Hello everyone! I am sure you all would be overjoyed and quite interested to hear (if you haven't already) that today is Charles Dicken's 200th birthday! I could not let such a monumental occasion go by without applauding it, so here's my clapping for the day:
*clapclapclapclapclap* :)
I wanted, again, to remind you to hurry and send your entries for my contest to: theinkpenauthoress@gmail.com.
Please don't hesitate! Also, look out for a fabulous interview tomorrow! :)
Now for the real business of this post. It came to my attention [rather abruptly, in fact] that the "Heigh-Ho for a Husband" contest [apart from the name, you'll understand] is not only for women. Any fellow who reads this blog could enter the contest, and I'd give them a fair chance. I promise! :D And just to show my good humor and good intentions, I wrote you fellows [and any girls] a piece that I hope you enjoy.
Hic est....
“A Meager Mind”
By Rachel Heffington
“Let it never be
said that a meager mind induced me to marriage.” Charles Buxworthy ground the
butt-end of his cigar into the lap of a china shepherdess on the mantelpiece
and turned about, viewing his listener with a mocking smile.
His friend lazed
back on the sofa and crossed his feet. “A meager mind, Charley-boy?”
Charles crossed
his arms and paced from one end of the red hearth-tiles to the other. “Isn’t it
a rule with gentlemen that the only ones who marry are the ones who haven’t
enough wit about them to survive the scramble on their own?”
“Is it?”
“What else?”
“Come now,
Charley—you can’t tell me you’ve never heard tell of the blessed state of
matrimony?”
Charles scoffed.
“Really, ‘Dolphus. If you are going to soften into a sap all at once I’ll turn
you out on your botto this very moment.”
“And that would
be a shame, for I am not sure Emma would like to see me banged up in such a
fashion the day before the wedding.” Adolphus grinned at his
bacheolor-companion and smoothed the blue wool of his coat-sleeve. “Rather an
improvement, don’t you think? Emma’s done me up nicely ever since she found out
that you do the tailoring around here.”
Charles felt his
blood rush to his face at this slight upon his appearance, and he fervently
wished that the wild-haired fellow with the limp cravat who stared him out of
countenance from the mantel mirror was not
his own reflection. “There’s the devil to pay once you leave, ‘Dolphus.”
Adolphus threw
back his head and laughed loud and long. “Why? Because I was the richer debtor
to our landlady? Don’t worry old boy. I plan to pay the Aged Lady before I cart
my baggage out.”
“And I’ll have
to follow close behind—you haven’t any spare rooms in Wimpole Street, have you?”
Charles rushed to his friend’s side and placed a muddy boot on the much-abused
arm of the sofa.
Adolphus
grimaced. “Not a single one that will bear your living in it—Emma’s having them
all papered and furnished and painted and I know not what else.”
Charles,
thoroughly disgusted with the state of his friend’s hitherto good sense, threw
his arms out and scoffed. “And you will bear this meddling that interferes with
aiding an old friend in need?”
Adolphus raised
an eyebrow and fingered the gold ring on his left hand. “Need and want are two
very different things, Charley-boy. You need a roof—you want cigars and expensive gloves, and port wine at every meal. Pay
your debts before you turn your livelihood into pocket-change, I beg you, and
you won’t find yourself boxed in.”
Charles bit his
lip, too vexed with his companion to further the conversation. The dusty-faced
clock on the mantel showed two hours till dinner-time, and until then—when he
would have to recite a speech and play toast-master at the rehearsal dance—he had
to bear the love-sick swain as best as he could. He stole a sidelong glance and
frowned at the satisfied, exulted look on Adolphus Carriagehill’s face—the look
that had stolen his friend’s attention from him long before Charles had ever
had to endure lengthy discourses on the beauties, the charms, the talents, the
witticisms of the fabled Emma Downey. He hated Emma Downey. Hated her for being
beautiful and charming, talented and witty. He and Adolphus had bached it
together ever since Law school and it wasn’t every day you found such a
good-natured fellow to room with. They were more than friends—they had been
brothers. And the idea of giving Adolphus over to a pretty, winsome angel with
soft arms and forget-me-not eyes was odious. He’d rather be hanged.
“Have any more
cigars, Charley-boy?” Adolphus’s lazy, quiet drawl sifted through the
disgruntled silence of the room and pricked Charles’ temper. He hurled the
paste-board box of cigar-ends at Adolphus as a pouting child might hurl a toy.
Adolphus looked round and smiled patronizingly. “Tut tut, Charley, my good
fellow—bachelordom making a cross-patch out of you?”
“Oh do be quiet.”
