One Perfect Dance

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Male and female persepectives on WIP Wednesday

In this week’s excerpt, my heroine’s son has been sent down from Cambridge for fighting, after a classmate shared some old gossip that insulted Regina. Her brother, the boy’s guardian, has received a letter from the chancellor and comes to growl, but changes his mind when he hears what provoked the fight.

William opened his mouth and then shut it again, finally saying, “Oh.” He then, the cad, turned to Regina and said, “I thought you were going to tell him?”

Regina glared. “We had that discussion three weeks ago, William. Did you expect me to tell him by letter? If Matthew Deffew had not seen fit to share his scurrilous version of the story with his son, we would have been having this discussion when I next visited Cambridge, and Geoffrey would not have an injured hand.”

“Hmm,” William said. “Broke your hand, did you?” He raised an eyebrow and attempted to remain stern, but a smile twitched the corners of his lips. “Broke young Deffew’s jaw with it, I gather. Must have been a good blow!”

“William!” Regina would never understand men. “I thought you agreed with me that this was not the way to quell gossip.”

William had the grace to look sheepish. “Yes, I suppose. But you have to admit that our boy was provoked.” Then he compounded his crime by adding, “Pity we can’t do the same for the little rat’s lying father.”

Regina threw her hands up in the air. “Men! Thinking that a fight solves anything. I am going up to get changed for an afternoon drive with a friend.”

“Anyone we know?” William asked.

Regina wanted to keep her escort’s identity from her menfolk. Which was silly. It was not as if Elijah was courting her. And even if he was, William and Geoffrey had no reason to object. And even if they did… What a ridiculous train of thought. “Elijah Ashby.”

“The travel writer that you and Father used to correspond with?” Geoffrey asked. He turned to William. “I have read all of his books, Unc… um…” He blushed over his own hesitation and then rushed on. “His and Lord Arthur Versey’s, that is.”

In a moment, the two men were exchanging views on the adventures recorded in Elijah’s books. Perfect amity was restored. Regina rolled her eyes and went up to change.

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Scandalous gossip on WIP Wednesday

In today’s excerpt, my heroine’s step-son gets into a fight at university, and is sent down.

In the drawing room, Geoffrey prowled while the tea makings were brought in. When the maids had left the room, Regina patted the seat beside the couch.

“Come and sit down, my darling.”

Geoffrey straightened. “I would prefer to stand, Mother.”

Regina inclined her head. “As you wish.”

“The short story is that I was sent down for fighting. I – Ah – broke someone’s jaw. That’s why I have no money. I gave it all to pay for the doctor and for the nurse who was going to look after him while he recovers.” Geoffrey swallowed, and shuffled from one foot to the other.

Regina waited. Let him tell his story in his own words, and then ask questions.

After a moment or two, Geoffrey took a deep breath and continued. “The Chancellor said that was part of my punishment for resorting to brute violence instead of using my brain. He told me to go home until my hand healed, and to talk to you about what Richard Deffew said.” He sat down like a puppet with its strings cut, flopping any old how into a chair.

“Richard Deffew?” Regina commented. “That would be the gentleman whose jaw you broke, I take it.” Mr David Deffew had mentioned having a nephew at Cambridge.

Geoffrey nodded. “Although he is no gentleman, Mother. I did not mean to hurt him so hard, although he deserved it.”

Regina remembered the threats David Deffew made when he tried to coerce her into an elopement all those years ago. She had a good idea of what he might have said to spark Geoffrey’s temper. Her boy was generally easy-going and slow to anger, but his wrath burned hot when it did erupt. She took a deep breath. Best to know what was said, before she at last told Geoffrey the truth of his origins.

“What exactly did Deffew say?”

Geoffrey blushed. “I won’t repeat his foul words, Mother. But in essence, he said you are my mother in truth, and you were married off to Father — Gideon Paddimore — because you were ruined beyond recovery, and he was your father’s…” He hesitated, looking for a word. “Your father’s intimate friend.” His blush burned deeper.

Regina raised her eyebrows. She had expected Gideon’s reputation to be called into question, but not her own. “I had just turned fifteen when you were born,” she pointed out. “Rather young to be steeped in sin.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey said, but the relief in his tone indicated that the accusation had bothered him. “I knew he was lying, especially when he said Uncle William must be my father because I look so much like him.”

Regina’s eyebrows shot up further. “That would have made him a very precocious twelve-year-old,” she said. “To set the record straight, Geoffrey, I did not give birth to you, and William is not your father.” She paused, wondering how to broach the truth.

Geoffrey gave her an opening. “Do you know, Mother? Who my real mother and father were, I mean. Only, I do look like Uncle William.”

Regina took a deep breath. Gideon, I wish you were here. “You know that we always told you that your father took you into his arms, his heart, and his life when you were a few hours old.” She held out a hand that trembled rather more than she wished.

Geoffrey took it. “Yes, and you did the same when I was two years old and you married Father.”

“I did,” Regina agreed, and continued with what she needed to say. “Gideon was there that day because, when the mother who gave birth to you died shortly afterwards, the midwife sent for her lover.”

