Mary Hart Perry's Blog: Escaping into the Past
September 2, 2013
A Free Short Story for My Goodreads Friends
THE TOWER
by Mary Hart Perry
(A Free Short Story for you, from the book I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE YOU AGAIN, Published by Novelists Inc.)
London, England 1884
The crowd around them suddenly thinned as another guide marched his flock off beneath the granite arch and began his patter. Pete lowered his voice and spoke so close to her she felt his breath on her skin like steam from a locomotive. “No worry, dolly. Ain’t ‘ere to pick pockets.”
She’d suspected as much — hadn’t she? — when she’d spied him two days ago specking out the place. She’d been careful then not to let him see her.
But now she widened her eyes as if surprised. “Honest?”
He flashed his yellowed gnashers at her. “Come to arrange me a private tour, didn’t I?”
“You ain’t no toff!”
“That I ain’t. It’s a quiet little night visit I’s after.”
Her insides twitched. Sweat prickled her armpits. “Whole place locks down tighter than a nunnery after the Ceremony of the Keys. Ain’t no night tours.”
“Tha’s all right. I’ll take meself around for a toddle if’n you let me in the old Traitor’s Gate down by the river.”
“No.” She rearranged the remaining pasties on her tray. “Anyway, guards are on duty all night long.”
“Never you mind. I have me ways. You just let me in. I'll do the rest.”
She laughed. “Like I’d ever help you pinch anything ever again.” She lowered her voice still more. “Anyways, only stuff worth yer trouble is the Crown Jewels. You nick them, it’ll cost my husband his job, and me, my home. I owe you nothing, Pete Dunn. I won’t do it.”
The veil of friendliness dropped from his eyes. Two black holes flashed pure evil at her from above pocked cheeks. His sooty fingers flicked the air, as if itching to smack her. He leaned in. The foul stench of him came at her strong. “Now listen here, girlie. I ain’t no fool. All’s I want is one piece not a cartload. Saint Edward’s crown.”
“Ha!” she said. “You won’t get away with it.”
“Don’t be so sure, my bird,” he whispered. “Got me a man who’ll pop out the jewels, cut ‘em down, melt the gold in a jiff. Nothin’ for the coppers to trace. If’n you play dumb, they won't come after me or suss you.”
“I won't help you.” She said it firm, making Ma’s dagger eyes at him.
“Not even when I says I’ll tell your old man what a wicked little girl you was? What you did for me and half the blokes of Huxton and Spitalfields?”
“To keep myself from starvin’,” she hissed. “To buy me a four-pence bed for a night out of the cold. You know that!” After Ma died where else was there to be but on the filthy streets? She didn’t even know where her brother and sister had got to. If they were still alive.
He laughed low and wicked, eyes sparking like iron wheel rims on cobbles. “You think a man like yours cares for reasons? He’ll boot you out the door faster than a dog with ticks, Maisie-Daisy.”
She looked up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Please don't make me do this.”
He laughed. “Now don’t that sound bloody familiar. Just like old times.”
They called it Traitor’s Gate because that was the way the Crown’s prisoners had been brought into the castle from the river. She’d learned this from hearing the tour guides’ patter. Floated them right down the reeking old Thames by wherry or barge, in through the raised portcullis. Once in the dreaded Tower, most never left. Unless it was to climb Tower Hill to the gallows, permanently erected there. The fortunate ones, usually royals, were allowed a private execution by beheading, shielded by the high walls from the shame of dying before a jeering mob.
“Thursday night,” Pete had told her. “That’s when I’ll come.”
“No,” she said. “Saturday. I’ll be at Traitor’s Gate midnight.” When Pete squinted at her, his face going red with anger, she added, “We’re closed Sundays. The guards who aren’t on duty lark about the city the night before. Geoff plays cards with his mates at the White Horse. He don’t come home ‘til morning. Ever.” And that had satisfied him.
