Angels with Crossbows and Pillows That Hound People

{{otherwise known as Snippets of Story for December, all of which are taken from How It Began With the Rochesters, which will begin to undergo edits on January 1st.  HUZZAH.}}

“That’s so romantic,” Celia sighed, temporarily forgetting her worry.  “She thinks of the most romantic things sometimes.  Almost makes up for all the frightfully unromantic things she and George do together.  The very idea of a bride and groom making butterscotch cookies for their own wedding reception-- in t-shirts and dungarees, no less.  Where is the poetry in that?”

~chapter 22

“We’re not hitchhikers.”  Francie straightened her blouse and dabbed at her hair, just in case the driver of the approaching car-- no, actually, it was a pickup truck-- was of an attractive sort.

“Geoooooooorge is,” said Celia sweetly.

“Hey,” protested George.  “I’m merely rescuing all you helpless peasants from the dragon of spending the night on the picnic table.  Would you prefer to be the one to ride with a stranger into town?”

~chapter 20

“You could make Alice’s wedding cake, too,” Mark suggested, stealthily swiping a drip of frosting hanging off the edge of Francie’s plate.  “Only with white frosting, so they can put angels with crossbows on the top or whatever it is you put on wedding cakes."

~chapter 10

“Now, Daddy, pillows don’t hound people,” said Celia indulgently, “and besides, Alice and George’s guest room is going to be full of books because the living room is too small for a bookcase, remember?”

“Now, Celia,” Uncle Arnold mimicked, “you have never slept in your Great-Aunt Delores’ guest room and do not know the treacherous character of some cross-stitched pillows, and besides, the lack of space in Alice and George’s guest room will be of no consequence to the grammar school teachers and their kind, thoughtful gifts.  Wait and see.”

~chapter 20

“And only one limb lost to the Loch Cedar Monster,” said Mark brightly, stepping aside to reveal Timmy standing with one leg tucked up under him.  “I’d say this was a successful Fourth of July, all around.  Better than last year, anyway.”

Sylvia knew better by now than to encourage him, but she couldn’t help asking through her laughter.  “What happened last year?”

“Ah, yes, last year,” Celia chimed in, shaking her head sorrowfully.  “Poor Cornelius. It’s just not the same without him.  He was such a good, kind brother, unlike some I could mention...”

~chapter 11

"Mark, for heaven's sake wash your neck already.  You just can't look like that out in the public."

~chapter 13

“Francie already told me not to let him within fifteen feet of Alice’s dress.  How’m I supposed to know how far fifteen feet is without a tape measure?”

~chapter 22

"You cry at the end of everything. You cried at the end of Treasure Island, for heaven's sake."

~chapter 19

Random Snippets from Who Knows When

I haven't done Snippets of a Story since... erm... November.  Cough.  And the fact is embarrassing me just a little. So we won't call these snippets after any particular month--we'll just pretend there are more of them all around, because more snippets would mean I'd been writing more, which would be a nice thing if it were true.

Oh, and everything's from The Rochesters.  Pet project, you know.

“Silence, minions!” Mark shrieked.  “The almighty, the immortal, the legendary crooner Mighty Lord Bing of the Crosby has deigned to grace our humble radio with his illustrious presence.  Fall on your kneeeeeees and hear the angel voice--”

Francie threw an afghan over his head.  “Will you just be quiet and let us listen?”

“Thursday night is game night if everyone’s not busy, usually.”  Celia jammed a large pot into a small one, attempted to shut the cabinet door and, failing, resorted to leaning on it.  “We draw straws to see who gets to pick the games.”

“What kind of games do you play?” asked Sylvia, who was sedately attending to the cutlery drawer.  

“Oh, all kinds.  Sometimes board games, sometimes party games.  Mark almost always picks Monopoly and Francie picks charades. Nobody likes it when it’s Timmy’s turn because he always picks Uncle Wiggily, which gets old really fast, and Alice has a reputation for picking Find The Grammatical Error In This Sentence.”

Sylvia snorted.

“No, I’m not kidding.  We really did play that one time.  Mark and I did a pretty good job of faking snores by the fourth round.  I don’t think we fooled Daddy, but Alice gave up and chose What’s My Line instead.”

Francie put a bowl of egg salad on the table and stared at Celia’s eyebrows.  “What, may I ask, has happened to your face, my dear?”

“She was born that way,” said Mark.  “You’ll get used to it in time.”

Alice put her hands on her hips.  “Celia, wipe off that eyebrow pencil.  I said a little bit.  You look like Groucho Marx.”

“I was practicing my make-up for the wedding,” said Celia, aggrieved.  She put a tentative finger on one eyebrow and brought it down again smudged with black.  “And I do not either look like Groucho Marx.”

“Someone very wise once said that it is better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt,” said George.  “I don’t know who originated the remark, but it must have been someone wise, because nobody quotes stupid people.”

“Don’t be so reasonable,” growled Celia.  “Of course I don’t expect them to come.  I simply intend to have the party without them.”

“How are you going to have a party without any guests?”

“There’s still us.  We make up a pretty large party ourselves.  We’ll have our party, and we’ll have fun.” The murderous look on Celia’s face indicated that fun would be had or consequences would be suffered.

[Sylvia] had tried her hardest not to cry when she first saw her reflection in the mirror—it was as if part of her head had been removed.  All of a sudden her neck seemed much longer and thinner, making her short-haired head appear as if it were sitting atop her shoulders like a giraffe’s noggin.  Added to which, Alice had twisted back some pieces on either side of her head and fastened them with barrettes in what was evidently supposed to be an attempt at softening the blow but really succeeded only in making it look as if Sylvia had giraffe horns. 

Novemberish Snippety Things

I had a "Snippets of Half NaNo" post all planned. I did, really I did.  All nicely laid out, with my favorite bits chosen and organized... in my head.  And here it is almost mid-December, practically Christmas,  A STEP AWAY FROM 2013, and I'm only JUST getting around to it.

C'est la vie.

Anyways.  Snippets of The Rochesters, from November.  Nothing from December yet because I'll do that in January... besides, I've barely written anything this month.