“No. No, you
cannot refuse a bridegroom the right to talk—especially when you are acting as
his best man.”
“Oh hang the
best man.”
“Not till after the
wedding, I’m afraid, my dear chap. Then you can choose the day and the hangman
and I’ll tie your noose for you. But till then you’ll have to bear my
prattling.”
Charles was
outraged at Adolphus’ obvious amusement. What humor one could find in such a
situation was beyond him. He wished he had a dozen cigar boxes to hurl at the back
of that finely combed head. Adolphus looked round again, then grunted and
shifted himself. “Gives one a devil of a crick in his neck to play peep-bo in
that fashion. Now listen, Master Congeniality. Emma and I are convinced you are
ailing.”
“There’s nothing
more wrong with me than you,” Charles muttered.
“Are you
intimating that I am ill, or I am the illness?”
“Both, if you
continue talking along in this stupid manner.” If Adolphus didn’t shut his gob
directly he’d burn his tuxedo and cummerbund immediately and refuse to attend the
wedding. Women made a hash of everything good in this life.
“All jesting
aside, Charley, Emma and I have decided between ourselves that we will get you
married.”
Charles ground
his teeth. “You just try.”
“Oh, we intend
to, believe me. There’s a dear angel of a girl who is Emma’s intimate friend—her
name is Arianna Sandistone and—”
Charles covered
his eyes with his hand and cracked his spine against the sofa-back. “Oy what a
name!”
Adolphus bit the
end of a cigar and made a face. “What rotten tobacco you indulge in—anyhow,
Arianna Sandistone is a perfect beauty—second only, I believe, to Emma (for no
one could rival her in form and figure) and I intend to introduce you.”
“Well I decline
the favor.”
“But you will
have it nevertheless.” Adolphus swung himself up from the sofa and straightened
his cravat in the mantle-piece mirror. “As it is, I remembered I have an errand
to perform and so I will leave you to your agonies. See you tonight! Oh—and Charley?”
“What?” Charles
growled.
“Do try to come
clean? I’d hate to have my best man wearing a gravy-spattered cravat or inky
fingers.”
* * * *
Charles
Buxworthy had seldom paid such attention to his appearance than he did that
night. Not for any Arianna Sandistone in the whole of London, but because
Adolphus was a good sort of fellow—the best, really, and he would never
intentionally disgrace him. Strapped into his tuxedo, immaculate gloves stuffed
onto his hands and hair combed and waved in to the dandiest degree, Charles
stepped out of the hired chaise at the steps of the Lilliburt Club. Torches
lined the marble steps leading up the ornate doors which were cracked just
enough to emit a faint stream of music and laughter and the clink of champagne
glasses.
Despite his
dire feeling about the whole of the evening, Charles’ blood quickened at the
familiar lure of a party. He was always his best when out in Society dancing,
laughing, making witty banter with anyone who would listen—in addition, he
could eat and drink at someone else’s expense and thus save the morrow’s ration
of bread and meat. In the Season he seldom ate more than two or three meals at
home, and—apart from the usual expenditure in new gloves—it was the cheapest of
all times of the year.
The sounds of
gaiety drove the last lingering rays of discomfort from Charles’ mind. There
was all day tomorrow to rue Adolphus’ marriage—he intended to enjoy himself.
The lackey at the door directed him to the ballroom off the corridor, and
Charles paused on the threshold, enjoying the sights of an evening in full
swing. Ladies, gorgeously appareled in silk and diaphanous gowns, long trains
swept over their arms, danced with gentleman in immaculate suits. The orchestra
at the end of the hall played a slow, wistful air and the couples waltzed in
time to the music.
Her brow is like a snowdrift....her neck is
like a swan…the familiar words coursed through Charles’ mind as he recalled
his pretty Scotch nanny singing to him as a wee boy. …and her face it is the fairest that e’er the sun shone on…that e’er the
sun shone one and dark blue is her e’e…Charles slipped through the whirling
couples and took a long-stemmed glass from the waiter standing hard by…and for bonny Annie Laurie I’d lay me doon
and dee…Charles drained his glass and eyed the couples, keeping watch for
Adolphus and his dreaded bride. Ah. There they were by the potted palm. He
crossed his arms and glared at them, taking in each piece of Emma’s attire with
a practiced eye and discounting it in his mind. French silk? Ah. She was an
expensive woman and would drain the Carriagehill Coffer to be sure. Brussels
lace? Likewise. Ugh. And that feather, though very attractive, had cost a
pretty penny if he was any judge.