The moment Maisie had seen Pete that first day, she’d known what was at stake. If he’d come to nick coins, he’d have been in and out, fast as a fox in a chicken coop. Didn’t take a bloody genius to guess what he was after. No one in their right mind would sneak into The Tower’s museums and try to lug off a hundred-pound suit of armor or sack of cheap souvenirs. Few thieves were ballsy enough to try snatching even one diamond out of the Crown’s treasure — but Pete was nothing if not cocky.
If she didn’t help him, he’d make sure Geoff found out about the times she’d stole for him and, worse yet, about the whoring. Of course, that had been before Miss Sarah swept her starving self out of the gutter. Her savior had been kind about not speaking of such things. As far as Sarah was concerned, her girls’ pasts were their own; it was their futures that concerned her. She taught them their letters and made them read from the Bible every night, whether they wanted to or not. She purified them (that’s what she called it) body and soul, instructed them on manners and decent language. When they were ready, she introduced them as her nieces from the country. Sarah Williams had a very large family, as she told it. She found each of her girls a husband or, if not that, an honest factory job.
So Geoff didn’t know everything about Maisie. How much he guessed, she’d never ask. Like most men he made the rules in a marriage, in a family. And the rules depended on a man’s character when determining whether a woman was allowed to stay in his house or get booted out. That was why so many women were left to fend for themselves on London’s streets these days.
As a female, you had nothing but what a man allowed. No right to own property or a business. No right to your own children if your husband claimed you were an unfit mother. A woman just hoped she could keep her father, brother, or husband alive and happy, one way or another. She couldn’t count on Geoff’s understanding how it had been for her in years past. To tell him everything would have been taking a terrible risk.
Pete Dunn knew this as well as she.
But it got worse. Even if he succeeded in nicking the crown, even if no one pointed a finger at her, Pete would have a powerful new threat to hold over her. If she refused to do as he asked, he’d start a rumor among the guards or slip a note to one of the reporters at the Star who was always digging for a dramatic story. A plot to steal even a single gem from the Crown Jewels was a tale not to pass up. The public devoured crime stories. She’d find herself in prison, quick as a lick, and there she’d die.
And so it was clear, at least to her, that urgent measures must be taken.
After the Ceremony of the Keys at ten o’clock on that Saturday, Geoff changed out of his smart black uniform with the red braid trim. She straightened his collar. He kissed her on the lips. “You’ll be all right alone now?” he said.
“Of course.”
He studied her, his round, whiskered face moving up and away so that she saw the lingering concern in his blue eyes. “Maybe I should stay.”
“No,” she said. “You go off to yer pub,” she said, tears tickling her eyes. “You look tired, my love. A few beers with the boys will liven you up.” And she pushed him out the door.
As soon as he was gone, Maisie collapsed against the wall and dropped her face into her hands. What was she thinking? Could she really go through with this? Well, it had gone too far already to stop. Less than two hours, Pete would be at the gate.
Time dragged even though she tried to keep busy — sweeping the floor, shaving off soap chips for Monday’s wash. If Monday ever comes, she thought. When it was nearly time, Maisie wrapped her darkest shawl around her shoulders and up over her head. She gave her cozy one-room home a last fond look and stepped into the night. You got no choice. Has to be done, she told herself as she plodded across the deserted parade ground in the chill night air.
Outside the White Tower she saw the sentry and knew he could see her. She lifted her hand in greeting. He gave her a nod then stepped back into the shadows. Many a night the guardsmen caught a wink while all was quiet, leaning against a wall, posed as if alert but eyes closed. Maybe that’s what he’d do. She walked on.
The guard at the armory’s wooden staircase straightened as she passed but, again, didn’t challenge her. When she reached Traitor’s Gate no one was in sight. No reason there should be a permanent sentry when the gate could only be opened, and then with great effort, from the inside. She’d seen it raised just once, as part of a demonstration on a festival day, earlier in the year. If the pulleys and cogs hadn’t been loosened and made to work smooth then, she wouldn’t be able to shift the gate herself tonight. Still, she held her breath as she unlatched the long lever that rotated the heavy wooden gears.