“She doesn’t need this job, Sylvia.  She’s saving to go to beauty school and she doesn’t even have an interest in libraries.  She’s just working here to save up money so she can learn how to curl hair.  She could do that at the grocery store, for Pete’s sake.”  Celia was fuming now.

Mark snickered from the other side of the shelf. “I’ve never seen anybody curl hair at the grocery store.”

“Omelets are not uncivilized,” said Francie indignantly.  “Sylvia, did they ever serve omelets at your school?”

Sylvia, glad to be asked a question and not merely left to vegetate while everyone else did all the work, scrambled for an intelligent reply.  “Um?”

Francie plopped on the sofa beside them.  “Sylvia, where should we start?  How much do you know about the wedding and how much do you need to be filled in on?”

“Don’t say filled in on,” pleaded Alice.

Sylvia tried to remember if she had, indeed, been told anything at all about the wedding.  “I know Alice and George are getting married,” she volunteered hopefully.  “And I know from Francie’s part of the letter that the wedding’s going to be later this summer.  And… I think that’s all.”

“Goodness.”  Alice sat back against the sofa cushions.  “I really am awful at writing letters.”

“Do tell,” said Francie.

She had never seen a wedding dress up close and personal.  Even shop windows stuck an impertinent piece of glass between you and the lovely things, and most shop owners frowned upon teenage girls who came into the shops and requested permission to try on the bridal things.  She knew this for a fact because she’d watched Nancy Broderick and Claudia Willet do it once on a dare.  They had, of course, been kicked out, without an overabundance of ceremony.  

Celia thumped on the door.  “Sylvia, I hope you’re not washing your hair.”

Sylvia put her warm thoughts aside for the present and dropped her washcloth back into the sudsy water.  “No, no, I’m not.”
Did they have a rule about hair washing around here?  No one had mentioned it, and she had thought the girls’ heads all looked pretty clean. 

“What is this mysterious substance, anyway?”  Sylvia had wanted to ask since Celia had opened the evil-smelling pink bottle, but hadn’t had a chance to get a word in. 

“Yeah, what is it, anyway?” Francie inhaled a suspicious sniff.  “Celia, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Never you mind what it is.  You always make fun of me for ordering things from catalogs.” 

“This is from a catalog?  Sight unseen?  Not even recommended by the all-wise and all-knowing Janie Bassett?”  Francie pretended to swoon onto the bed.  Timmy, charmed by the idea of a new game, promptly swooned onto the floor.  

Well, this is awkward...

October always makes me feel quite writerly, for some reason.  Unfortunately, I was not particularly writerly this September, and though Snippets of Story may be quite brilliant in November after the inspiration of October has passed, this past month was... less than inspired.  What you see before you is pretty much all I wrote this month.

*cringes*

I shall do better in the coming weeks.  I promise.

 Jack’s eyebrows crinkled. “But Mr. Herbertson, sir—Jeeves in the Jeeves books isn’t a butler. He’s a valet.”
“No more is James Butler a butler. He’s my personal secretary,” Mr. Herbertson retorted, obviously quite anxious that the company should know that Mr. Butler was a personal secretary and not secretary to the unwashed masses at large. “And while we’re on the subject, young man, just what are you?”

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives 

 “What,” Jack inquired, “is THAT?”
“It is a cat,” said Deirdre, a little stiffly. “I have rescued it.”
“From a sausage machine?” Jack dropped his briefcase and bent down for a closer look. The cat snarled at him and batted an indignant, bedraggled paw.
“No indeed, what a horrid thought.” Deirdre scooped the cat up and turned away from Jack. The cat snarled at her and tried to wiggle away. “There’s nothing truly wrong with it—all it needs is a good hot bath and some food.”
“Indeed,” said Jack solemnly. “I should very much like to see you give that cat a hot bath, Miss McSmith.”

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives 

 Everything in Mrs. Buchran’s office was an uglier shade of yellow than the last item. If the sofa had matched the heavy gold drapes, or the butterscotch candies in the dish, perhaps it would not have been so jarring to look at, but as it was the clashing colors made Sylvia wince.

~The Rochesters 

 “It’s a really pretty room,” she said at last, and bit her tongue immediately afterwards to punish herself for the inanity of the comment. It was not, strictly speaking, a very pretty room. Functional would be a better term. Well, really it might best be described as—
“Oh, please, it’s kind of a mess right now.” Celia grinned. “Actually it’s kind of a mess all the time. We like to keep our stuff on display. Like a museum. See, over there, that’s what most people would call a dresser but we call it the portrait gallery.”
 The bureau was littered with pictures—photographs of each family member, including a young woman whose identity Sylvia could easily guess, along with several drawings in various stages of visibility that seemed to represent dogs.
 “Patsy likes to draw,” Celia explained.
 “They’re cute,” said Sylvia, which was quite true. Whether the pictures were artistic as well as cute was not the question at stake.

 ~The Rochesters 

 “Last year—” Celia began, but Alice interrupted.
“Last year the rule was exactly the same. Come on, now, let’s not have any more nonsense. There are lots of other things to do around here than swim in the lake.”

“I was going to say,” said Celia with dignity, “that last year the rule was the same and no one expired from lake deprivation before the Fourth.” 

~The Rochesters

 “Come on, Francie,” Celia pleaded. 

“It’ll be much more fun if you play,” Sylvia added. 

 “If Frances doesn’t want to play,” said Hilda, who seemed quite bored with the discussion, “then you shouldn’t keep nagging her, Celia.” 

Celia looked as though she were about to say something about how she could handle the nagging of her own sister, thank you very much, but Francie whisked her out of the room and into the hallway before she could speak. 

Sylvia, left alone with Hilda, resisted the urge to say, “Well, this is awkward.” 

~The Rochesters 

Philippe was silent for a moment more, then jabbed the top of her head gently with his chin. “Ah, well, she’ll think you were kidnapped by gypsies, in all likelihood, and she’ll give Chantal a holiday to celebrate.”

Margot laughed, the horse stumbled a little over a stone in the path, and her jaws clicked together on her tongue. She sucked a breath in through her teeth and determined not to squeal over it. “What shall I tell her when she asks where I’ve been?” 

