Hi folks! The Portuguese translation of "The Trouble with His Lordship's Trousers" (Book One of The Ladies Most Unlikely series) is now available for pre-order from Editoria Bookmarks, under the title "As Peculiaridades da srta Georgiana (Miss Georgiana's Peculiarities!). PRE-ORDER HERE!
I love the cover!
Hi Everybody!
It's been a while, but I'm back! To celebrate the Holiday Season this year, my "Snow" trilogy will be available as e-books from Amazon at a special low price, so this is your chance to grab a copy.
Meanwhile, The Tempests of Little Doings is still on its way and will be available soon from all the usual online stores. Thank you for reading!
Coming tomorrow - a new Victorian novella featuring another branch of the Deverell tree.
* DANCE WITH A DEVERELL*
Do you dare?
The following is an exclusive excerpt to whet your appetite. Enjoy and have a great weekend!
***
Launching herself
forward, she thrust the poker at his back, between his audacious shoulder
blades. “Stop where you are, fiend! How dare you trespass on the Earl of
Beaufort’s property? I have a gun, and I shall not hesitate to use it, so don’t
move. Put up your hands!”
The man’s
shoulders flexed and then he went still. “Which is it, ma’am?” he growled. “I
don’t move or I put up my hands? Can’t do both.”
With her free hand
she fumbled in the moonlight for a knife. “Hands up, of course, where I can see
them.”
When he slowly
followed her orders, setting the candle down on a shelf and raising both arms
high over his head, she saw that his right hand was covered in blood, which
dripped down the sleeve of his shirt.
“Who are you and
what are you doing here?” she demanded, breathless.
“Friend of the
family. I was invited.”
Well, she knew
that was a lie. Of course, he could have no idea that she was a member of that
family to whom he claimed an acquaintance, and he was the sort of person she
would remember, even from behind, she thought glumly.
Lest you think her
merely appreciative of wide shoulders and a firm, well-shaped buttock, this
stranger in her butler’s pantry also possessed a very strong and unusual aura. Since
she was a child, Ainslie had suffered a peculiar sensitivity to the life force around
other people; the vigor of their spirit and the wisdom of their soul. Or sometimes
it was the power and light of those angels protecting them that caught her
attention. Whatever it was, this sensation caused her to be shy of crowded
places. Anxious never to incur the earl’s wrath, or to be seen as mentally
unstable by Society, she did her best to ignore these distractions of
otherworldly phenomena. She always tried to follow the rules as they were set
down for her; to never venture outside the limits of what was proper; to be
seen as “normal”. But certain unusual impressions could not be ignored, and his
was one that would have felt its way to her in any company.
No, she had never met him before, or she would
know it at once. “How did you get in?” she managed tightly.
After a short
pause, he drawled in a wry tone, “Through the door. I assumed that was its
function.”
“Who let you in?”
“I let myself in.”
“You mean to say
you broke into this house.”
“Didn’t want to
wake anybody by ringing the bell, did I? You should thank me for taking the
trouble and being considerate.” Oh, yes, there was a decidedly cheeky edge to the
scoundrel’s manner. As if he was accustomed to getting away with bad behavior,
but would not particularly care if he was caught. He held his hands up, as
she’d commanded, but there was no trepidation in his voice or comportment. He
sounded more amused than anything.
“Where does that
blood come from? What have you done?”
“It was an
accident.” He hiccupped. “Fell into some glass. Out there.” When he moved his
head in a nod toward the door, candlelight touched his profile, painting the
edge of an aquiline nose and high cheekbones, upon which his black lashes were
long enough to cast a shadow. The side of his mouth quirked as he swallowed
another hiccup and swayed slightly. “Don’t fret, ma’am. I didn’t cut the
night-watchman’s throat. The injury is all to myself.”
“A consequence of
traveling about in the dark, young man! Why are you here in the middle of the
night?”
“Brandon invited
me.”
“Brandon?
Do you refer to Lord Brandon Beaufort?”
“That’s the
fellow.” He turned fully around then, not waiting for her permission. “He’s a—”
A look of surprise passed over his tanned face, immediately followed by a
frown. “Who are you?”