Gradually,
like soot drifting over the clean air, speckles of melancholy clouded Charles’ vision
of the fun to be had at this sort of party. He growled to himself over the
unfairness of it all and beat his foot to the tune of the song. The fiddle sang
out the last notes of the song and the dancers broke apart, the charm of the scene
disbanding as quickly. Charles continued to glare as Adolphus and Emma
approached. The both of them were beaming like a pair of diddled geese, and
Charles wished his friend could see how utterly stupid he looked.
“Charley-boy
you do me credit.” Adolphus brushed a finger against Charles’ black suit.
Charles nodded
stiffly and extended his fingertips to Emma who touched them and giggled.
“Charmed, I’m
sure,” Charles said with obvious difficulty in meaning it.
Emma snuggled
closer to Adolphus’ arm and giggled again. “I hope we shall be good friends
eventually—Arianna and I will reform you.”
Charles puffed
his chest out and shook his head till his stubborn curls came loose from their
coaxed tameness. “Never madam.”
“Never to be
friends? Well that is too bad.” Emma had that same hidden laughter in her eyes that
he hated seeing on Adolphus’ face.
Charles felt
himself flush hot. “I meant, madam, that you shall never reform me.”
Emma laughed. “Very
well, you stubborn beast. We ought to lock you up in the Zoo and charge pennies
for the children to see the Cross Old Bachelor.”
Charles nodded
and grumbled within himself over “Cursed foolishness.” Emma and Adolphus
sauntered off across the room, arm in arm, and the fiddler started another
tune. This time the music inspired Charles with a devilish feeling of fun and
derring-do. He would show Adolphus that he didn’t need any help having a good
time on his own. Why did he need a brother and a friend to enjoy himself? He
didn’t need one, that’s what. Charles scanned the room to see where he would
begin.
It was a reel
the fiddler played and he needed a vibrant partner—a girl who had some spark
about her and could dance with life in her feet. He looked into every feminine
face that passed but none caught his fancy. They were all too insipid, too
calm, too befeathered and beruffled to suit his purpose. Charles looked
longingly at the door to the cool, dim corridor, but he was startled to see a
perfect Juno silhouetted, blue and white, against the dark doorway. She carried
a little blue fan and her dark hair shone under the lamplight. But all these
things fell to the wayside of Charles’ sight when she lifted her lashes and—from
across the room and the dozens of whirling couples—she looked at him and
laughed. That was the sort of girl he needed. Charles ducked past the dancers,
wove through the waiters, and arrived at the young lady’s side breathless and
panting, cheeks hot and cravat askew.
“Do you have a
partner?” he asked.
The girl
laughed again and her eyes were full of fun. “That isn’t the way to ask, you
know. A girl doesn’t like admitting she’s unengaged.”
Charles bowed
low. “My apologies madam. May I have the honor of this dance?”
“Are you a
good dancer?” The girl fluttered her fan and laughed at him behind it.
What a saucy
miss this was! Charles glowed inwardly. This would show Adolphus. “A tolerably
good one,” he answered. “Especially for a reel.”
The young lady
looped the blue of her skirt into her arm and put out her small white hand. “Than
by all means, Monsieur, you may have the honor.”
Glowing with pride,
filled with triumph at having secured the bonniest and brightest lass in the
room, Charles led his conquest to the top of a line of dancers and bowed to
her. By George she was the prettiest little woman he’d seen for many a day—and she
was devilish charming too, the way she held her laughter in her eyes. And the
way she danced! Charles laughed gleefully to himself over the way he would be
able to flout Adolphus’ patronage when it came time to be introduced to that
horrid Arianna Sandistone—he had already found the best girl in the room.
The music
whirled on and Charles and his beauty wove in and out of the other dancers, finally
coming together at the climax of the dance. She curtsied, her breath coming
quick and happy between her rosy lips, and a wild, gypsying pink surmounting
her cheek. Her black lashes swept her lids as she glanced upward and she
laughed at Charles. He could hardly believe such a charming person was actually
laughing at him. For him. It made him
feel a king all at once.
He kissed her
hand and smiled. “May I have the honor of knowing your name, my lady?” he
asked, waiting to hear what he vowed would be the name he’d adore from this
moment unto eternity.
The girl
laughed again and curtsied low, then plucked a blue sprig of larkspur from her
hair and offered it to him. “My name, good sir, is Arianna Sandistone.
The End
It is with very great pleasure that I introduce a magnificent young authoress, Abigail Hartman, who has published her novel (The Soldier's Cross) with Ambassador Emerald International. I have found her to be a wealth of knowledge and a tried and true scribbler. She graciously agreed to be interviewed on the whole subject of Writing Romance, and I hope you will be as aided and delighted by her answers as I was. :)
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