All she had to do was raise the teeth of the portcullis twelve inches above the water — so Pete could swim in. Maisie put her back into it. One, two, three shoves down on the lever, thrusting her whole body weight down on the heavy wooden arm each time. The gears groaned softly in the night. The gate began to lift with a low creak that sounded like a gull winging up the Thames. She looked around. No one came running. A little splash made her look down at the gray water.
“You there?” she whispered.
“Shut it!” came the sharp reply, then a muffled sluicing sound as something floated beneath the gate’s waterlogged tongs. Pete emerged, dripping, and pulled himself up onto the stone shelf beside the lever. “All right then. You go first.”
She planted her feet and stared at him. “No. You said all I had to do was let you in.”
“Changed me mind, didn’t I? You lead the way straight to the Wakefield Tower.” The Jewel House.
She bit down on her bottom lip. This wasn’t part of the plan, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She dared not cross him.
She held her breath as they approached the first guard post. She peered into the dark while Pete hung back. If the guard was still there and awake, he didn’t challenge them as they moved on.
Two more guards to go. She glanced back and saw Pete pull a leather-covered cudgel from inside his shirt, but the shiv she knew lived in his boot stayed there.
“No,” she whispered, “give it here. I’ll do it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his face but he handed her the club.
They came up behind the sentry outside Wakefield Tower. As stealthy as they were, she felt certain he would have heard them, but the man didn’t turn around. She clobbered him at the back of his head beneath the rim of his Tudor bonnet. Spinning as he fell, his eyes flickered toward her before rolling skyward. He dropped to the ground. Maisie shook her head at Pete when she saw the blade appear in his hand.
“Don’t waste time,” she snapped. “Only one guard left.”
He seemed to think on this — as if slicing the sentry’s throat and guaranteeing his silence, might be worth an extra three seconds — but then shrugged and followed her inside. She saw him gape greedily at the immense glass case in the center of the torch-lit exhibit room.
Maisie said, “This man keeps moving all night long. He walks room to room. Takes fifteen minutes to come all the way back ‘round.”
Pete narrowed his eyes at her. “How you know that?”
“Some nights, I bring him a pasty.” She gave him a sly smile. “He’s a friend is all.”
He huffed knowingly then shifted his gaze toward the rafters, as if listening. Boots scuffed across the floor planks above them.
She pointed at the ceiling. “He’s halfway ‘round. To be safe, you got maybe six minutes.”
“Plenty.” He grinned.
The glass case held St. Edward’s crown. Solid gold, it was said to have over four hundred precious stones — diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires and pearls. Soft ermine circled its base. Glittering crosses arched over a velvet cap. It was the official coronation crown, over two hundred years old.
Pete wasted no time admiring it. He stuck out his hand for the cudgel. Maisie’s heart raced as she handed it over and stepped back. The glass shattered on impact. She jumped at the sudden noise and explosion of bright shards. Pete reached in, seized the crown and, without another word, turned and ran from the room, leaving her standing amidst telltale debris.
For a moment, Maisie couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then she heard shouts. A watchman’s whistle split the night. She felt the vibrations of men running through the building, and still she was unable to move.
From outside in the courtyard came scuffling sounds, more voices. “Stop! Halt, you demon!” Was that Geoff?
The report of a gun. She winced. Moments later, another shot. Maisie drew a slow, deep breath and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. It was over. Done.
She looked down at her feet. Shattered glass, prettily glittering but worthless. Why did the sparkle of rocks dug out of the ground provoke men to risk their lives? It was beyond her. She suddenly felt woozy at the thought of what she’d done.
Heavy footfalls ascended the steps. They stopped in front of the doorway to the treasure room. Maisie looked up. Geoffrey stood on the threshold flanked by two of his burly men, their expressions stern.
Men make the rules. Had her husband changed his mind about their plan for freeing her forever from Pete Dunn’s wickedness?
“Did he hurt you?” Geoff said. He crunched across the carpet of broken glass and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m fine.” Now was the time for her rehearsed speech, for the benefit of their two witnesses. “Oh, Geoff, he came to the house when you’d gone. Said he’d slit my throat I didn’t let him in the gate.” She swallowed, her eyes tearing up with no effort at all. She saw the sympathy in his men’s eyes. “Did you get him?”