His impertinence
left her devoid of words and breath for a moment. Still brandishing the poker in
one hand, and a carving knife in the other, she finally exclaimed, “Even if
that is true, I very much doubt Lord Brandon invited you at midnight, and
without warning anybody to expect you. Explain yourself to me, sir, before I
call out the dogs and let you confess your deviant motives instead to the
Justice of the Peace!”
He put his head on
one side and his gaze took her in slowly, thoroughly, inch by inch. “No need to
get your petticoats all twisted up. I suppose you might say that Brandon didn’t
actually invite me. Not in so many words. But he owes me five guineas and
I’ve let the debt stand long enough. I need that money now. So he should be
expecting me. Not my fault if he isn’t.”
His voice had a
certain melodious quality— deep, smooth and unhurried. It brought to mind a cup
of hot chocolate with something stronger secretly stirred into it, to be
enjoyed on a snowy evening beside the fire.
Ainslie belatedly
remembered that she wore only her nightgown with a day wrapper thrown hastily
over it. But her hands were full and the best she could do was shrink back a
step, retreating from that silver patch of moonlight and dressing herself in
shadow. “If you had business with Lord Brandon Beaufort, you should have waited
until a respectable hour and called at the front entrance. Like any proper and
decorous visitor.”
“I would have.”
When he smiled in a drowsy, drunken way, it softened his face. He moved
forward, apparently not put off by her weapons. “But I stepped on some glass
and fell into a pit. Cut my damn hand climbing out again, as you see.” Hiccup.
“I came in here to find some brandy or whiskey.”
“Drink? If you ask
me, you’ve imbibed enough of that already, young man.” Since the iron poker
seemed not to have the required effect, she set it down on the kitchen table and
used that free hand to clasp the sides of her wrapper together. But she
retained the knife.
“It’s not for
drinking. It’s for my hand,” he explained. “To seal against infection.” His
eyes turned sad, eyelids drooping. “It hurts, ma’am.”
He looked like a boy then, as his eyes pleaded for her sympathy. Impudent villain! An associate of Brandon’s? Yes, he could be, she supposed, for he was younger than she had thought originally when she first saw the back of him.
But… wait a
minute…what had he just said?
“My pineapples!”
she cried. “You smashed the glass in my pineapple pit?”
He shrugged. “If
that’s what you call that big bastard hole with a glass lid out there.”
“You ass! My
precious tropical plants should be cosseted and cherished!”
He pouted and
lifted his wounded hand again. “What about me?”
“You? What about
my pineapples in the cold night air?”
“It’s July.”
“And England. Not
the Bermudas!”
“Damn silly place
to dig a hole.”
“I’ll dig a hole
wherever I like.”
“You might have
put a fence round it then.”
“I don’t expect
people to be stumbling about in the dark out there, uninvited.”
“I only came to
see Brandon, as I said.”
“And as I said,
you should have waited until daylight. Who goes visiting in the dark of night?”
Only a scoundrel up to no good, she thought.
“I need my five
guineas, don’t I?” he hissed.
“It couldn’t
wait?”
“No, it can’t.
It’s my money and I want it. I earn my living, unlike your precious Lord
Brandon Beaufort.”
“Don’t you take
that tone with me, young man. Who do you think you are?”
“The name’s Ramses
Deverell,” he replied, jaw jutting out, feet apart and hands on hips. “Who the bloody
hell are you?”
As if he had any right to ask, when he was the intruder and apparently there for money. She had absolutely no obligation to tell him anything. In fact, she should have shrieked at the top of her lungs to summon help by now.
But…
“My name is Ainslie,”
she heard herself saying.
“Ainslie?”
he tested the name on his tongue. Through narrowed eyes, he studied her again.
“You’re not the kitchen maid, are you? And you’re not the cook either. Or the
gardener.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh. I can tell.” A
decidedly wicked smirk curled across his lips and, even when it was gone from
there, it lingered in his eyes, like smoke from a recently extinguished flame. One
snuffed by a gasp of breath. She almost heard a wanton sigh, floating through
the air. “Your skin is too fine and clean. Soft too, no doubt, and sweetly
tasting.”