Philippe made an exaggerated, loud thinking noise. “Ummmm… tell her you were kidnapped by gypsies, and it was only the hand of your valiant brother that was able to rescue you from certain death. She’ll be so pleased to see you safe home again and so proud of me for saving you that she’ll never think of scolding either of us.” 

~The Color of the Sky

Unsound Politics and Unaccompanied Bridesmaids

(I've taken to casting Important Articles of Clothing in my stories... in
case anyone's interested, these are the bridesmaid dresses from The Rochesters)

... in other words, Snippets again!

She knew them as soon as she saw them, even though she’d never seen pictures nor had any idea of how they looked. But there was only one group under the station roof that contained four girls of various sizes sporting matching hats, two hatless boys industriously pummeling each other, a book-toting father wearing a winter fedora and a fervently wagging golden retriever with no hat whatsoever.

~The Rochesters

Timmy scrambled into the front seat next to Alice. “What’s an ink wisition?”

“It’s when the government kills you if you aren’t Catholic.” Mark jammed Pumblechook around Francie’s feet, squeezed into what was left of the back seat and slammed the car door.

“Is the government going to kill us because we’re Baptists?” Instead of looking frightened, Timmy seemed merely intrigued.

“Of course not,” said Uncle Gregory, finally sitting down and turning the key in the ignition. “Government neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters.”

“There must be murder, and the government cares not how much,” replied Alice quite gravely as the car lurched out of the parking lot, and she and Francie and Celia and Uncle Gregory all laughed.

Sylvia had heard quite a bit about Communists in her social studies class, and she began to wonder if perhaps Uncle Gregory had rather unsound ideas about politics.

~The Rochesters

“What difference does it make if you don’t have a groomsman?” Celia inquired. “Mark was probably going to end up walking with me anyways because I’m not as tall as you are. You’ll get George’s cousin just like you were supposed to.”
“Then you’ll be all by yourself,” Francie pointed out.
“I don’t care. Then I don’t have to worry about Mark stepping on me.”
“You aren’t dancing; you’re just walking, for Pete’s sake.”
“Mark steps on people no matter what.”
“He wouldn’t step on you if you didn’t have such big feet—”
“Hush up, can’t you?”
“Ladies!” Alice smacked both hands down on the quilt. “You’re acting like a pair of toddlers. Look, the issue at stake is not that a bridesmaid will walk unaccompanied. Celia can take Pumblechook for all I care.”
“Hey,” complained Celia, miffed.

~The Rochesters

Patsy was poring over a rather blurry picture in the middle section of the newspaper. It depicted a person in a monkey suit of doubtful origin, raising his arms over his head at what was presumably a football game but might have been a Ladies’ Auxiliary Meeting, for all Sylvia could see. The background rather resembled a mishmash of black and white shapes.

“That’s the President,” Patsy remarked, startling Sylvia, who thought Patsy had not noticed her presence.

~The Rochesters

“I’ll give you a leg up.” Bernard clasped his hands to form a stirrup. “Fina, you and Mareta stay here while I take Margot out and teach her Ezekiel’s tricks, and then you can have a turn.”

Doubt threatened to smother Fina’s smile, but she took Mareta’s hand obligingly and stepped aside. Margot was inclined to follow. She had no desire to ride a mule, nor to learn anything about the “tricks” he might possess. Cooking over a spattering fire began to sound far more appealing than it had this morning, and she was tempted to refuse Bernard and flee back to Magali.

~The Color of the Sky

Mareta’s gaze shifted to Fina, on the ground not far away, holding little Zacharias on her lap. The two seemed equally enamored of each other: Zacharias charmed by the attention showered upon him and Fina satisfied with this child who saw nothing different in her, no inadequacy or deficiency. Mareta smiled as she watched them together and Margot found herself smiling too.

How long has it been since I’ve smiled thus?

~The Color of the Sky

It was the girl’s near lack of eyebrows, Margot decided, that brought her eyes into such focus.   You could not help but look at them, without the distraction of the dark lines above that most people had.  

~The Color of the Sky

What kind of a person doesn't give hugs?

You know the post I wrote a few days ago about actually finishing something this July?

Scratch that.

Yes, yes, that sounded defeatist.  I know.  But it isn't, honestly and truly.  It's just that finishing something really isn't my goal this July.  Rather, my goal is to begin something.  Some things, I should say.

There are currently three main ideas swirling around in my head, and I'm itching to get them down somehow, to start each story and let it begin to flow.  And right now, I don't want to tie myself down with an accomplishment goal.  I just want to write what I want to write.  Yes, I'm going to work on The Rochesters.  But I'm also going to work on The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives.  And possibly The Color of the Sky [vewy, VEWY tentative title there].  And you are going to be hearing a whole lot more about each of those projects.

So, to celebrate these beginnings, I give you July Snippets, paired with pictures that have been inspiring me lately.  (Most of the images are snagged from friends' Pinterest boards.  I don't own anything, nor am I making money of this, yada yada yada.)


“Oh, quite, quite.” Mr. Payter buried his face in his coffee cup. A sip or two of the honeyed coffee covered his embarrassment and he was ready to converse again. Most people do not put honey in their coffee, but if you tried to tell that to Mr. J. Paxton Payter, he would merely fix you with a stern and quizzical eye and demand why that prevented him from doing so.

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives

This highly interesting conversation (which, if you did not find interesting, you should go back and re-read in order to better develop your sense of humor) took place at a largish sort of dining table in a smallish sort of boardinghouse in a smallish sort of city. The name of the city is none of your business. If I did tell you its name, you would be on the next subway in no time flat, speeding your way towards the boardinghouse so you could get a hold of Miss McSmith for an interview and possibly even some photographs.

~The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives

“Sylvia Lemmins, you’re wanted in the headmistress’s office.” The buck-toothed fourth grader who delivered this ominous message stared eagerly around the ninth-grade classroom, hoping that her statement would induce the kind of awed titters and whisperings that it would have in her own classroom. To her intense disappointment, the ninth-graders merely glanced up from their maps and regarded her with something akin to annoyance.

~The Rochesters

Mrs. Buchran’s office had always smelled rather oddly of butterscotch candies, the golden oval Brach’s kind that took forever to suck and made your mouth feel quite bland for a good while afterwards.