“He tried to escape, though we warned him to stop. My boys shot him dead. He can’t hurt you now, love.”
“Thank you,” she breathed in his ear.
When you don’t make the rules, you have to be clever to survive. You have to look after yourself. So said Miss Sarah in between the Bible readings. After that first day when Maisie saw Pete Dunn tromping around her Tower grounds, she knew if she didn’t remove him from her life forever he’d drag her back down with him. She’d mulled over her options and decided how to do it.
“I’m glad you weren’t afraid to come to me,” Geoff said, as they sat at their scuffed little table the morning after the break in. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to live in fear of the likes of him.”
Maisie smiled and sipped her tea. “I’m glad you understand.” She had weighed the risks and told her husband about Pete just days ago. Not everything, mind you, but enough for him to understand how dangerous Pete could be to her. To both of them.
“Making you steal for him,” Geoff murmured while spooning down porridge, “when you was but a child and knew no better. How low can a man stoop?”
“He truly was a creature of the devil.”
“Sarah Williams always said you were lucky not to have fallen as low as some women.” He looked at her, then away, but didn’t ask the question. “I’m glad she found you when she did, Maisie. Glad I found you.”
“Me too.” She realized her gaze had slipped away toward the sink-cupboard, and she focused back on her husband. “You was so very sharp to think of trapping the rogue the way you did, in the very act of his mischief.” At least, he believed it was his idea.
He chuckled. “Sergeant Wilkes has a sore neck from that wallop you gave him. But that’s the worst of our injuries.” He spooned down more oats, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “How’d you know he’d pull a knife and not give up?”
She shrugged. “Types like him are stupid like that.” She studied his face. “Would you have shot him if he didn’t try to fight?”
“Like you said, Maise, we couldn’t let him spoil our good reputation by his wicked gossip and lies.”
She smiled at him and stood to clear the dishes. “I think I’m learning to trust you, Geoffrey Harris.”
“And I you, Missus H.” He rose from his seat, wrapped his strong arms around her, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. “And now I must be off to work, my love.” He released her and turned toward the brass ring of keys hanging on the back wall of her kitchen. Keys to the chapel, the armory, and every door, gate, and display case in the Tower compound. Clipping them to his belt, he said, “There’ll be an inquest, you know. But I doubt they’ll want to talk to you. You did nothing less than rid London of a scoundrel.”
Maisie finished washing up after breakfast. She stood looking out her cottage window, drying her hands, watching a pair of ravens being fed by one of the guards. Legend said, so long as the huge black birds made The Tower their home, there would be an England. Soon the gates would open and the tourists pour in. But before she made ready to go out among them with her pasties and tarts, she squatted down on the floor and reached under the sink.
Her fingertips traced the crevice along the back wall, finally touching the burlap scrap she’d tucked back there three days ago. Carefully she pulled free the tiny packet, unfolded it and slipped the two stones into her palm. A single blue sapphire the size of a wren’s egg and a brilliant white diamond as big as her littlest fingernail.
When the guards had pulled the crown from beneath Peter Dunn’s body, they’d discovered two stones had gone missing from the least noticeable place at the back. The police assumed the gems had loosened from their settings in the scuffle and fallen into the river near Traitor’s Gate, which was as far as Pete Dunn had run before being brought down by the Yeoman Warders.
She’d only needed to borrow the one small key on the night before Pete swam through Traitor’s Gate. While the sentry made his rounds, while her husband slept, she’d popped out the two loosest stones in the ancient crown. Just like Pete said. Easy.
Maisie rewrapped the gems and tucked them back into their hidey place. Humming to herself she went on with her day’s work. Miss Sarah, the Bible notwithstanding, would definitely approve.
#####
If you enjoy reading Victorian mysteries, you might want to check out my novels when I'm writing as Mary Hart Perry. Or check out the other great writers who had contributed to the short-story collection: I Never Thought I'd See You Again.
Cheers! MHP (aka Kathryn Johnson)
by Mary Hart Perry
(A Free Short Story for you, from the book I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE YOU AGAIN, Published by Novelists Inc.)