“How dare you!?”
“Is it a crime to
compliment a woman?”
Why did she not tell
him who she was and that she was the lady of the house? Perhaps, if he knew she
was the Countess of Beaufort, he might carry her off over his shoulder and hold
her for ransom. He was, after all, an irreverent Deverell— and just like all
the others, he had turned up where he should not be. He had barged in, defying
locks, gates and barriers. Who knew what he might do next?
“You are
beautiful,” he said. “Was I supposed not to notice? I’m a man with two eyes and
all other parts complete. Even if I am slightly soused.”
“Only slightly?”
she muttered, bemused.
“Falling into your
trap has sobered me up considerably.”
“It’s a pineapple
pit, not a trap.”
“Well…” He grinned
again, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. “It caught me for you, didn’t
it?”
She wouldn’t want Brandon to be in trouble with his father and the earl would most certainly not approve of a Deverell acquaintance, nor would he condone his sons gambling, or being in debt. Better, therefore, if she dealt with the matter herself and kept this strange event from becoming known to her husband. She understood now, of course, why she was the only soul disturbed by the trespasser, for that pineapple pit was just below her bedchamber’s open window. It was not, after all, a supernatural force that woke her from a deep sleep and drew her downstairs, even if she had, at first sight of him, been tempted to think so.
Ainslie squared
her shoulders. “How do I know you speak the truth about your purpose here, Mr.
Deverell?”
“Look in my coat
pocket.” He jerked his head to where the muddied garment was slung over a
Windsor chair beside the table. “Inside pocket.”
“So you see,
whatever else I am, I’m not a liar. In fact, I’m honest to a fault, so I’ve been
told.” He yawned and scratched his head with his bloodied hand, thereby making
more mess. “You may now apologize to me.”
“I beg your
pardon?”
“For doubting my
motives, holding me at knife point, and threatening to set the dogs on me, when
all I wanted was my five guineas. An amount I am owed and entirely justified in
collecting. But you suspected me of villainy at first sight, just because I do
not look the same as all Lord Brandon’s other friends. I am not like all the
other nobs, toffs and son-ofs, so you leapt to conclusions. Consequently, I
declare myself offended.”
“I leapt to—you’re
offended? You broke into this property in the dead of night, young
man. You’re very lucky I didn’t seize a hunting rifle and shoot first before
asking questions.”
He lowered his
arms and gave an amiable shrug. “Fair enough. We’ll call it even then.”
She stared at him,
trying to catch her breath. “You are in possession of considerable gall, Master
Deverell.”
“So I’ve been
told. With my wits and your beauty we’d make quite a formidable pair.” He grinned.
“You ought to run away with me. Tell you what—” He rubbed his chin with the
uninjured hand. “I’ll forfeit those five guineas his lordship owes me and take
you instead to clear his debt. I reckon I could carry you over my shoulder easy
enough.”
“I should like to
see you try.”
“Is that a
challenge?”
Copyright Jayne Fresina 2022.
DANCE WITH A DEVERELL is available now for pre-order and you can read it tomorrow, January 28th.
(Images: Candlelight Study by Ozias Leduc 1893, and The Glory of Womanhood by Thomas Benjamin Kennington 1856-1916)
He is the eldest son of Commodore Justify Deverell and Anshula “Sunny”. As a young boy he joined the navy, following in his father’s footsteps and eager to make something of his life. He is ambitious and driven, but when home on leave, he always finds time for play. And he takes his role as the eldest child very seriously. While his father is away at sea, Ram sees it as his duty to take care of the family and make sure that his mother has everything she needs.
One day, he decides that Sunny is looking tired. What
she requires— he determines— is a new frock. Something fashionable, pretty, and
a little frivolous. Something she would not spend money on for herself. So, he
sets about arranging it for her. Firstly, he must collect a debt of five
guineas, owed to him by his friend, Lord Brandon Beaufort.
Thus, he finds himself on the Beaufort country estate
one night, rather worse for wear after a few ales at the local hostelry. And
while trampling around in the dark, he manages to fall through the glass of a
pineapple pit belonging to the countess.
It is a moment that will not only change his world forever,
but hers too.