Geoffrey’s hand gripped hers and his eyes burned. “My father.”

Regina nodded. “Your father. Gideon was with him when he got the message. Your father was married, Geoffrey. He could not take you home, he refused to put you into an asylum, and he was reluctant to leave you to paid care. But Gideon had already, as he told you, taken you into his heart. He claimed you as his ward, and from that moment on, you were his son and everything but blood.”

Geoffrey’s focus was on the man who had given him up rather than the one who had taken him in. “Did my real father want nothing more to do with me?” he asked, a tremble in his voice.

“He visited you often, my darling, until the day he died when you were only two years old.” Regina had given Geoffrey a handful of clues, but he still didn’t put them together.

“Father told you all of this.” It was a statement, not a question.

Regina nodded again. “Certainly. Once we had agreed to marry.”

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Journeys on WIP Wednesday

Barge haulers on the Volga River

I seem to get a lot of travel into my books, one way and another. My hero in the book I’m writing at the moment has been overseas since his twenty-first birthday. He is now a week shy of his thirty-seventh. My excerpt is part of his journey home (They departed from Ceylon — today’s Sri Lanka — by ship to what we today call Pakistan, then went up through Kashmire to Afghanistan and from there to Kazakhstan. I had to work out the timings, allowing for the monsoons and the northern winter. I think I’ve got it. If you have a journey in a book of yours, please share in the comments.

Nowhere smelled like England. It was raining, but Ash rode anyway, the better to enjoy the sights, smells, and sounds of his homeland. His childhood memories were created in the tame and gentle lands of South East England, the lands their little line of carriages and horsemen were currently traversing on their way from Dover to London.

Artie had put his riding horse on a lead rope when the rain first began, retiring to the family carriage where Rithya, Caroline, and little Gareth travelled in as much comfort as Artie could procure at short notice.

Caroline had been born in March of 1817. Artie had taken a house in a small village in Kazakhstan when Rithya adamantly refused to travel any further while she was, as she complained, larger than an elephant and far less useful. Besotted with his baby daughter, Artie had quelled his restlessness until Rithya pronounced herself well enough to travel. They set off again, with a wet nurse, he is a train of pack animals and a small army of local guards.

After that, Artie travelled as if possessed. No more stopping for weeks or even months at a time, to see the sights and get to know the locals. “I want to leave St Petersburg before the Baltic ices over,” he explained.

In Turkmenistan, they heard about an Englishman who ran shipping on the Caspian Sea, paradoxically known as the King of the Mountains. The man they found in a small port on the eastern shores proved to be the son of the rumoured king, though from his looks, his mother had been a local. He was able to supply space for their party on a ship sailing for the mouth of the Volga River, and also advice on dealing with Russian officials as they travelled up through the waterways of that enormous empire.

The river travel took longer than expected, and they spent Christmas at the Winter Palace of the Tsar in St Petersburg.

Tsar Alexander was delighted with his visitors, whom he proclaimed he knew well, for he had read all of their books. Artie, in particular, was a favourite, his birth making him, in the Tsar’s eyes,’his British cousin’.

The nearby port was frozen over. Indeed, the ice blocked much of the sea for hundreds of miles. The Tsar assured them they could stay as long as they wished, but Artie insisted on taking an overland route, by troika, to Klaipeda, which was ice free. Somehow, he managed to charm the vehicles and their teams, an escort, and a ship out of the Tsar.

Perhaps it was because Rithya was with child again, and the childless Tsar and Tsarina were enchanted with Caroline, and anxious to do all they could to make sure Artie was back in England “for the birth of your heir, my cousin.”

So, at last, in the middle of February, after being storm-diverted to Calais where Rithya gave birth to Gareth, they arrived in Dover.

Travelling by gentle stages, they spent two nights on the road and were now approaching London. Their sixteen-year journey was all but over.

 

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Being compromised on WIP Wednesday

The compromise is a stock scene in regency romance. Maybe when two people in love are caught unawares. Perhaps an accidental encounter that is seen and misinterpreted. Or, as in the scene I’ve shared below, an evil plot by a fortune hunter and a female snake, aided and abetted by my heroine’s own mother.

Perhaps you have one you’d like to share in the comments.

Regina put up her parasol and strolled down through the garden, nodding to acquaintances. She crossed the lawn at the bottom, and strolled back up the path on the other side. She was approaching the house when a footman hurried up to her. “Miss Kingsley?”

“Yes, that is I,” she said.

“A note for you, miss.” He handed over a folded piece of paper, and hurried away before she could question him.

It was from Cordelia, her friend’s usual neat copperplate an untidy scrawl that hinted at a perturbed mind.

Regina, I don’t know what to do! It is dreadful. I need your advice, dear friend.  I am waiting in a little parlour by the front door—I cannot bear for all those horrid gossipers to see me. Please do not fail me. Cordelia.

Regina didn’t hesitate. She hurried through the house, too anxious to find her mother and let her know where she was going. To the left of the front entrance, a door stood a little ajar. Regina could see a couple of chairs and low table through the gap. This must be it.