London, England 1884
Maisie turned away before he saw her and propped her wooden tray on one hip. “Pasties ‘n’ tarts!” she sang out, though less lustily than most days. A nervy lump crowded the words in her throat. “Tuppence fer a tart. Sweet mincemeat, apple ‘n’ plum. Tide y’over while ye wait to tour the Bloody Tower.” Maybe he wouldn’t even recognize her? Might be all for the better.
Not since the old queen’s jubilee had she and Pete Dunn crossed paths. Her whole world had changed since then. Now she had Geoffrey, lovely man, puttin’ a roof over her head and food on a table she could call her own. She’d got herself a good everyday dress, plus a spare, from the stalls on Petticoat Lane. Leather brogues without holes. And a warm tweedy coat too.
Used to be, Ma greased her with goose fat then sewed her into whatever rags were handy until spring. “Never you mind the itchin’, Maisie girl, it’ll keep out the cold.” No more of that foul smellin’ stuff for her! She could have a bath whenever she bothered to boil a basin of water — winter or not. She’d never go back to the squalor and meanness of Spitalfields. Not while there was breath in her body.
Maisie forced herself not to turn around. She felt Pete Dunn’s black-as-cinder eyes following her. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she kept moving through the tourists bunched up in the courtyard, waiting their turn to enter the grounds.
“Six pence for the full tour, ladies and gents!” one of the uniformed guides shouted. “Visit the queen’s armory. Stand where good Queen Mary lost her pretty head. See the Crown Jewels in all their glo-ree-ous splendor.”
Maisie walked faster, cutting between ladies with their parasols, men in their top hats, a copy of Dickens’ Dictionary of London tucked under one arm to guide them proper round the city’s sites.
Six pence. Not long ago half of that had been a fortune to her. Enough to feed a family on a bag of crusts for two friggin’ days. Oh, how she'd envied those rich brats in their pretty clothes, brought in fancy carriages to ogle the rooms where royals once lived, and died. Never, as children, had she or any of her mates got a peek inside these high walls protecting the complex of stone keeps, chapels, towers and warehouses called The Tower of London. The riffraff had to be satisfied with the free sights on nearby Tower Hill. Deafened by the ruckus of vendors, fire and sword swallowers, and escapologists. Mixing with the likes of Pete and his gang of mud larks and pickpockets.
She smiled to herself. Today, Missus Maisie Harris, wife of the Chief Yeoman Warder, had the run of the grand old castle, didn’t she? Including a cozy little room in the row of guards’ cottages ringing the parade grounds. They might not be rich, her and old Geoff, but they never lacked for beer nor bread. And their place was clean as a cat’s whiskers, on account she scrubbed it twice a week, top to bottom. Pure heaven. All she had to do to earn her keep was sell her pasties and keep a hawk’s eye for them’s that slipped past the gateman, aiming to nick a toff’s purse or madam’s silk hanky.
If Pete Dunn thought for a minute he could get away with his wicked tricks on her watch, he had another think coming.
“Well, lookie here.” The sickeningly familiar voice slithered up from behind her. “If’n it ain’t me old mate.”
So he’d sniffed her out, even with her shiny-clean face and every strand of hair pinned up under a starched white cap, respectable like.
“What you want?” she grumbled.
His hands came down hard on her shoulders, spun her around to face him. She glared at him and watched his eyes narrow as if already thinking how to make use of her. “Ain't I just the lucky one?”
“You'll be lucky to get yer arse out of here before my husband catches sight of you!”
He tilted his head sideways and studied her harder. “Found a nice little nest, my sweet bird?”
“I mean it.” She looked around. No one was paying them mind. “He’s Chief Warder, my Geoff is. Don’t take guff from no one, least of all scallywags like you.” She wriggled her shoulders just enough to make him wary of being seen messing with her.
Pete dropped his hands to his sides with a sly grin. “Bet he don't know what I know ‘bout you, Maisie-Daisy. I’m thinkin’, man like that, all straight and narrow, wouldn’t marry you if’n he did.”
True enough.