At the beginning of their story, he is seventeen— a
young man with strong views and a rebel’s heart. He knows what he wants out of
life, and he means to get it. He is bold, brazen and fearless.
But by the end of their story, he is thirty— an
ill-tempered, scarred fellow, soured by the misfortunes of fate, made bitter by
disappointment and tragedy. He has closed himself off from society and the
pleasures he once enjoyed. Where once he thought he had his world by the
unmentionables, he now feels as if it’s the other way about. The world has
turned on him. He focuses all his attention on work, which now provides his
only satisfaction.
Between them, they will push, prod and poke him into a
bath and then a clean suit of clothes. He can make all the beastly grunts he
feels necessary, but they will lure him out of his dark cave tonight. One way or
another.
Because maybe the woman he once lost will be there too
tonight. She’s a part of his story that is left undone, and despite his
fiercest efforts, he’s never been able to forget her.
Maybe— just maybe— it isn’t yet the end of their
story, after all.
**
Find out what happens this Friday, the 28th
of January, and pre-order your copy here.
He was a widower,
many years her senior, who already had two sons by his first marriage— the
eldest of whom is only two years younger than Ainslie. The earl was a strict,
cruel man, who believed that his wife was just another of his possessions— part
of his estate. And he decided that she had much to learn. She was young and
unsophisticated, having never been out in society and living all her life in
the country with her inattentive father. But for the Earl of Beaufort this was
useful— or so he thought in the beginning— since she was an empty vessel to be
filled with his ideas and opinions; to be molded into the sort of wife she
should be; the sort of wife he expected. When she dared object or question, his
young wife received a stern correction, dealt by the sting of his cane. Just
like his sons, or any servant who met with his displeasure.
So when
the earl dies, Ainslie’s first emotion is relief. By then she has a daughter of
her own, and she intends to raise this girl with all the love, guidance and
kindness that she herself never knew. Ainslie also makes it her mission to help
her stepsons find their own happiness in life too, and to improve, as much as
possible, the lives of those who live and work on the Beaufort estate. As a
widow she has a fresh start. For the first time in her life, she is not under
the thumb of any man—be it a father, or a husband. And she’s very much enjoying
her autonomy. She’s learning to live; learning about her true self. She’s even
begun to read, in secret, about something they call “Rights for Women.”
The only
problem is, a certain Ramses Deverell— seven years her junior and far too wild for his own good— has
taken it into his head to pursue Ainslie. She’s not sure why, or what he hopes
to achieve by trying to get under her skin. Or her petticoats. She’s heard about
the wagers he and his friends make in regard to seductions, so perhaps she’s
just another bet. Whatever he’s up to, it must be mischief and nothing but
trouble for her. He’s already trampled her pineapples. What next?
Ainslie wants to lead a respectable life without the slightest rumor to
endanger her daughter’s future. She’s always done what she’s told is the right
thing. She knows what her place is in the world and what is expected of her.
Ainslie’s revolution will not happen overnight. Besides, it’s her daughter’s
turn now and her place is in the background.
Apparently,
that wicked, scandalous Deverell is slightly insane. Or, perhaps, he simply
doesn’t care about rumor and gossip. He has always shown a complete disregard
for the rules and a hearty irreverence for the class system. He’s a rebel and
incredibly arrogant. It’s easy for him, of course. He’s never been put in a
cage. He's always done— and had— whatever he wants.
Yes, he’s amusing, playful, handsome and clever, but
he’s too young for her, too reckless and too tempting. And even worse than all
that, he’s a Deverell. Need anything more be said?
They should never have met; it would be better for
both of them, if they never meet again.
Ainslie has never been in love before. Would she know
it, if she felt it? And by the time she does— by the time she’s ready for her
own revolution— will it all be too late?
Find out on January 28th. Order your copy of DANCE WITH A DEVERELL here
(Image: Portrait of a woman by Sir Frances Dicksee 1887)
He’s the younger son of the Earl of Beaufort and
therefore “the spare”. As a boy, he was destined for the church. That was his
stern father’s plan, which nobody dared question. But Brandon has other dreams, and when he befriends Ramses Deverell he learns how to use his own voice and is
encouraged to stand up for what he wants. Through Deverell's support, he finds the necessary courage
and confidence in himself to become an artist.