She pushed the door wider and was three steps into the room before she realised that Cordelia was not there.

Behind her, the door slammed shut. Regina spun around.

Mr David Deffew stood there, grinning. “Hello, Miss Kingsley. How good of you to join me.”

“Please get out of my way,” Regina demanded. “I am looking for my friend.”

“I would like to be your friend,” Mr Deffew crooned. “But if you mean Miss Miller, she has, or so I understand, left town.”

“It was a trick,” Regina realised.

Mr Deffew’s smirk confirmed her suspicion.

“Get out of my way, Mr Deffew. Whatever you think you are up to, I am not interested.”

“Such fire,” Mr Deffew crooned.

At that moment, someone spoke on the other side of the door. Suddenly, Mr Deffew leapt on Regina, crushed her in his arms, tore at her dress, and pressed sloppy kisses to whatever part of her face he could reach as she struggled.

The door burst open, and people crowded into the room. Miss Wharton, exchanging triumphant glances with Mr Deffew. Regina’s mother, looking smug. Lady Beddlesnirt, one of the most notable gossips of the ton. Others, too, all expressing gleeful horror.

Regina broke free of Mr Deffew and ran to her mother. “It is not what it looks, Mama. Mr Deffew tricked me. I got this note!” She held it up and Miss Wharton snatched it out of her hand and threw it in the fire.

Mama turned to Mr Deffew. “Shame on you, sir.”

Mr Deffew bowed. “I was overcome by love, Lady Kingsley. I will make it right, of course.”

“A betrothal,” Mama announced to the room.

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The social setting on WIP Wednesday

 

For once, I’m setting a novel largely in Society, with my heroine–at least in the first quarter of the novel–a 17-year-old debutante. (In the second and larger part, she will be a 32-year-old widow.)

So I’ve been exploring a ballroom and social engagements setting through the eyes of a very young woman. And boy, as every Regency reader knows, there were some bad girls in those Regency ballrooms. My excerpt covers an encounter Regina had with three of them. If you’re an author, please share an excerpt in the comments showing how one of your characters gets on when out socialising.

It was good that she had a good memory for faces and names, for every outing introduced her to new acquaintances, and she soon gathered a bevy of regular admirers. Mama was over the moon, but Regina did not believe that any of them were serious in their pursuit. Somehow, admiring Miss Kingsley had become the fashion.

Making friends of the other ladies proved to be more difficult. Here, her looks and her wealth apparently counted against her. The other reigning beauties treated her like an interloper, and less favoured ladies regarded her with the same cautious distance as they applied to the beauties.

That changed one day when she overheard Miss Wharton and her two bosom friends in the ladies retiring room one evening, attempting to cow another girl. Regina was behind the screen when they entered, three of them clearly on the heels of the other.

“Please, leave me alone.” Regina didn’t recognise that voice, but she did recognise Miss Fairchild’s falsely sweet coo.

“Oh, girls, Miss Millgirl wants us to leave her alone.”

Regina had not met Miss Miller, but she recognised the name, even skewed to be an insult. The pretty girl’s mother had come from a middle class family whose considerable fortune was founded on mill ownership. She had secured one of the marital prizes of twenty years ago and some in Society had not forgiven the trespass.

Miss Wharton hissed. “Go home and we shall leave you alone. You stink of the shop, and we do not plan to put up with you. These are our ballrooms, our suitors. Just because your mother was lucky enough to trap a gentleman, doesn’t mean we are going to let you do so.” The horrid cow.

“Is this because I danced with Lord Spenhurst?” asked Miss Miller.

Miss Plumfield screeched, “You will not do so again.” The sound of fabric ripping brought Regina hurrying out from behind the privacy screen.

All three of them were tearing at Miss Miller’s clothing and hair, while she batted at them, begging them to leave her alone.

Regina caught Miss Plumfield’s raised hand. “I cannot abide bullies,” she announced.

“This is none of your business, Miss Kingsley,” Miss Wharton insisted. “If you interfere, you’ll get the same treatment.”

“Yes,” Miss Fairchild agreed. “Get out of here while you still can.”

“What has happened to the maid?” Regina wondered.

A smug twitch of Miss Wharton’s lips gave her the clue.

“You bribed her to leave, did you? You did not want a witness. Unfortunate for you that I was already here. Come, Miss Miller. Let us go and find our hostess. I am sure she will be interested to know how her guests behave when not under the eye of their chaperones.”

Miss Wharton swung her hand to slap Regina’s face. Regina stepped back. “I would not do that if I were you.” Regina’s mother would have stopped her excursions with the village children much earlier had she known they had taught her to swim, to climb trees, and—most relevant in this situation—to fight.

Slapping would have been regarded by her tutors as a girlie thing to do. If Miss Wharton tried it again, Regina would let her, Regina decided. A red mark on her cheek would be her defence after she punched Miss Wharton in the belly.

Some of this calculation must have shown in her eyes, for Miss Wharton did not repeat the attempt.