A little shiver of fear crept up her spine. She’d met Geoff at the house of the church lady who’d plucked her off the street, tidied her up, and taught her how to talk and act proper-like. Geoffrey was the bachelor son of the woman’s neighbor. A veteran of the Egyptian campaigns. He’d probably suspected Maisie was no lady. But, as Miss Sarah had told her girls, “Some things between a man and a woman are best left unsaid.”
“He’s a big man with a temper,” Maisie warned Pete. “He catches you stalkin’ his customers he'll have yer hide.”
The crowd around them suddenly thinned as another guide marched his flock off beneath the granite arch and began his patter. Pete lowered his voice and spoke so close to her she felt his breath on her skin like steam from a locomotive. “No worry, dolly. Ain’t ‘ere to pick pockets.”
She’d suspected as much — hadn’t she? — when she’d spied him two days ago specking out the place. She’d been careful then not to let him see her.
But now she widened her eyes as if surprised. “Honest?”
He flashed his yellowed gnashers at her. “Come to arrange me a private tour, didn’t I?”
“You ain’t no toff!”
“That I ain’t. It’s a quiet little night visit I’s after.”
Her insides twitched. Sweat prickled her armpits. “Whole place locks down tighter than a nunnery after the Ceremony of the Keys. Ain’t no night tours.”
“Tha’s all right. I’ll take meself around for a toddle if’n you let me in the old Traitor’s Gate down by the river.”
“No.” She rearranged the remaining pasties on her tray. “Anyway, guards are on duty all night long.”
“Never you mind. I have me ways. You just let me in. I'll do the rest.”
She laughed. “Like I’d ever help you pinch anything ever again.” She lowered her voice still more. “Anyways, only stuff worth yer trouble is the Crown Jewels. You nick them, it’ll cost my husband his job, and me, my home. I owe you nothing, Pete Dunn. I won’t do it.”
The veil of friendliness dropped from his eyes. Two black holes flashed pure evil at her from above pocked cheeks. His sooty fingers flicked the air, as if itching to smack her. He leaned in. The foul stench of him came at her strong. “Now listen here, girlie. I ain’t no fool. All’s I want is one piece not a cartload. Saint Edward’s crown.”
“Ha!” she said. “You won’t get away with it.”
“Don’t be so sure, my bird,” he whispered. “Got me a man who’ll pop out the jewels, cut ‘em down, melt the gold in a jiff. Nothin’ for the coppers to trace. If’n you play dumb, they won't come after me or suss you.”
“I won't help you.” She said it firm, making Ma’s dagger eyes at him.
“Not even when I says I’ll tell your old man what a wicked little girl you was? What you did for me and half the blokes of Huxton and Spitalfields?”
“To keep myself from starvin’,” she hissed. “To buy me a four-pence bed for a night out of the cold. You know that!” After Ma died where else was there to be but on the filthy streets? She didn’t even know where her brother and sister had got to. If they were still alive.
He laughed low and wicked, eyes sparking like iron wheel rims on cobbles. “You think a man like yours cares for reasons? He’ll boot you out the door faster than a dog with ticks, Maisie-Daisy.”
She looked up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Please don't make me do this.”
He laughed. “Now don’t that sound bloody familiar. Just like old times.”
They called it Traitor’s Gate because that was the way the Crown’s prisoners had been brought into the castle from the river. She’d learned this from hearing the tour guides’ patter. Floated them right down the reeking old Thames by wherry or barge, in through the raised portcullis. Once in the dreaded Tower, most never left. Unless it was to climb Tower Hill to the gallows, permanently erected there. The fortunate ones, usually royals, were allowed a private execution by beheading, shielded by the high walls from the shame of dying before a jeering mob.
“Thursday night,” Pete had told her. “That’s when I’ll come.”
“No,” she said. “Saturday. I’ll be at Traitor’s Gate midnight.” When Pete squinted at her, his face going red with anger, she added, “We’re closed Sundays. The guards who aren’t on duty lark about the city the night before. Geoff plays cards with his mates at the White Horse. He don’t come home ‘til morning. Ever.” And that had satisfied him.
