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| A truly magnificent example of someone preserving an ancient art into modern times. |
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Grace note: I broke another so-called "Rule of Romance" this week. I didn't intend to; it just happened—the fate of "out of the mist" authors and, to me, what keeps life interesting. The rule? - Introducing the Hero in a timely fashion. In short "category" romance, like the books published by Harlequin/Silhouette, the general rule is to introduce the hero in Chapter 1. For longer books, later is okay, but Chapter 3 or 4 is considered the outside boundary. (This is ROMANCE, after all, and readers love their heroes.) Nonetheless, it looks like it's going to be Chapter 5 before I can introduce the hero of Shadows Over Greystoke Grange. I can only hope readers will tolerate this deviation from the tried and true.
The above note fits nicely with the post on layering below. Though it's a skill most authors use at one time or another, layering is a staple of the "out of the mist" author. In this case, the premature birth of Shadows providing a truly excellent example of what I mean by "layering."
MORE ON LAYERING
I had just finished uploading The Abominable Major to Amazon and Smashwords and had every intention of doing a lot of "catch up" before contemplating the idea for the new Gothic that had been running through my mind. You know . . . things like housework, filing recipes, a bit of sewing, giving the cat more than a pat or two, or maybe spending more time on the often-neglected compilation of my Writing & Editing blogs into book form. But that darn Regency Gothic 8 refused to cooperate. In the middle of doing the things I should do, I suddenly sat down, formatted a manuscript page, and began to write. That story simply refused to wait. And yes, it was definitely born before its time. Sigh.
What I ended up with was little more than an outline, a skimpy outline at that. And it occurred to me what a good example it would be of "layering": of starting with little more than a germ of an idea and building on it until the pages began to read like a book. So I carefully kept that first draft, which I've pasted below. Following it, I've added the third edit, hopefully demonstrating how "layering" in more details, more color, turned a bare-bones idea into the beginning of a novel.
First draft of Shadows Over Greystoke Grange:
Chapter 1
Adria is not a common name. It is, in fact, quite horrid. My Aunt Chillworth informs me, with a certain snide satisfaction, that my parents were so certain of a boy that they never chose any name but Adrian. And when their petit paquet turned out to be female, they were so nonplussed they simply eliminated the n, and I was christened Adria while I was still much to young to object.
I have become accustomed. Somewhat. It is never pleasant to encounter puzzled frowns from people quite certain they have misheard. Or endure the snickers of children delighted to pounce on such a juicy enticement to tease. Or, as I grew older, suffer the smirks of young people now too well trained to mock me out loud. In truth, sensitivity about reactions to my name was my sole fear of the upcoming season of 1816. Everything else about it . . . glorious, absolutely glorious. I could hardly wait.
Fortunately, my impatience for London and all the great city had to offer was alleviated by constant visits from Marlborough’s finest dressmaker—concrete evidence that it really was happening: in less than a month, my cousin Vivian and I would be making our come-outs, busy from morn to night with shopping, balls, routs, soirées, Venetian breakfasts, Almack’s, riding in the park . . . Meeting eligible gentlemen.
Finding a new home. A home of my own.
“Ow!” Pricked by a pin, I nearly fell off the dressmaker’s stool.
“Ah, miss, I’m that sorry!”
Even before the assistant’s apology, I regretted my outburst. The poor girl, not more than a year or two older than I, looked as if she feared for her life. As perhaps she did, for the consequences might be dire if she lost her position. “It was nothing,” I told her. Turning to the dressmaker, I said, “My foot slipped, I was startled.”
Aunt Chillworth and Mrs. __________, the dressmaker, transferred their scowls from the quaking assistant to me. “Truly,” I added, assuming my most innocent expression. One I had perfected over my years at Chillworth Manor.
Which is why I had some inkling of the poor assistant’s feelings. Although I had always had a roof over my head and food in my mouth, I knew what it was to live on sufferance. I had done so for the last twelve years, ever since the death of my parents in a boating accident when I was six. My mother was my Uncle Chillworth’s sister, and he had done his duty, taking in “the poor orphaned child” (an oft-repeated phrase that stuck in my six-year-old mind). My Aunt Chillworth—though no one would ever term her a woman of generous spirit—also did her duty, but I knew quite well she could hardly wait to be rid of me.
A sentiment which, I assure you, was mutual.
Ungrateful wretch that I was. I had such grand fantasies of love and marriage. A home of my own. And I was nearly certain Cousin Vivian felt the same. Love was unheard of at Chillworth Manor; nothing more than vague affection dwelt here, frequently tempered with disapproval.
But we were almost free. It was happening, really happening.
