Well. It is Saturday, and hopefully everyone is able to spend much of the morning in bed, so you don't have to read this for a while. Truth is, as a rule, I let nobody read my stuff. Call it vanity, call it lack of confidence, call it the perfectionist syndrome, but there is something terribly nerve-wracking about letting anyone else's eyes fall over the words I have so painstakingly chosen, arranged, and formed into a story. But I feel that as a hypothetical writer, I really ought to let real people see the stuff before attempting to fling it out onto an unsuspecting public. Please do comment, thoughtfully, truthfully, critically; saying you love it is flattering, but not particularly helpful in improving it. "And I intend to improve in many directions," as good heavens Gwendolyn so aptly states.
The thoughts, descriptions, and dialogue which appear here are taken from my story currently entitled Lady Georgiana, set sometime in the early 19th century in England. I must warn you: all
characters, events, and locations portrayed in this story are purely fictional.
Please do not be so rude as to discredit the author's creativity, or so vain as to
think she found your personality fascinating enough to bestow it upon an
immortal fictional character.
Ahem.
***
Sir Basil Biggeldy sat in his
chair at the breakfast table and scowled at the world. It was not to his liking
today, and it never was. The breakfast was not to his liking; the cold floor
upon his thin-skinned feet was not to his liking either. His valet was slow;
his housemaid a nuisance for spilling his tea. The servant girls ran about
screaming and flapping their arms like a couple of disturbed seagulls, and Sir
Basil, in his infinite wisdom and knowledge, could not for the life of him
imagine whatever for. The sun shone too brightly in his eyes as he sat down to
a cold and rubbery egg; yet when the valet closed the drapes, he closed them
too tightly, leaving Sir Basil to shiver in the cold of the shade. He would not
stand for this; so he stood up and hurried out to his study, with a dignified
air and an empty belly, growling at the world. It was not going to be a
pleasant day, and it never was.
Sir Basil sat in his chair in his
study and scowled at the world. Such papers, such work! And it was all his
responsibility! Was he responsible for all the world, and all its problems? Was
he the only man alive left to bring the world to its senses? He asked himself
these and other such pressing questions each morning, but since the day his
valet unwisely attempted to answer them (in a jocular, painfully lighthearted
sort of manner - stupid man), the questions remained unanswered, though never
unspoken. Such was his life.
...
Frank helped Sir Basil dress, and
it was thus three quarters of an hour later that the gentleman stepped outside
his front door to take in the air. The air rarely agreed with him, but it was
on such days as this, when nothing agreed with him, that the air provided a
suitable diversion from the pains of indoors, and confronted Sir Basil with a
novelty over which to gripe and groan. He tread heavily around the house to see
his kennels, but the sharp yapping of a new litter made him wince and turn back
to see the gardens. He strolled through the flowers, his head bent, his back
bent, his nose bent; he saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, but walked
his routine walk with as much eagerness as a polar bear at the sight of an ice
cube. The flowers were not there for his pleasure; they were there for his
niece and her daughter, for the women would insist that "something must be done"
to put color into the grounds. He did not want color in his life - he did not
like color - but if they insisted, he could but allow the color in the grounds,
as long as it did not interfere with his sleeping or his reading or his walks.
He knew the paths by heart, and so he did not need to even open his eyes and
confront the bright and sprightly colors as they danced across the yard.
Sir Basil was never known to be
fond of flowers, or children, or women in general (their speech was painful to
his ears), but he did have a sort of something, which amounted to an emotion
similar in nature to a fondness for his brother's daughter. Prudence was,
convincingly, prudent; a quiet child, from an early age; not eager to run or
jump or shout as others did, but more interested in sitting and hearing him
speak, or looking at the pictures in a book. She was always a curious child,
absorbing much more than she would let out, but for this Sir Basil was
grateful, as he could turn his attentions to her instead of to her bombastic
siblings during family visits. He watched with a certain sort of pleasure as
she grew from a small girl to a lovely young woman, and though he may not have
expressed as much, he did love her, in his own sort of way. For her wedding (to
a decent enough sort of fellow, though one whom Sir Basil could never
understand, and one whom held none of the charms which Sir Basil had thought
attractive to a young woman), he gave the couple a handsome present of a clock,
which remained since then in their drawing room, and which Sir Basil took to
admiring each time he stepped through their doors.