Their friendship is forged at boarding school, when the
boys are eleven. Ramses is not much of a scholar, so Brandon attempts to help
him learn. But after only a year, Ramses decides to save his family the cost of
that education and follows his own father’s footsteps into the Royal Navy. The
two boys might have gone their separate ways then, but instead they stay in
contact and whenever Ramses is in England on leave, he meets up with Brandon.
After nineteen years, their bond is as strong as ever, and each time they are in
company together, it’s as if they’ve never been apart. They know everything about each other— even
the things they think they’ve kept secret from the world.
Many people warned him never to trust a Deverell, but Brandon
knows how lucky he is to count Ram as his oldest, most loyal friend. There is
nobody else in his life so outspoken, fearless and driven; nobody else who
could have opened his eyes to another world and new possibilities. Oh, Ram can
be trouble at times, certainly— and likes to raise eyebrows. But Brandon knows
how to handle the fellow’s moods and eccentricities, and he would stand up for
Ram, no matter what, just as his friend has always done for him.
Even so, don’t be fooled by that angelic face and his kindly, generous nature,
because when pushed he can be just as mulish and tough-skinned as his notorious
comrade.
Especially when he’s needed to pull his friend back
from the darkest abyss.
“Do-gooder,”
Ram calls him.
But like any knight in shining armor, Lord Brandon
Beaufort believes in fighting for love.
And since his best friend once helped him find the way
to happiness, he plans to repay the favour.
Happy Reading!
(Image: Portrait of a Young Gentleman by George Dawe, 1819)
In DANCE WITH A DEVERELL, the hero’s little sister, Hatshepsut, is about to attend her first proper ball. She’s eighteen and has just completed her schooling at a modern, progressive ladies’ seminary, where she met Lady Emilia Beaufort, who has this to say about her:
“She’s the
cleverest girl I ever knew. She speaks several languages, can identify all the
parts of the human body and knows fifteen different ways to incapacitate a man.
I suppose you’ll turn your nose up at her now though, just because she’s a
Deverell and her father bought her mother at a bride sale for six pounds.
But I’m not going
to stop being her friend just because of that name. She can’t help the family
she’s born into, can she? Some of the other girls put their noses in the air
and look down on Hattie. She says that Deverells don’t care what people say
about them, although, I think sometimes it does make her sad and she tries not
to show it. I shared my marshmallows with her and she showed me how to knee an
offensive gentleman in the groin. That’s how we became friends.”
All her brothers call her “Little Hat”, which she now finds exceedingly annoying. At her age she thinks they ought to drop the “little”, but as her protective, eldest brother says, “Hatshepsut, even when you are fifty, you will still by my little sister.”
Well, he might think her still too young and
silly to know anything, but tonight Hattie has a surprise in store for her
brother.
Hatshepsut is the only daughter of Commodore Justify Deverell
and his wife Anshula (“Sunny”). With four older brothers, she’s grown up having
to shout to be heard and fight to be noticed, but her large, loud family is one
full of love— even if it’s often shown in peculiar ways. She has been raised in
an unconventional home, where she is encouraged to speak her mind; to be
confident and fearless. She might lack a little feminine grace and polish, but
she doesn’t particularly care about the rules that society tries to impose upon
her in any case. She’s a woman with her own ideas and plans, and a few stuffy
old men are not about to stand in her way.
*
Lady Emilia Beaufort’s upbringing has been very
different to that of “Little Hat”. Her father, the Earl of Beaufort, was already
an old man when she was born. He was very strict, cold and often cruel: a man who believed there was no place for laughter or warm emotion in a “decent house and family”. He
preferred his children to fear, rather than love him, and he believed in
corporal punishment for anybody who dared question or displease him in any way.
Coming on January 28th, 2022, for your entertainment - a new Deverell novella...
"DANCE WITH A DEVERELL"
***
He knew, the first time he saw her, that she was the only woman in the world for him.
She knew, the first time they met, that he was the
last thing she needed in her life.
