It was quite the crush. No hostess could have asked for a better turn out for not just the usual attendees had deigned to appear. No indeed, it was not just the usual belles and beaus but the hermits and recluses, the estranged parents and prodigals sons, and all those malcontented members of the aristocracy who had not ventured into town in decades were suddenly to be seen on couches and in halls, on balconies and in settees conversing with long-forgotten friends and much remembered enemies. To get anywhere one had to push one’s way through clusters of Corinthians and densities of Dandies, all jostling their elbows with young lordlings and aged roues who wielded canes like battle weapons. Bright young debutantes pressed for space among notorious widows in low cut gowns and prudent wives in all their sobriety. The rooms were hot and stifling despite the chill air of early March and all the ladies, regardless of reputation, wielded their fans with no thought of flirtation but only respite from the heat. In spite of these trials the general vibration that shuddered throughout De Warrenne House was one of barely suppressed joviality and eager excitement. One stumbling into this scene would never have supposed that the event that gathered this surging crowd of the Beau Monde together was, in point of fact, not a ball but a wake. Read the rest of this entry »
Out the Other Side
July 8, 2009 at 4:55 pm (Uncategorized)
Alice discovred the lipgloss and the tube of Maybelline mascara behind the volume of love poems she had left in the trunk. Her room was not . . . roomy, the trunk made it less so. However, it made up for its girth by being a good place to store books. The Duke and Duchess had forgotten to provide her with a shelf. Apparently women in the 18th century didn’t read.
“Sweet,” she said pulling out the treasure. Ever since she had accidentally woken up in this place . . . where her name was the same but nothing else was . . . she had been discovering, on occasion and without any reason or rationale she could discern, various little gifts and trophies from the 21st century. They popped into existence, appearing in her room without fanfare, God knew when, possibly in the dead of night. Usually, they were found in the trunk. For example, last week she had discovered her pair of vintage Chanel sunglasses, the ones she had purchased in the East Village on her last trip to visit her cousin, Jimmy in New York. It had cheered her up immensely. She wore them on solitary walks in the garden when no one would be looking. These little items mader her feel protected against the cruelty of a world she had no hold in.
Not that people were cruel here, exactly. They mostly ignored her. So far her deepest and most intimate relationships were with the servants. Having not taken a degree in history she was not entirely sure what the protocol for jumping classes was but she was fairly certain, based on repeated viewings of BBC mini-series based on classic works of literature, that the servant classes were not anymore sanguine about the notion of democracy than the aristocracy. In any case, her being from America seemed to make this a matter to over-look. She was practically foreign and therefore outside of the class-structure to a certain degree. You know, like Hercule Poirot. Read the rest of this entry »
Midnight Phone Calls
July 7, 2009 at 4:28 pm (Midnight)
Tags: Midnight, Phone Call
“Who is this?” she asked the phone with frowning incredulity. It was almost midnight and she had been semi-asleep in front of the TV watching a “What Not To Wear” marathon on TLC.
The phone emited nothing more than a pregnant silence then “Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. Who is this?” The phone growled and she had the feeling that it had been accompanied by an unhappy and rather angry expression.
“Think about it, cherie.”
“Oh god,” she said flatly. “It’s you. What do you want?”
The phone laughed. “Can’t I call and talk to an old friend?”
“No. You’re dead. And more importantly you’ve never called before.”
“Tssssssh, chere. You wound me.”
“Unlikely.”
The phone laughed again.
“Okay,” she said. “How are you?”
“Oh much better,” the phone replied, a light purr in the voice. “My old self again. Did you miss me very much?”
“I have been doing my best to purge you from my memory. Does that count?”
“So you did miss me!”
She laughed. Not on purpose. He surprised it out of her. Damn him!
“A little, yes. I admit it, I do.” She shifted the phone to her other ear and sat up on the couch. “However, I can’t imagine you calling just to shoot the shit. For what reason have you phoned?”
A chuckle. “I have bought you a present.”
“You bought my a present?!” Her voice rose with incredulity. “Really?”
“Oui, go into your kitchen.”
A shiver of nervous unease slithered up her spine. He had been in her house.
“Okay,” she told the phone, hefting herself from the couch and walking to the darkened kitchen. Sure enough, when she flicked on the lights there it was: The Present. And what a present it was. It was a giant blue box, foiled and beribboned in the way only really posh department stores can foil and beribbon.