He would not impose upon them too
frequently, oh no; he could not afford to be away from his own home too long,
for fear the servants would drink all the cellars dry and run amok through the
halls with the crystal chandeliers; he could only imagine the horrors they
might enact if left to their own devices. But for special occasions, he would
make the drive, and as their daughter grew through the years, the visits became
more pleasant and relaxed for him. He could speak to the new child, and she
would not understand, but she would listen, nearly as attentively as her
mother; indeed, Georgiana certainly inherited her mother's intelligence. Though
she would listen, she had also inherited her father's impatience and overly
eager interest in life outdoors, and it was not long before the one-sided
conversation fell apart, and the small girl stood up cooing to look outside the
window and see if she could find some other thing of interest. At times, in
momentary fits of generosity, Sir Basil would lead her by the hand into the
foreign outdoors, and together they would roam through the gardens, or visit
his kennels, or perhaps her parents' stables, and listen to the animals and the
flowers and the sky. Sir Basil never understood these conversations, but he
appreciated the child's ability, and he wondered - occasionally, when the fit
would take him - what it was they were all saying.
Sir Basil sat curled up by his
library fire (after a quarter of an hour’s worth of fresh air, he was more than
willing to return to the comfort of the indoors) and wondered whether Georgiana
might not come today. She would come, on occasion, though not frequently
enough. She had things to do, her mother said; but Sir Basil could not
understand what a gentleman's daughter, a young girl of eighteen, could
possibly have to do besides sit indoors and knit, or read, or play the
pianoforte? Indeed, he could not fathom. Such a delicate creature too! No
daughter of his (if he had ever had the misfortune to have a daughter) would be
found occupied in any other way. Sir Basil wondered with vague terror whether
she spent much time in the bracing air or leaping about on those monstrous
creatures her father called horses. That Blakeney fellow, always so confident
in himself. What Sir Basil wouldn’t give to teach that young fellow a lesson …
but his aggressive musings were cut short by the arrival of Georgiana Blakeney herself.
“Hello, Uncle Basil,” and she
leaned down to give him a kiss. He muttered a greeting, then handed her a book.
“I’ve left my reading glasses
upstairs,” he made the excuse, but Georgiana knew that, even with the glasses,
his eyes were too poorly to sustain such a reading habit as his. Obligingly,
she took up the book and began to read. Within minutes, he groaned, but said
nothing. A few minutes later, he groaned again, and indicated that she stop.
“Your voice hasn’t the same quality,” he sighed. From beneath the layers of
quilt, only his nose and closed eyes were visible. “You really ought to
practice – or take lessons – or something, my dear; I don’t know how your
parents allow you to speak with such pronounced Ts and swallowed vowels. Really
such a shame.”
Georgiana did not know how to
answer this.
“You should hear Tilly Baker
sometime,” his voice grew almost enthusiastic, and beneath the quilts his hand
motioned as if to explain. “She has a lovely voice, most lovely; her rendition
of Pericles’ speech is quite stirring. Perhaps you know her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“She’s the niece of Mrs.
Gregson.” Mrs. Gregson was Sir Basil’s housekeeper, and never a particular
friend to Georgiana. “Lives down the crooked lane between the Strand and Cherry
Street, as I understand. She comes by sometimes to help her aunt with little
things about the house, and when I’m tired she comes and reads to me. Such a
good-natured child. Always so patient with an old man,” he coughed for
emphasis. “You would do well to make the acquaintance of Tilly Baker, my fine
lady. Never too fine a lady to make friends with the people, as I always say.”
“I’ve never heard you say that
before.”
“That’s because you never
listen,” and he coughed again. “Now be a good girl, and send Frank in to me,
and run along home. You’ve had enough Thucydides for one day, I should think.”