***
Even before she hears his name— before he’s even
turned around to look at her— Lady Beaufort knows this young man is trouble. On
a quest to collect a debt of five guineas, he has trampled her precious
pineapple plant and broken into her house in the dead of night. Who knows what
he might do next, given half a chance?
Like most of his notorious family, Ramses Deverell is
not a man to let locks, walls or society’s rules get in his way. He doesn’t
care about the class divide either and believes that money, opportunity and
respect should be earned. He knows what he wants; he’s determined to get it.
And when he meets Ainslie Beaufort, he’s still young
enough to think he can change the world for both of them.
*
Yes, he’s amusing, playful, handsome and clever, but
he’s too young for her, too reckless and too tempting. And even worse than all
that, he’s a Deverell. Need anything more be said?
No, she will never kiss him, whatever premonition he
claims to feel in his bones. Nor will she ever dance with him.
They should never have met; it would be better for
both of them, if they never meet again.
For her daughter’s respectability, this lady will
sacrifice her own desires.
But to dance with the woman he loves, this Deverell
will walk through fire.
Check back here for release date news and teasers!
Thanks for reading.
Jayne
Today I'm sharing with you a small excerpt from my new Christmas novella, The Snow Birds. Enjoy!
*
Twelve Days Before Christmas.
“Damnable…arse!”
She had seen that man before and, yes, of course she
knew who he was. But it startled her to see him through the window of the
antique shop; his rugged, wonky-nosed, distinctive profile coming into view as
she frantically rubbed a clear patch with her gloved hand.
Her heart was beating very fast. She thought it meant
to fly up through her throat and out of her mouth, following the unladylike
curse that had previously shot out of her and briefly misted the window in
front of her face.
Hazard Deverell was stealing her snow birds.
Thus came the “Damnable…arse!” repeated several
times in quick succession, exhaled with such fury that it had completely fogged
over the window pane.
Now, belatedly realizing that she had spoken out loud
and in public, she held that breath and stared, in mute fury, through the freshly
wiped glass, while the shopkeeper wrapped her snow birds in brown paper
and string.
*
When Hazard came out of the shop with his parcel he
almost stumbled over the small, drab woman standing there with tears in her
eyes and a vexed line across her brow.
“Pardon me, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her, remembering
his manners.
She looked as if she might scream and that holding it
in was taking several years off her life.
When she stepped to the side, he did the same, and
then they both repeated the motion, as if attached to each other by invisible
thread that jerked them back and forth like puppets in a macabre dance. They
couldn’t get out of each other’s way.
“Are you quite well, ma’am?” He squinted down at that maudlin
face. “Do you require assistance?”
“Excuse me!” she exclaimed, trying again to escape,
while he blocked the path with his instinctive boxer’s stance.
“Wait a minute, ma’am. I know you, don’t I?”
“Most certainly not,” she snapped, as if he suggested
something improper.
And then it burst out of him on a startled breath. “The
disappointed gravestone angel!”
She opened her mouth, but closed it again immediately
and made an odd, muffled sound. Her damp, flint-colored eyes sparked with a
quick flame of anger, before she cast her gaze hastily upon the ground, bit her
lip, spun around, and walked away.
Peculiar creature.
It had taken a moment to recognize the woman, because
he only ever saw her in the churchyard at Hunsford Green, and from a distance.
Today, almost falling over her outside Crayle’s Antiques and Collectibles
in Woodheath, she was out of her usual place. The unexpected proximity was a
jolt to his nerves, like waking to find a statue standing beside his bed,
staring down at him with stony eyes, after somebody had carried it indoors overnight
as a prank.
He watched her hurrying away from him along the icy
pavement. She looked back over her shoulder, just once, and then quickened her
pace again until she was almost running, but not quite. Well, he mused, she
definitely had feet that knew how to move of their own accord, so she was not
made of marble or granite, as he had once imagined.
But the anger on her face today, outside the antiques
shop, suggested a deeply personal animosity to which he took considerable
exception. It was one thing to be a private, reserved sort of woman, reluctant
to acknowledge a stranger in the graveyard, but it was quite another to be
rude, churlish and hate a person to whom one had not even been introduced.
