Only Some Snippets {and a giveaway...}

I'm giving away one free copy of Only a Novel this week... so if you're interested in reading the book, hop on over to Yet Another Period Drama Blog to enter the giveaway! In the meantime, I thought I'd take the opportunity to give you a little taste of what you're getting yourself into.  I know I wouldn't enter a giveaway unless I knew a bit about the book I was hoping to win, so without further ado...

***

“We’re memorizing all the kings of Judah in Sunday school,” Isabelle confided to Rodney as they meandered down the road. “And I know more than Jonathan already.”
“Fighting words,” said Rodney warningly, but he sounded amused. “And how many do you know?”
“Um… well, I know more than Jonathan.”
“You do not,” said Jonathan.
“I do so.”
“Well, suppose you show us,” said Rodney, and Isabelle promptly launched into a long list of names, pronouncing Solomon correctly and sadly butchering the rest.


“Miss Markette,” Mr. Rowe droned, “your grandmother desired that this check in the amount of one hundred and fifty dollars be presented to you when she…ahhhhhhhh…” He seemed to be searching for an appropriate euphemism, and stretched out his hesitation until Elizabeth feared the “ah” might snap.
“…Depaaaaarted this earth,” Mr. Rowe decided. “And she desired that I be the one to present you with the… errrrrrrrr… funds.” He poked a long, thin hand into his long, thin pocket and withdrew a paper. Peering shortsightedly at the writing, he adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles—the only thing about him that was small and round—and nodded in a self-satisfied manner. “Aaaaaahhhhhhh, yes. Everything seems to be in order.”


“You must meet the nephew of my dear friend Mrs. Wakenshaw,” Lady Fagles boomed. “Lieutenant Scarborough is a MOST excellent young man, as Miss Bancroft can testify, can you not, Miss Bancroft? Most eligible, as well! I am afraid, Miss Bancroft, that Miss Markette will prove to be some competition for you.”
Lavinia only nodded and turned away as soon as was politely possible. She evidently was not at all interested in the most eligible Lieutenant Scarborough.


Elizabeth swallowed hard and forced herself to smile and greet the children. “Good afternoon,” she squeaked. Ugh.  Hastily, she cleared her throat and tried to look like an intelligent human being. She achieved this effect by elongating her neck and widening her eyes—but now she felt even more like an imbecile than ever and quickly rearranged her face back into its previous expression, intelligent or otherwise.


They might have sat there smiling timidly at each other all day long—an occupation that might not be the most profitable in the world—if Mercy had not wandered in.


People in books always tossed and turned in bed when they could not sleep, but Elizabeth had never found this procedure very effective. Instead, she lay rigid in her bed and stared in the general direction of the ceiling. It would have been rather difficult to stare at the ceiling itself, as she could not see it. This was because the lamp was out and if it had not been for the tiny sliver of light leaking under the door from the hall, the room would have been almost pitch dark. She wondered how dark pitch was, and what it looked like, and who had coined the simile about it. Probably Shakespeare; he had come up with practically every other idiom in the English language.


Ah, well, it can’t be helped. As I said before, I must make an effort to be charming. Of course I shouldn’t be too charming, or else he might fall desperately in love with me, and then I would be in a pickle.  [this italicized bit comes from a letter written by Lavinia]


“What will we do?” Jonathan repeated.
“We could play checkers,” said Elizabeth, feeling inspired.
“Most of the men are missing,” said Isabelle, “and only two can play anyhow.” Elizabeth had not seen this as a problem; they could have played while she retreated with a book, but if the pieces were missing there was not much she could do about it. Her inspiration sagged.
“We could organize the bookshelves,” she hazarded.


“What sort of things do you write?”
“Adventure stories, mostly.” Mr. Pickering blushed. “I wrote a little one recently about an elephant hunt—I’ve never been on an elephant hunt, but I always thought it sounded rather intriguing.”
Elizabeth privately wondered if the poor elephant found the idea intriguing, but did not say this aloud.