~The Rochesters

Celia regarded Mark with her best Miss Manners look. “Please at least pretend you're civilized and close your gaping mouth. It’s open so wide I can see your tonsils.”
Mark snorted. “No you can’t. I had them taken out two years ago.”

~The Rochesters

Celia’s voice dropped to an awed whisper. “And then he said… you know… A Word.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. She did not ask what the word was, but Celia went ahead as if she had.
“You know. The word… the word Rhett Butler doesn’t give.”
If it were physiologically possible for Timmy’s ears to prick up, they would have pricked up. “What doesn’t Rhett Butler give?”
“Hugs,” said Alice quickly. “He doesn’t give hugs.”
Francie snorted.
“Well, he doesn’t,” said Alice.
Timmy wrinkled his nose. “What kind of person doesn’t give hugs?”

~The Rochesters

More than anything, she wanted to relax and lean back against the prickly plush seat, maybe even tuck her feet under her or draw her knees up to her chin. But such a thing was, of course, unthinkable. The train was too crowded with people. Maybe some of these people even knew Uncle Gregory—anything was possible. No, she wouldn’t disgrace her newfound family by behaving unimpeachably on the train.

~The Rochesters

But best of all were the days when Margot would pause before she spoke to drink in the smell of the sun on the earth. “It’s a blue sky today,” she’d say, and wait for Fina’s inevitable question.
“What kind of blue?”
“Rich blue, royal blue, a blue for a princess, and golden sun warming the blue and deepening it.”
Fina would find her way to the window and they would stand together, letting the sun warm their eyelids until Alienor came and the day had to begin.

~The Color of the Sky

“Souci’s eyes are your favorite blue,” Margot whispered.
Fina leaned closer. “Tell me about them.”
She grasped for words, but nothing came. “I—I don’t think I can.”
“Deep blue? Or pale?”
“Deep, very deep, nearly as deep as the shawl she wears.”
“I cannot see the shawl she wears.”
Helpless, Margot shook her head. “It is blue with a green thread running throughout… and a tiny touch of silver.”
“And her eyes are like that?”
“Yes, in a way.”
Fina sighed. “And her hair?”
“So black as to be almost blue when the light touches it.”
“Is everything around us blue, then?”
Margot leaned back against the tree trunk and gazed up through the leaves. “Yes… almost.”

~The Color of the Sky

Fina drew in a sharp breath. “You cannot read for yourself the… the Holy Scriptures of our Lord.” The words came out as little more than breath, but even the flames’ crackle kept no one from hearing.
“And why should I not?” Henri’s face was turned toward Fina, though his eyes searched the fire. “They are the words of God, breathed by Him alone—and am not I a man, whose very life was also breathed by God alone?”

~The Color of the Sky

Snippets of Story - June 2012

All of my snippets this month come from Only a Novel, which shouldn't be a surprise as it's the all-consuming project on my brain right now.  My goal is to finish it by June 20th, so I'll make this post quick and get back to work.  :D Don't forget to check out Katie's blog, Whisperings of the Pen, to link up your own snippets!


*


Lavinia startled Elizabeth out of her reverie by a gentle poke with the tip of her parasol.  “Elizabeth, dear, you are not attending to me at all, and I’m afraid that is a grave offense.  You must always attend closely when I speak.  You might learn something of great importance, you know.  Mamma, pray do not laugh at me—you might cause Lizzie to think I am not serious, and I am perfectly serious.  In fact, I am always serious, except when I am not, which is often.”


*

The garden was small, as Jenny had said, but she walked a few times around its perimeter, breathing as deeply as she could. Grandmother had always done so when she was exasperated, and Elizabeth was most definitely exasperated. She tried humming to calm herself down, but since she had a habit of humming off-key, this procedure did not prove helpful and in fact only increased her frustration.


*

Elizabeth’s head hurt.  This fact was partly a result of her having slammed her head against the wall.  It was also partly a result of the turmoil her mind was in. 

Elizabeth had, of course, taken off her hat before beating her head.   She now picked it up very carefully and placed it on the bed.  Then she sat on it.

*

“As we have no mutual friend to introduce us,” the young man continued, his brown eyes twinkling, “I’m afraid we’ll have to perform the task ourselves.  My friend here—” he held up the toad and Elizabeth hastily stepped back “—is of an unsocial and taciturn disposition, I’m afraid; unwilling to say anything unless it will amaze the whole garden and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.  So I believe I’ll have to do the honors myself.  I’m Rodney Burke, and you must be the new governess.” 

*

“I keep the potato water to starch collars and cuffs,” [Mrs. Ingle] explained to Elizabeth.  “Something in the water keeps them stiff.  A little trick that comes in handy nearly every day.  When you have a house of your own, Elizabeth, you’ll find it helpful.”

Elizabeth wanted very much to have a house of her own one day.  However, she also very much wanted to have a maid who would starch collars and cuffs for her.  

*

Mrs. Crimp turned her attention back to the place cards.  “Miss Markette, I’m placing you between Isabelle and Mrs. Poplar.  Do not, I beg you, try to begin an intelligent conversation with Mrs. Poplar—at least, more than that which decorum requires—because we will never leave this table if you do.”

*

Mrs. Poplar was a reedy, seedy woman dressed in black—a color that did not complement her bleached complexion.  She poked fastidiously at everything set before her and religiously chewed each mouthful of food at least one hundred times.

*

{the following snippet is probably my favorite conversation in the entire book}

“Did you bring us a little lunch?” asked Rodney, peering into the bowl.

“No, you goose, this is for the horses.”  Mercy fed a lump of sugar to Virgil, then one to Opus, then another to Virgil again.

Rodney announced pompously, “Someone very wise and learned has frequently told me that it is a waste of money to feed sugar to horses.”

“I know,” said Mercy blithely, “but you got a raise in your salary last week, you know, and I have just today acquired a new client.”

“And this is the way you spend my hard-earned money, gained by the sweat of my brow and ceaseless toil on long, dark, cold nights?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mercy.  “Besides, horses love sugar.  Someone very wise and learned has frequently told me that.”

“And you have little or no regard for your poor brother who is now deprived of sugar in his coffee,” Rodney complained.

