often a villain or villainess. It adds a certain something to contrast my innocent heroine with a nasty harpy, or my honourable hero with a wicked deceiver.

Lots of authors do the same, from what I’ve observed, so today, I’d love to see a snippet of a scene with someone who is NOT the one.

Mine is from House of Thorns. My hero is seeking help for the lady who has injured her ankle at his house, going to the only two people he knows in the village: the man who acts as steward for the property he has purchased, and the man’s sister.

“I am not here about Miss Neatham’s housing, though she must find her new accommodations very poor after Rose Cottage. Could you not find her anything more suitable?”

“In an instant, if she can afford to pay. She has no income, Gavenor, and will not be able to afford the place she is in for long.”

“Pride is cold comfort when the roof leaks.” The new voice was redolent with satisfaction. This would be Pelman’s sister. No fairy this one — rather, a hearty country-woman with the undefinable resemblance to a well-bred horse that seemed to characterise the type.

“Livia. Allow me to present Mr Gavenor, the gentleman who has purchased the Hurley estate. Gavenor, my sister.”

Bear bowed. “Charmed, Miss Pelman.”

She simpered. “Mr Gavenor, how delightful that you have joined our little community.” She prattled on about the paucity of social equals and the joys of a visit to Liverpool, not far distant across the Mersey.

That was a prime attraction of the estate. Many of those making their fortunes in Liverpool’s shipping and woollen industries would want to a country place to mark their arrival in the netherworld between their middle class origins and the upper classes who would never accept them. And Thorne Hall was ideally suited, though not if your interests were in London. The new Baron Hurley was a London man to the bone, and had been glad to get rid of the place. Bear had paid a price that would make him money even if he had to raze the ruin to the ground and start again.

Miss Pelman was attempting to dig into his plans. He ignored the hints; time enough for her to disapprove when they were accomplished.

“You may be able to help me, Miss Pelman,” he said.

“Pelman told me you have need of a housekeeper, Mr Gavenor, and I would be willing to fill the position. On a temporary basis, as a favour. You understand that I would need maids to do the actual work, of course.”

“I do not need a housekeeper, Miss Pelman. Though it is kind of you to consider it.”

“Oh? Then you have someone?”

“I have my manservant. No, Miss Pelman, that was not the favour. I…” He stopped to consider his words before he put himself and Miss Neatham in the suds. “I happened to chance on a Miss Neatham, who has twisted her ankle and is unable to return to her home tonight. I offered to check on her elderly father, and found him in some distress. Can you recommend a neighbour who might be willing to look after him for the night, until Miss Neatham is able to make appropriate arrangements?” There. That was all true enough without giving this witch some scandal to hold on to.

But it didn’t satisfy.

“Miss Neatham? Rosabel Neatham? Where is she staying? Who is she staying with?”

“A cottager has taken her in,” Bear said. “Terrible weather to be out in, too. The lady is fortunate she was close to somewhere dry.”

“Lady! Well some might call her a lady, I suppose.”

“Mr Neatham, Miss Pelman?”

“I suppose Mrs Able might oblige. She does sick bed nursing and laying out and the like. I shall give you a note. No. Better. Wait for me to get my cape and I shall take you.”

“Thank you. I won’t ask you to come out in this rain. A note and directions, and I shall manage perfectly.”

“Not at all, my dear Mr Gavenor. Why, we are neighbours now, and one must help ones neighbours. I insist.”

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Moving the courtship along on WIP Wednesday

I’m writing romance, which means courtship. Even if the relationship gets off to a rocky start or hits a rocky middle, courtship has to come into it, or there’s no romance and no story.

So this week, I’m asking for a scene that shows a crucial step in the courtship. It could be a step forward, or a step back. You decide. But something that changes the relationship. Mine is the proposal scene from House of Thorns. It is still at the all dialogue stage, and will probably change on the redraft, but here it is, raw, awkward, and as is.

“Miss Neatham, the Rector came to tell me that the village has been talking.”

“I expected it. When do you wish us to move out? I can put my weight on my ankle again.”

“I do not wish you to move out, though I will move into the village for a couple of weeks.”

“But your work… A couple of weeks… What can you mean?”

“I am doing this wrong. Look, Miss Neatham. Rosabel. Would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

“Your wife?”

“It will protect you and your father, and it would suit me very well, too. I need a wife, as these past few days have shown me. Someone to look after my house and make it into a home. I have never been more comfortable. I like having you around.

And it isn’t just that. You would be an asset to my dealings. I need to entertain from time to time, and you would show to advantage with the people with whom I do business. You are a lady to the fingertips, Rosa, and the people who buy my houses would like that.

Also, I need a child. A daughter would be best, because my great aunt’s property must be left to a girl, but we could try again if we had a son, and an heir would be rather a nice thing, I think. I had thought of adopting, but a child needs a mother, and that means a wife.”

“But… I am thirty-six.”

“I am forty-three. Which means we are both still capable of having a child.”

“Surely there are younger women with better connections…”

“I don’t want them. Silly ninnies. No conversation. I like you, Rosa. I like spending time with you.”

“Well, thank you.”

“I don’t want… Rosa, you deserve to have choices, and you won’t have them in this village. If you won’t marry me, will you let me find you and your father a house somewhere away from here, where you can live life without your aunt’s history following you?”

“You know about my aunt?”

“The Rector told me.”

“And you still want to marry me?”

“You are not your aunt, and very few families lack a skeleton or two in their closet. Marry me, Rosa. I will try to be a good husband.”

“You could find a better wife.”

“I’ve tried. And one Marriage Mart was enough. I’m never going back. If you won’t have me I’ll dwindle into a lonely old man.”

“I cannot help but feel that I benefit most from this arrangement.”

“The benefits are two way. You get a home and respectability. I get a home and all the things we have listed.”

“We have no guarantee that I am fertile.”

“That would be true no matter who I married.”

[goes away to think]

“Yes, Mr Gavenor.”

“Then you had better call me Bear. Or Hugh, if you prefer. My great aunt used to call me Hugh.”

“Hugh, then. Thank you, Hugh. I shall try to be a good wife.”