Hazard decided
he was distinctly put out and could not rest until he had made her smile. Once
and for all.
So, even though his head told him he had other things
to do and that he was simply making trouble for himself, his feet followed her
onto the omnibus, intent on finding out exactly what he had done to make her
despise him with such wordless intensity. To make her explain herself and why
she was trying to haunt his every thought.
She certainly looked as if she had something to get
off her chest, and he knew how women held grudges. In a way, he might even be
doing her a favor.
Brimming with stifled, angry thoughts and surging
waves of grief, Tuppence Sparrow was unaware of that shadow trailing after her feet
like a stray pup following a butcher’s cart. It was not until she arrived home,
took off her coat and hat, washed her hands, put on her apron, and walked out
into her father’s shop to find Hazard Deverell standing there that she realized
she’d been followed all the way from Woodheath high street back to her home in Hunsford
Green.
His presence seemed to fill the shop, squeezing out
all the other customers, who became nothing but melted blobs of butter in her
sight. He stared at her, looking curiously smug. As if he thought he had her
cornered.
He must believe he’s a real person, she mused. Poor,
stupid thing.
Look at him, standing there, all proud of himself and
arrogant! And with that parcel tucked under his arm. Her mother’s lovely snow
birds, stolen away by a man who could not possibly appreciate their beauty, or
the many memories they held for her within the musical notes of their merry
chirping dance.
Her eyes watered again as she bit the inside of her
cheek.
She set her face with as much nonchalance as she could
muster and quickly got on with the business of serving customers in her
father’s confectionary shop.
“About time too,” her step-mother grumbled. “Where
have you been all afternoon? How long does it take to leave a bunch of heather
on a grave?”
The woman had no idea that she had gone into Woodheath
on the omnibus that day, of course. “Where’s father?”
“Upstairs having a kip. Had one of his turns again.
And there you were, off gallivanting. Some daughter you are. I hope you’re
proud of yourself.”
“I’ll take over now, Maud, if you need a rest. Go and
make a cup of tea for yourself and father. I’ll manage here.”
Her step-mother did not need to be urged twice. She
abandoned a customer in the midst of serving and marched off through the
curtain. “Tea! As If I have time to sit about with my feet up sipping tea.”
Tuppence worried about her father and his “turns”. He
was understandably tired. For many years he had kept the business going with
the help— which varied in usefulness— of all his daughters, but none of the
other girls took much pleasure in serving customers, or in making fudge and
toffee. Their father’s remarriage was the final straw. One by one they left to
start new lives and families. Only the middle daughter, Tuppence, stayed behind,
not having enough gumption to take flight from the Sparrow’s nest.
Since her father had begun to retreat more and more
from the shop and took to slyly escaping, as much as he could, to The Cock and
Bull Inn on the corner, his remaining daughter had taken over much of the work
herself, rising early and staying up late to keep the shelves and jars well
stocked. She was also very much the creative force, coming up with many new
flavors and shapes of confectionary to tempt customers in.
“You’re my right-hand girl, Tuppence,” her father had
said.
To which her step-mother huffed, “’Tis just as well
she does something to earn her keep around here.”
Both her presence and her occasional absence were
equally resented by Maud. Indeed, Tuppence couldn’t seem to get her presence
quite right.
Now creatures that must have escaped from her
imaginary other lives were stepping out into this one. It could only spell
trouble.
Or, in this case, Hazard. In every possible way.
*
The first time she saw him, he was standing at a
grave, just a few rows away from her mother’s. Immediately she thought that he
possessed a dented sort of handsomeness, one of which he was probably all too
well aware. He moved with a commanding confidence, as if he never had a doubt
or a regret. He was a giant of a man who seized life with both hands, never
feared anything, never really felt thwarted or left wanting for anything,
because he had it all without trying. All that she had decided about him within
the first five minutes, sketching for him a history and a present that seemed
to suit his looks. As for his future, that she did not dare imagine.
She did not believe in the idea of a destiny. In
Tuppence’s opinion— which was never sought— a person was born
and then they died. Whatever happened in between was entirely reliant on
accidental circumstances and their own stupidity.