“Holy . . .” she started. “What is it?” She asked the phone.
More delighted laughter. “Open it and see, my love.”
“Okay. I’m going to put down the phone and put you on speaker.”
“Oui,” replied the phone.
Swiftly, she tore through the foil and the ribbons until there was just the box. This she lifted by the lid, shaking until the bottom dropped out with a clunk and quiver of tissue paper.
“Oohhh,” she told the phone as she tore through the layers of tissue to reveal a fluff of aqua, gold and sea green tones mingling together like jewels in box. “Ohhhhhhhhhh,” she breathed again, carefully lifting out the concoction. It floated downward becoming a dress with a full, gauzy skirt of blue, green and gold tulle and bodice encrusted with opals and crystals. They caught the light, glinting and shimmering, tantalizing everyone of her magpie sensibilities.
“It’s beautiful,” she told the phone. “Of course, I have no where to wear this, but it is beautiful.” She stared at the dress. “It might not even fit. I am on the fat side, if you recall.”
“Of course, it will fit! I had it made for you,” the voice sounded wounded, as if she had levelled some great insult to him by questioning his gift-giving abilities.
“How could you possibly know my measurements?” she frowned at the phone.
“How do you think?” The tone could only be describe as lecherous.
“Well thank you,” she said, choosing to ignore the hot flush that had swept over her and the implications of unrecalled groping. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve always wanted a dress like this.” She smiled at the gown, shaking it a bit to make the jewels glitter.
“Bien! Now put it on, cherie. We are going out. There are shoes in the box as well.”
She leaned over the box. There were, indeed, shoes. “Where are we going?” she asked, well past the point of argument. Sometimes it is best to just humor the French.
“To a very delightful party. There are some men there that I must speak to. It is being held at one of my hotels.”
“The gaudy one?”
“Oui,” the phone laughed. “The gaudy one. Get ready! I will be there soon.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been here,” she stopped, then rephrased. “Let me try again. I don’t think you’ve ever been here that I’ve seen or remember.”
He was laughing. “Tonight, though. An hour, chere?”
“Yes, I think I can do that. My hair might not look fab . . . “
“An hour.” And the phone hung up.
Marles–Chapter 1
June 4, 2009 at 9:16 pm (Marles)
She took out a handkerchief and wiped her dripping nose for the upteenth time. Behind her the ostlers were depositing the last of her baggage in an unceremonious heap beneath a cluster of trees as dripping as her nose. She watched the proceedings with a scowl, ignoring the apologetic man in front of her.
”Now don’t look like that, Lottie my dear. It can’t be helped, now can it? What’s a gentleman like me to say against your guardian’s instructions. Inconvienient it is, but here we are anyway.” He went on like this, shuffling the blame as he always did.
Lottie looked back at him at last, scowl firmly in place. Her nose was already beginning to drip again. She was not happy. Ted was shuffling uneasily from foot to foot, the wig perched on top of his balding head gave the impression, not so much of hair, but of a dead animal whose last charitable act was to warm a skull. The strands themselves were looking fairly unkempt. Beneath, Ted’s expression had taken on a look somewhere between apologetic and blameless.
“Alright then pet. I’m ashamed to leave you here like this, alone and you only just a girl, but I said it before and I”ll say it again, what’s a man like me to say against an Earl’s instructions.”
The horses turned restless, steaming in the cold February air, their bodies rocking forward as if poised to begin a race. There wasn’t anything around but trees and hedgerows. They were at what was a crossroads of sorts, the main road being a broad country lane the like of which is all over England. It was a north-south road and the carriage faced south. It seemed to Lottie as if the horses, the ostlers and Ted, himself, were all full of barely leashed anticipation at the prospect of returning to London.
“The Earl’s men are expecting you and I’m sure as can be that a retinue of servants are just on their way to fetch you.” He gestured vaguely at the east-west road which was more like worn track than anything else.
Lottie scowled more fiercely, feeling a particulary large drip running down from her nose to puddle unattractively on her top lip. “I don’t see why I can’t stay with you.” She whined, not really wishing to stay with Ted but feeling panicked at the idea of the Earl.