“Coffee,” said Mercy, “is not at all indispensable; in fact it would probably do you good to go without it for a little while.”  She turned to Elizabeth.  “When he drinks too much coffee, he cannot sleep, and so he sits up reading half the night, and the light from his candle shines in under my door and then I cannot sleep.”

“You poor abused little creature,” said Rodney, sorrowfully shaking his head.

*

Elizabeth hardly knew which remark she should answer; Miss Bancroft had thrown at least six different topics into the conversation.

*

Lavinia was angry with her; furiously angry might be a better way of phrasing it. And for what? What, really, had she done to offend her friend?
What had she done besides running like a street urchin through fashionable Kensington Gardens in pursuit of an unruly child, accompanied by a stable hand, hat nearly flying off, with her skirts lifted well above her ankles?
She winced at the memory.

*

She spoke far more patiently than she felt—indeed, she felt quite ready to pull out her own hair. The day had not begun well. For one thing, she had woken up half-frozen after tossing off her blankets in her sleep during the night. For another, her dark green striped dress had a rent in the bodice and would have to be mended, and she did not know whether it was proper for a governess to mend her own clothes or ask the maid to do it. (A handbook on The Proper Etiquette Of A Nursery Governess: What To Do, What To Say And With Whom To Associate would be a useful item to own, she had often thought.) And now she was saddled with the responsibility of taking care of Maria, who did not take kindly to her and had been squealing like an injured rabbit since Elizabeth had first set foot in the nursery.

*

And besides, in order to become a lawyer, in all probability I’d have to start out as a clerk during law school, and the only interesting thing about that would be pretending I was a Dickens character. Tim Linkinwater, I think—or maybe Herbert Pocket. Uriah Heep is too ’umble even for the likes of me.”
“But once you got past being a clerk and had finished studying for the bar, you could fancy yourself someone like Mr. Kenge or Mr. Carboy.”
“Or Mr. Guppy.” Rodney made such a convincing fish face that Elizabeth let out a highly unladylike snort. Hastily she clapped her gloves over her mouth and with her eyes beseeched Rodney to pretend it hadn’t happened.
“We’ll pretend that didn’t happen,” Rodney teased.

Snippets of Story - May 2012

Linking up with Snippets of Story (hosted by Katie at Whisperings of the Pen) again! Only a Novel is chugging along, but I really need to just sit down and write more of it.  And stop letting myself be distracted by Plot Heffalump.  (Which, by the way, is coming along swimmingly.  In my head.)


“Elizabeth, if you think he stole it, then I don’t even see why we’re having this conversation.” Mercy’s eyes seemed to shoot sparks. “Rodney would never do something like that, never, never, NEVER. He’d starve before he’d steal. Don’t even incinerate such a thing.”

“Insinuate, not incinerate,” was on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue, but this was not the time.

~Only a Novel

Lavinia regarded her for a moment. Then, as if she were the sun magnanimously breaking through storm clouds, she smiled. “I can never stay angry at anyone for very long,” she said, opening the door wider and ushering the astonished Elizabeth inside. “You are much too dear to be angry with anyhow. Though I have to say that you have committed an unpardonable sin and I’m very close to telling you that you are the silliest little fool that ever lived.”

“Lavinia, I have to do this,” Elizabeth began, but Lavinia cut her short.

“No, no, no excuses. Hush. I shan’t listen. I shall put my fingers in my ears and sing loudly to drown you out. And then you will flee from the room shrieking, as would any poor soul who had to listen to my voice raised in song. I can’t forgive this error on your part, Lizzie, but I can ignore it, and ignore it I shall.”

~Only a Novel

“I wish I could have stayed at the table,” Jonathan spoke up. “But Mamma made Miss Markette take Isabelle and me up to bed. Whenever the grownups are doing something interesting, they always send us away. We never get to hear any arguments.”

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth sighed. Apparently she had been outvoted. “Very well, then, we’ll read out here. But we will walk around the garden as we read, for I will not have the two of you turning into mushrooms.”

“This isn’t Wonderland, Miss Markette,” said Jonathan gravely.

“I know. I’m merely indulging in a bit of humor, which evidently is not appreciated. Ahem! Where were we?”

~Only a Novel

If this moment were a scene upon the stage, the accompanying music at this point in time should have risen thunderously, perhaps with some stirring strings and fast and furious piano. As it was not a scene upon the stage, Elizabeth was forced to simply imagine the music, but she was not particularly good at this and had to abandon it. Nevertheless, she felt that the moment was of great dramatic import and must be dealt with properly.

~Only a Novel

The hasty knock came barely two seconds before Mercy burst into Elizabeth’s room. “Elizabeth! Look!”

“Come in,” said Elizabeth.

“I am in.” Mercy danced to the desk where Elizabeth sat and flung her arms wide, twirling so that the skirt of the dress flared out. “Look at it. It’s perfect. It’s utterly gorgeous, it’s dazzling, it’s the most beautiful thing in the whole world.”

~Only a Novel

“I sat up till two last night--er, two this morning--and had a romantic proposal all written out. Quite nicely, in fact, with neat margins, and the writing didn’t slant upwards to the right. My writing so often does, you know.”

~Only a Novel

The heavy scent of flowers from the funeral still hung, stifling, in the air around her. It had probably clung to the folds of her dress—another reason to never wear the horrid thing again. She hopped off the bed and threw open her window. Warm, humid breezes from the streets blew in, partly clouded with a stench from the sewers. Anything was better than the weighty perfume of the lilacs and lilies.

~Only a Novel

“It says McTavish, Nurse. Private Peter McTavish, Allied Forces.” He wasn’t exactly laughing at her, but he was coming pretty close to it.

“Um, thank you, Mr. McTavish.” (Were you supposed to call an enlisted man Mister? Shouldn’t she have said Private? Too late now.) “And, um, I’m actually not the nurse—I’m the nurse’s aide. Annabeth Creighton, pleased to meet you.”

No, you were definitely not supposed to tell a patient you were pleased to meet him. It implied that you were glad he was in hospital. Ugh.

His blankets were straight, his water pitcher full, and she wasn’t responsible for the bandages on his leg—besides, they looked fine, which was a relief because she definitely didn’t want to deal with anything bloody on her very first day. But she had to do something, or at least say something.