Which probably explained why she had never ventured
more than a few miles from her home and satisfied any other urges from the
safety of her imagination.
Once the man had left the churchyard, she wandered
over to read the inscription on the grave at which he had stood for so long.
Lily Rose Deverell
Beloved Wife and Mother
Forever now an Angel
1857-1882
And then she not only had a name for him, but all her
ideas about the man were confirmed.
Lily Rose Parker had once been a star of the music
hall; a celebrated beauty, famous for flying across the stage while she sang,
apparently wearing angel’s wings and very little else. Tuppence and her sisters
had read about her in the newspaper, although they never went to the theatre to
see such an exhibition for themselves. Then, one day, the actress married Hazard
Deverell. That was in the newspaper too and increased Lily Rose’s notoriety,
for his name was just as infamous as her scantily clad performances. The woman
must have courted trouble deliberately, Tuppence thought.
“Isn’t he that prizefighter?” one of her sisters had
exclaimed as they all leaned over the newspaper. “Our Tuppence used to cut his
picture out of magazines.”
“She always had the strangest fascination for the
lives of people she would never meet,” her other sister chimed in, teasing. “Especially
if they were very wicked.”
Hazard Deverell had been in the newspaper for various
exploits, including a naked swim in the Serpentine after a disastrously unlucky
hand of poker; beating a man almost senseless for insulting his grandmother,
and showing his buttocks to the Countess of Beddingham, after she called him an
“uncouth American upstart”.
Tuppence had collected all the clippings about him,
not really having a reason why, but simply wanting to have some part of all
that excitement, which she would surely never know in real life.
So all these years later, Tuppence had no intention of
telling her sisters that she had seen the man in person, there in Hunsford
Green, in the very same graveyard where their mother was buried. They would
laugh and shake their heads. Or else they would be concerned for her state of
mind, which was worse.
They would know it had to be all in her head, as,
indeed, she did too.
But when he appeared in the churchyard, his hair was
lengthier and had more of a curl to it than she had previously imagined in her
daydreams, and his skin was darker than she would have expected, hinting at
something exotic in his blood. Not quite a gentleman but dressed as one.
Underneath the fine, gold embroidered waistcoat and silk ascot, there was an
extraordinary male animal, escaped from a circus or the zoological gardens.
He always placed a bunch of expensive hothouse flowers
on his wife’s grave and threw away the dead, dried sprigs. All Tuppence had for
her mother was some heather, which she grew in a pot on her windowsill, the
contents of her purse not running to the cost of florist-bought blooms.
Especially while she was saving her pennies to buy back her mother’s snow bird jewelry
box and all those memories it contained for her.
She had noticed that, in addition to the flowers, he
always put seed down for the birds too. Perhaps that is what first prompted her
curiosity and made her watch, very cautiously, from the corner of her eye. From
all that she had read, he wasn’t the sort of man to bother about little birds.
The second time she saw Hazard Deverell standing by
his wife’s headstone, he had tipped his hat and wished her a good day. Tuppence
looked over her shoulder, assuming there was somebody else at whom he spoke.
But there was only her.
“Good day,” he repeated cheerily.
Why on earth would he want to speak to her?
Perhaps he mistook her for somebody else. It was most improper for a strange
man to address a lady he didn’t know.
Clearly, he had not heard from her step-mother that
she was a great lump of a girl who stole fudge when nobody was watching. He did
not know that she lived in imaginary worlds just to keep herself from
committing violent, desperate acts, as befitted plain spinsters of a certain
age, temperament and situation.
He must not know that she was practically engaged to
Horace Pinchbeck and not a hussy who spoke to utter strangers in graveyards.
He was a man who, according to stories she’d read, had
once entered a party with three women on his arms. And left it with an
additional two. A man at whom a scandalous fille de joie had thrown her stockings,
so that he was obliged to complete a boxing match with the silk-trimmed articles
draped over his head. He won, incidentally, which suggested he was accustomed
to the inconvenience.
She would not encourage him in whatever mischief he
sought to embroil her.
Tuppence Sparrow had problems enough already, without
adding Hazard Deverell to them. But he, it seemed, was determined.
****