“That’s not for me nor you to say then. It was your Papa’s decision and it now it’s in the hands of lawyers. I couldn’t have taken you on in case, Lottie. I’ve got a ticket for a ship to America. My daughter’s in Philadelphia, ya know. Married to a newspaper man there. Has a printing press.” Lottie merely blinked back at him, her frown deepening.
“We’ve got to be off now, pet. Can’t be dawdling in this light when we’ve an inn to make by nightfall. Now, don’t you worry about a thing now. You’re in good hands. The Earl’s one of the most powerful men in England. A better quardian a girl like you couldn’t ask for. Now give us a kiss on the cheek goodbye. And be sure to write to me about how you fare.”
Lottie continued to frown, realizing that at this juncture she was entirely in the hands of fate and the Earl of Clement. She watched Ted’s ratty little figure heft itself into the carriage. The driver gave a shout and the whole unwieldy contraption set off down the road, disappearing from sight over the ridge of the southern hills. In it’s wake was silence. Lottie stood, forlornly for a moment watching the road. Nothing and no one appeared. Having not an inkling to do, nor knowing in what direction the Earl’s estate lay, she plopped despondently onto her trunks and took out her handkerchief again.
“It’s all right,” she told her self firmly, adjusting her cloak around herself. “The Earl knows you are coming. Any minute now someone should be along to fetch you. Then, perhaps, you can have a bath. Life is not the blank and desperate thing which it seems now. You’re just hungry. It’s going to be all right. Everything will be fine.”
But no one came any minute now or later. So Lottie sat and watched the dripping trees and the muddy road. For all the noise and movement she witnessed, she might as well be in a landscape painting. The sky was an iron gray. And it seemed to be nearly nightfall though she knew it was not above two o’clock in the afternoon. But the minutes kept ticking by and the silence deepened. She had no sense of time but as no one came and still no one, she began to panic.
At first, she was merely annoyed but the longer she sat cold and dripping with her own snot and the remnants of rain the angrier she got. When her limbs became stiff, she got up stretched and began a nervous pacing, back and forth in front of the edge of the east-west track, peering occasionally in one direction, then the other, neck stretched out as if by this action she could produce a carriage to take her to the Earl of Clement. The world got darker. Lottie became colder, then numb. At one point, she determined the only thing to do was walk there herself before she recalled that she hadn’t any idea where there was. She turned uncertainly in the center of the road, pivoting in search of a sign post or an omen that might giver her some clue, any clue as where the estate might lay. There was, of course, nothing, nothing but trees and wet and cold and her own increasing misery. She began to become frightened. The trees took on an ominous cast. She started to imagine things, noises where there were none, unfriendly things lurking in the shadows, behind the malicious looking trees. Hopeless, she stopped pacing, scurried back to her luggage which looked as forlorn as she felt, heaped together higgledy piggledy as if no one had cared enought about it to bother setting it down straight. She sat glumly on top of her trunk, curling her knees into her chest then resting her forehead against them. She pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, shaking now more with anger and fear than cold.
“There is no need to panic, Charlotte,” she told herself firmly. Only it didn’t sound very frim at all. Her voice came out strange and watery. It fell dully into the universal silence. It was at this point that she began to cry. Tears for her father, for herself, for all the ills of the world, for the loneliness of this place. Tears expressing every ache of her body, every sorrow of her life that had accumulated in her being until there was just to much and it had to be let out. She cried her frustration, her anxiety and her dread so that when twilight came on (difficult to tell, really, since it had been a twilight sort of day), she was sniffling back the last of her tears, spent and unsure.
It was then that she noticed a noise. Reaching for her ill-used handkerchief, she looked up bracing herself for the worst. Charlotte was of a pessimistic disposition.
“What fresh hell is this?” She muttered, swiping her face with the soggy cloth.
The world was almost dark now and the trees more smudges than actual objects. On the Northern ridge of the road were a pair of horsemen descending down the dark lane at a speed foolish for both the state of the road and the failing light. She shot to her feet, standing on her trunk, torn between terror and relief. This could be the Earl’s servants. Only there was neither carriage nor cart for the baggage. Strangers then, and strangers could be trouble.
As the horsemen approached, they slowed finally reining in their mounts in front of her and her piled luggage. “By Jove!” said the first horseman. “What is this apparition, Ned?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion. I suppose you should ask it.” came the drawling reply.