“Pleasure,” said Private McTavish. “Is this a social call, or have you come to stick me with something sharp for the sake of my health?”

~Plot Heffalump 

(that's not the title, it's my fond nickname for this project)

She unfolded the scrap of paper, wiping away the smudges of dirt that obscured the word and numbers. “John 15:13… that’s all, Thatcher? That’s it? A reference? I don’t have my Bible with me, I can’t look it up—”

She was babbling and they both knew it. He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to look it up. You memorized it years ago, I know you know it.”

Silence.

“Yes. I know it.”

“Okay, say it.”

More silence.

“Greater love… greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

“See? It’s that simple.” Thatcher folded the paper up again and tucked it into her sleeve. “Keep it and don’t forget it.”

The cold lump in Annabeth’s stomach rose up into her throat. “Thatcher… he’s not your friend. He doesn’t deserve to be helped. You can’t do this.”

Thatcher closed his eyes and flopped down on his back, hands behind his head in his favorite pose. “So, maybe he’s not my friend. And maybe he doesn’t deserve it. That doesn’t change what I have to do. Jesus laid his life down for me hundreds of years before I was born, Annabeth. I didn’t deserve it.”

“But you’re not Jesus—and Arnold’s not your friend; you have no obligation to him. You’re not laying down your—your life for a friend.”

Peter, who Annabeth had thought was asleep, pulled himself up on one elbow. “You’re right, Annabeth. Arnold’s not a friend.”

No one said anything.

Peter looked up through the maze of leaves to the stars. “Well, then… so maybe that makes it even greater love.”

~Plot Heffalump

Snippets of Story - April 2012

Time for Snippets of Story again.  I'm getting way too much fun out of this--and I can't wait to read all of your snippets too! Don't forget to stop by Katie's blog, Whisperings of the Pen, to link up.


(The Very Astute among you may guess that the last three snippets, all from my currently untitled Work In Progress, all come from the same scene.  This is because that scene is one of only two that I've written so far for that story, and the said scene amuses me so immensely that I couldn't help sharing, well, a lot of it.)


“I have never been employed before,” said Elizabeth.
“No?” Mrs. Leopold’s caterpillar-like eyebrows drew together in a disapproving frown. “Dear Eloise recommended you highly. I had thought perhaps you had previously been dear Lavinia’s governess. Though I must admit your extreme youth has caused me to retract THAT opinion.”
Elizabeth did not feel that her youth was extreme, or that any measure of youth was a monstrous crime against humanity, but she prudently said nothing. 

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth cast about in her mind as to whether it would be simpler to sit upon the dress to hide it or put the nearby bowl of potatoes on top of it. Neither seemed a practical solution, and besides Rodney must have noticed the dress by now. Indeed, he looked as if he were on the point of making a remark about it. She could only hope that he could be prevailed upon not to mention the dress to Mercy.
“Much obliged. What’s this on the table? Hmmm. I should have known what would happen if Mrs. Ingle left you in charge of supper, Jenny. This—” he lifted one sleeve—“will be delicious with buttered potatoes. Indubitably.” 

~Only a Novel

The dress looked even lovelier when she spread it out on the bed. In Lavinia’s gorgeously decorated bedroom it had been just another conglomeration of velvet and lace, but here in the starkness of Elizabeth’s room it fairly shone in contrast. The crimson of the skirt was such a comforting color that Elizabeth thought it might almost be warm to the touch. She touched it. It wasn’t.

~Only a Novel

“When you cook with onions, it’s like using a silent E,” said Maeve. “You know it’s there, but it doesn’t assert itself. It just strengthens the sound—or the taste—and gives the word—uh, dish—a new… a new… taste.”
“Poetic,” said Ismelda.
“Thank you.”

~It's Thursday Again

“Piffle,” said Lavinia. “It will do you no harm to have a few nice dresses. And I beg you, Lizzie, don’t talk of such vulgar things as cost. I care not how much I pay for a dress, so long as it is good quality, and if I choose to make you a present of a dress, what business is it of yours?”
But Elizabeth won in the end, and Lavinia sighed. “I do not know what to do with you,” she said. “You are certainly the most trying friend I have ever known. If I didn’t think you were the dearest girl in the world, I would have nothing to do with you, you know, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth knew. 
“Ah, well,” said Lavinia. “How do you think this color would look on me? If I cannot make you a present out of this dress, I am resolved not to be cheated out of the pleasure of buying it for myself, at least.”

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth looked around the stateroom. There was a bed, firmly attached to the wall. There was a table, firmly secured to the floor. There were a washbasin and pitcher, which were not attached to anything at all. Elizabeth imagined a stormy night, the wind-tossed ship, the bowl and pitcher clattering off the table and onto her head as she lay shivering in the bed—

“Is there a great deal of—er, motion during storms?” she asked in a small voice. Then she reproached herself for asking such a childish question. Of course the ship would toss about in a gale. She was not in a solid building, after all.

~Only a Novel

“I have never been to a ball,” said Elizabeth. She was not sure if she would like it or not, but she could not help being excited. Grandmother had never let her go to balls.
“Hush,” scolded Lavinia. “My dear Lizzie, you must not speak so loudly of your misfortunes. People will think you are no better than a guttersnipe.” 
“Lavinia!”
“My dearest creature, of course I do not think you are a guttersnipe, but Lady Judith Meriwether Fagles may if you do not take care. Now, as it is nearly eight and we are requested to come at eight, we must be on our way.”

~Only a Novel

“What’s wrong with you?” Maeve demanded. 
“Everything,” said Ismelda, kicking at a harmless rock.
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Well, to say that every thing is wrong is just as much a lie as to say that nothing is wrong. And you may as well be hung for an everything as a nothing.”
“I think it’s going to rain,” said Freddie, who had stopped listening five minutes ago.

~It's Thursday Again

“Heartless villains are so run-of-the-mill,” said Phoebe, chewing the end of her pencil the way she always told Freddie not to. 