Vivian and I exchanged a long look of mutual understanding. Though we had little in common, from looks to interests, we had perforce been allies for the past dozen years. And though she suffered occasional bouts of dejection over the comparison between us, she had been a remarkably good sport about our differences. I was a willowy five-foot-six and not much over eight stone, Vivian was five-feet-two and close to ten stone. Our faces, our personalties . . . alas, it was I who received most of the compliments, although Vivian continually outshone me when it came to what Aunt Chillworth considered “proper” manners and knowledge of the contents of her prayer book.
I suppose, looking back, I should have expected what happened.
Alas, I did not.
The third edit of the above:
Chapter 1
Adria is not a common name. It is, in fact, quite horrid. My Aunt Chillworth informs me, with a certain snide satisfaction, that my parents were so certain of a boy that they never chose any name but Adrian. Therefore, when their petit paquet turned out to be female, they were so nonplussed they simply eliminated the n, and I was christened Adria while I was still much to young to object.
I have become accustomed. Somewhat. It is never pleasant to encounter puzzled frowns from people quite certain they have misheard. Or endure the snickers of children delighted to pounce on such a juicy enticement to tease. Or, as I grew older, suffer the smirks of young people now too well trained to mock me out loud. In truth, sensitivity about my name was my sole niggling alarm over the upcoming season of 1816. But each time I felt a flutter of apprehension, I reminded myself that I was a mere Miss, and in no danger of having “Lady Adria” bandied about, the laughingstock of the ton. I was Miss Lovett, and Miss Lovett I would remain until I became well enough acquainted with someone for him to know my Christian name. And hopefully be so enchanted he would not mind.
I say “he” even though I knew many of my new acquaintances would be female, because—ah, so many years later I still find myself blushing!—why else did young ladies go to London for the Season, except to find a suitable life’s companion. That was the whole point to making one’s come-out, was it not?
And except for having qualms about my name, I knew, simply knew, the upcoming Season would be the most glorious experience of my life. I could hardly wait.
Fortunately, my impatience for London and all the great city had to offer was somewhat alleviated by frequent visits from Miss Emmaline Osgood, Marlborough’s most accomplished dressmaker, the constant rounds of fabrics, patterns, fittings, and planning accessories providing a continuing promise that it really was happening. In less than a month, my cousin Vivian and I would be making our come-outs, busy from morn to night with shopping, balls, routs, soirées, Venetian breakfasts, Almack’s, riding in the park . . .
Meeting eligible gentlemen.
Finding a new home. A home of my own.
And surely the gown I was wearing at the moment would go a long way to accomplishing my goal.
I was currently standing on a stool in the sewing room while Miss Osgood’s assistant pinned white silk roses in place at the upper corners of the swag that graced the bottom of my skirt. My heart sang, for the gown was far and away the most glorious garment I had ever worn.
Noting Aunt Chillworth’s eagle eye assessing me, I quickly shuttered my delight. My aunt did not approve of strong emotions. Young ladies were to be composed at all times, with perhaps a soupçon of ennui, just enough to demonstrate that one was not a jeune fille just up from the country.
Inwardly, I sighed., and after assuming a pose of indifference, returned to a surreptitious perusal of my gown. Ah, but it was magnificent! I was Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Guinevere—the princess of every romantic tale I’d ever read. The ballgown of azure silk was embroidered with white rosebuds enhanced by beadwork. A white rose, similar to the ones decorating the swag, rested in décolletage considerably lower than any gown I had worn before. I was enchanted, fantasies of my future dancing through my head like fireflies at twilight.
“Ow!” Pricked by a pin, I nearly fell off the dressmaker’s stool.
“Ah, miss, I’m that sorry!”
Even before the assistant’s apology, I regretted my outburst. The poor girl, not more than a year or two older than I, looked as if she feared for her life. “It was nothing,” I told her. Turning to the clearly anxious dressmaker, I said, “My foot slipped, I was startled.”
Aunt Chillworth transferred her scowl from the quaking assistant to me. “Truly,” I said to her, assuming my most innocent expression. One I had perfected over my years at Chillworth Manor.
“Lift your skirts,” my aunt snapped.
“I beg your par—”
“Now!”
“Truly, Aunt, it is nothing.”
“This minute, Adria.”
I hiked up the skirt of the gown, offering my right leg.
“The other leg. Do not be sly, Child!”
Reluctantly, I lifted the gown’s hem above my left knee, hoping against hope there was nothing to see. Alas, the tiniest trickle of blood had made its way some two inches down my leg.
“Oh, miss . . .” the assistant breathed.
“Miss Osgood, you and your assistant may pack up your gowns and leave us,” Aunt Chillworth declared.
“But, Aunt—”
“Adria, be silent. Remove the gown and return to your room.”
I was ready to continue my protest, but Miss Osgood caught my eye, clearly entreating me for patience. And yes, thanking me, even as she pleaded for forbearance.