“I believe I shall.” The first horseman then doffed his hat and addressed her. “Ill met by moonlight, but tell me, fair one what creature are you and from whence you come?”
The second horeseman found this vastly amusing and laughed from his restless seat on his stallion. “Oh, well stated, Nicki. Well stated indeed.”
Charlotte was not pleased. She detested being laughed at. Crossing her arms over her chest she glowered at them. This was more effective than normal because standing on the trunk put her at almost eye level. Not that eyes could be easily discerned in this gloom. “I am Charlotte Chadwick. I am the Earl of Celment’s ward. He was supposed to come and fetch me but he hasn’t. Who the deuce are you?”
There’s nothing like being cold, wet, ill and then abandoned to put on in an irascible mood. At this both horsemen laughed. “It speaks!” said the second.
“And quite rudely as well.” answered the first. “Now child, you are in luck because I am none other than the Viscout Marles and this fellow to my right is my brother, The Honorable Mr. Edward Naughton. You’ll have discerned we are the Earl’s sons if you are as clever as you are rude.”
Lottie made harrumphing noise and scowled deeper.
“Stopping baiting the bear, Nicki.” It was said with amusement. “It’s just a child.”
To Charlotte he said. “Best keep your impudence to yourself, my love. My brother detests being crossed.”
Lottie did not know what to say to this so instead she said, “I should like to leave this place, please.” The world was now entirely dark and Lottie felt even more dripping and miserable than she had before the riders appeared. The fear, thankfully, had abated and had been replaced with a pronounced annoyance, a hatred really for all mankind especially these two merry riders who seemed to have come down the lane just to torment her further and not to rescue her at all. Her nose felt dribbly again and she discovered her head was pounding. Tears threatened, so to disguise this fact she pulled her wadded handkerchief from her pocket for the thousandth billionth time and swiped at her nose. She gave a big sniffle.
From the horseman’s perspective, Lottie looked very pathetic. She was nothing but a chubby bit of girl even if she was standing on a trunk. The Honorable Mr. Edward Naughton thought it very unbecoming of whoever had had charge of her to just leave her here in the middle of the road. Demme, but anyone could have come along. “Here now, Nicki. Shall you take her on your Hellhound or shall I mount her mine?”
“I’ll take the creature.” his brother replied amiably. “Ride ahead won’t you and have Bettles send someone for the child’s things.”
Marles then turned his head towards Lottie. “Who left you here child?”
“I’m not a child and my executioner.”
Marles laughed. “I think, my love, you mean the executor of your father’s will.”
“NO!” cried Lottied beligerently. “I mean my executioner. My feckless, stupid executioner Mr. Theodore Tompkins, Magician.” And here, for emphasis, she blew her nose.
The horses snorted and shifted at the sound and both the gentlemen went into gales of laughter. “Egad, what a prickley little creature. Now stand still while I throw you over my saddle.”
Marles didn’t actually throw her over the saddle but he rode quite close to the trunk and simply dragged Lottie up in front of him. “Ugh! Like a sack of grain, child. Never been on a horse before have you?”
“No!” Lottied clutched Marles, fearing the moving Hellhound. She could feel every shift of the horse’s weight, every breath and it terrified her. The ground seemed much further away on the back of the horse.
“I’m off then.” Cried Mr. Edward Naughton. “I’ll see you both at the house. Arrivederci, piccola creatura.”
“We, too, my disgruntled little sack of hay.” And Marles did something with his thighs that made the horse move forward. Lottie sucked in her breath and held on tighter. “Ease up, sweet. I won’t be able to handle, Hellhound if you strangle me to death.”
Lottie relaxed her grip on his person, mumbling an apology. “Sorry.”
The way was dark and the landscape inscrutable. The sky, having been overcast gave no room for the moon or any of the stars to shine through and cast light on the world. “A dark night is the hunted’s greatest ally.” Marles intoned from behind her. She could feel his chest rumble.
It was a strange, dreamlike ride. Having never been on a horse before nor this close to a young man before, she was rather overwhelmed. Mostly though she just felt tired and as if her head were dismantling itself, getting ready to float away into the black clouds above her. For years afterwards she dreamed about the motion of horse beneath her and the smell of late winter, crisp, cold and with just a tang of life.