~It's Thursday Again

Where Lady Fagles was all harrumphing and supercilious camel-like expressions of the face, Mrs. Wakenshaw was all chirping and twittering and fluttering feathers.
 “Miss Bancroft, don’t you think Miss Markette will like Lieutenant Scarborough? He is quite distinguished—soon to be promoted, we hope—and he is not married,” she hastened to add.
 Lavinia gave Elizabeth another eloquent look. Apparently these ladies were not at all subtle in their attempts to marry off this Lieutenant Scarborough.
 “I am sure Miss Markette will like Lieutenant Scarborough,” Mrs. Wakenshaw persisted hopefully.

~Only a Novel

“Well, then, why, please?” Emily was not to be distracted by string beans.
Mr. Rochester handed Alice the pepper. “Because I see absolutely no purpose in teenage girls going out on so-called dates with teenage boys. Especially when neither party is old enough to drive or possess a car. Which, I might add, is the case with you and Frank Whittaker. Moreover, teenage boys are, in general, idiots and I do not care to have my daughter keeping company with an idiot. Which, I might add—but shall not for fear of offending—might be an apt way to describe the young man in question—i.e., Frank Whittaker.”
“Why Daddy, you said just last week that you thought Frank was a very nice boy.”
“I do not deny it. However, idiocy and niceness are not necessarily isolated characteristics—as life will teach you all too quickly, I fear.” Mr. Rochester gave a sad, solemn shake of his head. He was enjoying himself immensely.

~Untitled W.I.P.

“Daddy, do you mean that I need to wait four years to go to the movies with Frank? I’ll be nineteen!”
“Movies will be obsolete by the time Em’s nineteen,” put in Mark, snickering. “We’ll all be going to supersonic atom-blasting theaters that project the story right into viewers’ heads.”
Emily kicked him under the table and looked to her father.
“A fine and sensible age,” said Mr. Rochester, ignoring Mark’s comment. “Yes, nineteen is a splendid age. Almost out of the danger zone, though of course not quite. Your Uncle Ned broke his right arm at the age of nineteen after riding his bicycle backward down our driveway with his eyes shut. An excellent example of my previous point regarding the mental capacity of teenage boys. Alice, these mashed potatoes are superb. Are these our own chives?”

~Untitled W.I.P.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to tell Frank I can’t go.” Emily, who was (as aforementioned) not the drippy type, was also not the type to bewail her losses. She took a pragmatic sip of milk.
“I suppose you shall,” agreed Mr. Rochester, “but if you care to pull a Bartleby the Scrivener and would prefer not to, I will be happy to perform the hated task myself. Do you think that I might look more harsh and forbidding and properly like a stern guardian if I wore my horn-rimmed spectacles during my little chat with Frank, the hopeful suitor? I believe they’re in the attic somewhere—I can easily fish them out if you think they’ll aid me in the part.”

~Untitled W.I.P.

Snippets of Story - March 2012

Snippets of Story (hosted by Katie at Whisperings of the Pen) is back again!


Elizabeth’s brief glimpse of Lavinia’s world had only served to show her that their lives were, in truth, very, very different. Lavinia still led a life of luxury and beauty, while Elizabeth had taken several steps downward, and was now shivering from the cold in a whitewashed bedroom without even pictures on the walls.
True, the shivering was her own fault. The radiator was steaming away, and it was rather silly of her to sit here in her nightgown without even a shawl around her shoulders.

~Only a Novel

“Do sit down, Lizzie, you make me nervous standing by the door like a statue. There is nothing in the rumors that pacing makes people nervous. I believe that standing still is what makes people nervous. It makes one fidget.”

~Only a Novel

Lavinia nodded slowly. “Yes… well… and she is so mean to poor Sarah Redgrave. Now, between you and I and that cushion—” she nodded to a fringed, puffy little thing sitting pompously atop a hatbox—“I do not think Sarah Redgrave is a particularly bright creature, but no one needs to be condescended to the way Annette Pickering condescends to everyone. Did you see how she took just one bite of the shortbread? Horrid thing. Mrs. Shurtleff’s shortbread—my, that’s a mouthful—is practically famous. Mamma serves it to all her guests and everyone says they want to hire Mrs. Shurtleff, but of course Mamma would never dream of letting our cook leave our employment, the very idea! The nerve of Miss Prunes-and-prisms Pickering, to take just one bite as if it wasn’t worth her while.”

~Only a Novel

If her thoughts could be made to stay in one place for any length of time, she might accomplish something in her hodgepodge of ponderings, but they would not. They leapfrogged about and slid from one topic to another with astonishing rapidity. Perhaps this was due to the fact that her brain was deprived of sleep. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was really a very silly creature, after all.

~Only a Novel

The garret was colder than she had expected—most likely a result of the fire in the stove having sunk down to a few dark ruby embers and a lone chilly flame. Mercy shivered and poked a few more sticks into the stove. Nothing happened. The flame flickered, gasped, and sank.
“Just what I need,” snapped Mercy, dashing a stick to the floor. “It always goes out like that when I’m especially put out. Where did I put the poker? I had it last night, I know I did…”
Elizabeth was not quite sure if Mercy was talking to herself or to Elizabeth, so she refrained from answering and joined in the search for the poker. Mercy’s dejection had given way to frustration, and she slammed things about in a manner that bordered on the frightening. Elizabeth had to rescue a copy of Nicholas Nickleby—Rodney’s, no doubt—from being furiously flung into the wood box. 

~Only a Novel

The toad blinked balefully at Isabelle, who regarded it with a mixture of fascination and disgust. “Does it bite?”

“Only clowns,” said Rodney solemnly. “Are you a clown?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you can hold him.” Rodney held out the toad, who closed his eyes and pretended that Isabelle was not there. Isabelle recoiled.

“Put that toad down at once, Rodney, if you don’t wish to be bit,” scolded Mercy. “I declare, if that toad finds clowns to his taste, your hand is in mortal danger.”

~Only a Novel

It’s quite cold and rainy and dreary here, Lavinia. You must be enjoying the sun and warmth of southern Italy. I assume you must be in Italy by now, which is why I am sending this letter to the address you provided earlier. If you are indeed in Italy, you are reading the letter—if you are not in Italy, you won’t have received the letter. Therefore you won’t be reading this letter at all, and I needn’t have said that last bit.  Oh, dear, I’ve been reading far too much Alice in Wonderland to the children, and I’m afraid it has sadly muddled my logic. 