How perfectly horrid to be so dependent on the wilfulness of others.
As are you.
I carried on a grumbled conversation with my inner voice, even as I disrobed and wriggled into the too-tight sprigged muslin I’d been wearing since I turned sixteen. It was true, of course. I was totally dependent on the grudging generosity of Aunt and Uncle Chillworth.
Which is why I had some inkling of the poor assistant’s feelings. Although I had never lacked for a roof over my head or food in my mouth, I knew what it was to live on sufferance. I had done so for the last twelve years, ever since the death of my parents in a boating accident when I was six. My mother was my uncle Chillworth’s sister, and he had done his duty, taking in “the poor orphaned child” (an oft-repeated phrase that stuck in my six-year-old mind). My Aunt Chillworth—though no one would ever term her a woman of generous spirit—also did her duty, but I knew quite well she could hardly wait to be rid of me.
A sentiment which, I assure you, was mutual.
Ungrateful wretch that I was. I had such grand fantasies of love and marriage. A home and family of my own. And I was nearly certain Cousin Vivian felt the same. For love was unheard of at Chillworth Manor; nothing more than vague affection dwelt here, frequently tempered with disapproval.
But we were almost free. It was happening, really happening.
At least it had been, right up to the last few moments. Knowing any further arguments would be futile, I left the sewing room and descended to my bedchamber on the floor below. I had barely sunk into a chair by the fire when a soft tap on the door was followed by my cousin’s voice.
“Addy?”
I disliked Addy even more than Adria, but I sloughed off my pique, waving her to the comfortably upholstered chair on the other side of the fireplace. Vivian and I exchanged a long look of mutual understanding. Though we had little in common, from our appearance to our interests, we had perforce been allies for the past dozen years. For my hapless cousin frequently suffered more than I from her mother’s sharp tongue.
My cousin leaned forward, whispering even though no one else was about, “Surely Mama cannot mean to dismiss Miss Osgood. Among the three of us, we must have ordered twenty-five garments, at the very least.”
I agreed. Even Aunt Chillworth could not be so petty. But—Heaven forfend!—if she did not accept the garments, Miss Osgood might be ruined, her assistant find herself unemployed as well. And yet Aunt had such an odd look on her face—almost as if she were pleased by the incident.
I must be mistaken.
Vivian, eschewing every rule of deportment her mother had dinned into her head, curled into her chair, feet up, one elbow on the padded arm, her chin sinking into her upturned palm. “It’s just as well,” she said, and heaved a long-drawn sigh.
Merciful heavens, she looked as if her favorite dog had just died. But Vivian tended toward a morose outlook on life, and who could blame her? Sometimes it seemed as if Aunt Chillworth actually enjoyed goading her daughter by making comparisons between us: I was vivacious; Vivian, despite her name, was not. I was pretty, Vivian plain. My figure was willowy, Vivian fat. (I protested that particular pronouncement loudly: sturdy, perhaps, but not fat.) I sparkled (Aunt’s words, not mine); Vivian “faded into the woodwork. To top it all, Uncle Chillworth added to the nonsense spewed by his wife by declaring that “Adria could carry on a conversation with devil himself and come out on top,” while referring to his own daughter as “Miss Mumchance.”
“You looked so beautiful in that gown,” Vivian said, sounding as wistful as the day she admitted that she was desperate to lose a full stone or more. “No one in London will see anyone but you. It will be as if I don’t exist.”
“Never say so!” I cried. “Your manners are far superior to mine—you know what a hoyden I am! Your embroidery is exquisite, mine mere chicken scratches. You plan menus, arrange flowers, visit the sick. And I swear you know the prayer book backward and forward.”
While I . . . My voice trailed away as I took a critical look at myself. I performed the tasks assigned to me, but in truth I’d done very little in return for a dozen years of shelter. I rode, I drove a gig. I took long, solitary walks and dreamed of my future after Chillworth Manor. I studied French and Italian, attempted to teach myself Greek (unsuccessfully). I taught several of the tenants’ children to read (a secret known only to Vivian and the maid we shared). Above all, I read—novels, classics (in translation), religious works, treatises on rebellion (American, French, and English). I even read about what was being called the Industrial Revolution and the latest methods of farming. I was that odd duck—a pretty girl with more than two thoughts to rub together.
Though at that turning point in my life, I admit the wonder, the excitement of being part of the Season of 1816 was uppermost in my mind. I was, after all, a young lady just turned eighteen, with visions of love and a wondrous new life dancing through my head.
I suppose, looking back, I should have expected what happened.
Alas, I did not.
~ * ~
For a link to Blair's website, click here.
For a link to The Abominable Major on Amazon, click here.
For a link to The Abominable Major on Smashwords, click here.
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Thanks for stopping by,
Grace