~Only a Novel

Ismelda’s eyebrows had been creeping closer and closer toward each other as Phoebe spoke, and now they were twisted into what could only be called a scowl. “You’re rooming with Maeve Alistair? That’s impossible because I room with Maeve Alistair.”
Phoebe swallowed. “Oh. Oh, I see. Er—well—perhaps there’s some mistake.”
Ismelda scowled harder. Not only had this new girl trumped Ismelda in mathematics all morning long, but now she was also taking away Ismelda’s room--and her roommate--, and on top of that she did not appear to be quite the brightest crayon in the box.

~It's Thursday Again

“A new pupil? Another one? But why so late in the year?” Phoebe was almost running to keep up with Ismelda.
“Oh, well, they’re always late. The scholarship students, I mean.”
Phoebe flushed. “I’m a scholarship student,” she said.
“So am I,” said Ismelda breezily. 
Maeve came to Phoebe’s rescue. “She doesn’t mean that scholarship students are, in general, late for things. When a student comes here on a scholarship, it usually takes a while to get all the paperwork straightened out, with applications and whatnot. So scholarship students generally come after the school year has already started. You were one of the early ones—we’d only been in session two weeks when you came.”
“What she said,” said Ismelda.

~It's Thursday Again

Emily gave an immense yawn. “I dreamed last night that we went to a family reunion and I showed up in my pajamas.”
“Thank you for sharing that vital bit of information.” Alice swept the cream pitcher out of Mark’s reach with an enough-is-enough look.
“I was the only one who noticed, though,” said Emily placidly, “so it was okay.”

~Untitled W.I.P.

Snippets of Story - February 2012

I encourage you all to join in Katie's Snippets of Story event at Whisperings of the Pen!  If you'd like to find out more about it, go here.  I don't know if I'll participate in this every month, but I thought I'd give it try, at least for the first time.  Looks like fun!


(By the way, most of these snippets are coming from my NaNoWriMo story, Only A Novel, which was formerly titled What Would Elizabeth Bennet Do?)




There is something about snow that makes everyone discard his or her dignity and just enjoy the moment. Elizabeth knew perfectly well that it was not proper for a governess to be running around the garden with her charges, (hadn’t she gotten in some trouble for running a couple of months ago?) chasing snowflakes and shrieking with laughter, but for the time being she did not care. Not the least, tiniest bit.
~Only A Novel


She had only just crossed the threshold into the dining room when a hoarse, harsh cry split the air and Mr. Crimp’s dreadful, rusty red parrot came diving at her head.
Elizabeth screamed. She hated to scream, and did it only under the most trying circumstances. This, she felt later, was a circumstance deserving of a good healthy shriek. She was not alone in her screaming; Isabelle was treating the company to a demonstration of her lungpower, and Mrs. Crimp was making unearthly squeaking noises as the parrot dove around the room.
Elizabeth, her heart pounding nearly in her throat (something she had always read of in novels, but had never before thought to be physiologically possible) covered her head with both her hands and shrank back against the doorframe in a very cowardly manner. She later made excuses for herself (to herself), saying that if the bird had managed to entangle itself in her hair, she would have laid down on the floor and died. 
Which would not have been a dignified thing to do.
~Only A Novel


Elizabeth searched under her table, under her bed, under her pillow, under her lamp, behind her ear and finally under Lavinia’s letter until she found her pen. It had been under Lavinia’s letter. Naturally, whenever she lost something she always found it in the last place she had looked. 
Well, of course the last place she had looked had been the place she had found it, for after she found it she need not look for it any more.
Though geometry had been one of her best subjects, logic had never been her strong point, and she returned to her page with her head in a bit of a muddle.
~Only A Novel


They pulled to a stop at an intersection. Elizabeth pulled her head back into the brougham and straightened her hat. Wisps were already escaping from her French twist, and she had been so proud of it only an hour ago. It was no light feat to do one’s own hair so prettily without even Jenny’s help. But the wind rushing past the window had no regard for her hard work and, indeed, seemed to scorn it.
~Only A Novel


“LaVEENia, darling,” squealed the tallest of the group, a sallow-faced young woman attired in an unflattering shade of gold. “How lovely to see you, you look simply lovely, darling, and who is this lovely little friend of yours, how lovely to meet you, you sweet thing!”
Elizabeth, who did not particularly relish being dubbed a sweet thing, politely took the young lady’s hand and shot Lavinia a beseeching look.
~Only A Novel


“And may I introduce,” said Lavinia quickly, “Miss Vivian Applethwaite, Miss Annette Pickering—my dear friend Miss Elizabeth Markette.”
“Delighted,” said Miss Applethwaite.
“Charmed,” said Miss Pickering.
Elizabeth sought for a synonym. “Enraptured,” she said solemnly, shaking hands all around.
~Only A Novel


With great effort, Miss Ballantyne managed to squeeze out two or three tears. Usually the tears were quite effective, but today her friends--and even her sister--seemed made of stone. She offered another injured sniff. In honor of the day, she was wearing her best black bombazine, the one trimmed with delicate fluting all around the waist and hem... so tasteful and so appropriate to the memory of poor dear Humphrey. And yet no one had complimented her on it, nor even seemed to notice how well the fine black material set off her complexion. She had always looked well in black.
~Untitled Story for Rachel's Contest


Miss Waxington drank tea and coffee—in the same cup—every morning for breakfast, and the other teachers were so polite that they never said anything about it to her. The students were not so polite, but they were so in awe of their teachers that they never said anything to Miss Waxington either.
~It's Thursday Again


In the mathematics classroom, Miss Box rapped firmly on the table. “Young ladies, may I introduce to your our newest pupil,” she said.
“Good morning Miss Box,” droned the students. Then they realized that she had not said “Good morning, class,” and they looked at each other sheepishly.
~It's Thursday Again


“Of all the dreadful, rude, insufferable creatures I have ever met in all my life, Annette Pickering is the worst. Don’t try to think of anything nice to say about her, Elizabeth, you’ll only hurt your brain.” If Lavinia could be said to plop, she would have plopped onto her chaise longue. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Mother, of course. Thank you for not saying anything when I lied through my teeth at dinner and told Mother we had a perfectly lovely tea. I can always count on you, Lizzie.”
~Only A Novel