The moment Maisie had seen Pete that first day, she’d known what was at stake. If he’d come to nick coins, he’d have been in and out, fast as a fox in a chicken coop. Didn’t take a bloody genius to guess what he was after. No one in their right mind would sneak into The Tower’s museums and try to lug off a hundred-pound suit of armor or sack of cheap souvenirs. Few thieves were ballsy enough to try snatching even one diamond out of the Crown’s treasure — but Pete was nothing if not cocky.
If she didn’t help him, he’d make sure Geoff found out about the times she’d stole for him and, worse yet, about the whoring. Of course, that had been before Miss Sarah swept her starving self out of the gutter. Her savior had been kind about not speaking of such things. As far as Sarah was concerned, her girls’ pasts were their own; it was their futures that concerned her. She taught them their letters and made them read from the Bible every night, whether they wanted to or not. She purified them (that’s what she called it) body and soul, instructed them on manners and decent language. When they were ready, she introduced them as her nieces from the country. Sarah Williams had a very large family, as she told it. She found each of her girls a husband or, if not that, an honest factory job.
So Geoff didn’t know everything about Maisie. How much he guessed, she’d never ask. Like most men he made the rules in a marriage, in a family. And the rules depended on a man’s character when determining whether a woman was allowed to stay in his house or get booted out. That was why so many women were left to fend for themselves on London’s streets these days.
As a female, you had nothing but what a man allowed. No right to own property or a business. No right to your own children if your husband claimed you were an unfit mother. A woman just hoped she could keep her father, brother, or husband alive and happy, one way or another. She couldn’t count on Geoff’s understanding how it had been for her in years past. To tell him everything would have been taking a terrible risk.
Pete Dunn knew this as well as she.
But it got worse. Even if he succeeded in nicking the crown, even if no one pointed a finger at her, Pete would have a powerful new threat to hold over her. If she refused to do as he asked, he’d start a rumor among the guards or slip a note to one of the reporters at the Star who was always digging for a dramatic story. A plot to steal even a single gem from the Crown Jewels was a tale not to pass up. The public devoured crime stories. She’d find herself in prison, quick as a lick, and there she’d die.
And so it was clear, at least to her, that urgent measures must be taken.
After the Ceremony of the Keys at ten o’clock on that Saturday, Geoff changed out of his smart black uniform with the red braid trim. She straightened his collar. He kissed her on the lips. “You’ll be all right alone now?” he said.
“Of course.”
He studied her, his round, whiskered face moving up and away so that she saw the lingering concern in his blue eyes. “Maybe I should stay.”
“No,” she said. “You go off to yer pub,” she said, tears tickling her eyes. “You look tired, my love. A few beers with the boys will liven you up.” And she pushed him out the door.
As soon as he was gone, Maisie collapsed against the wall and dropped her face into her hands. What was she thinking? Could she really go through with this? Well, it had gone too far already to stop. Less than two hours, Pete would be at the gate.
Time dragged even though she tried to keep busy — sweeping the floor, shaving off soap chips for Monday’s wash. If Monday ever comes, she thought. When it was nearly time, Maisie wrapped her darkest shawl around her shoulders and up over her head. She gave her cozy one-room home a last fond look and stepped into the night. You got no choice. Has to be done, she told herself as she plodded across the deserted parade ground in the chill night air.
Outside the White Tower she saw the sentry and knew he could see her. She lifted her hand in greeting. He gave her a nod then stepped back into the shadows. Many a night the guardsmen caught a wink while all was quiet, leaning against a wall, posed as if alert but eyes closed. Maybe that’s what he’d do. She walked on.
The guard at the armory’s wooden staircase straightened as she passed but, again, didn’t challenge her. When she reached Traitor’s Gate no one was in sight. No reason there should be a permanent sentry when the gate could only be opened, and then with great effort, from the inside. She’d seen it raised just once, as part of a demonstration on a festival day, earlier in the year. If the pulleys and cogs hadn’t been loosened and made to work smooth then, she wouldn’t be able to shift the gate herself tonight. Still, she held her breath as she unlatched the long lever that rotated the heavy wooden gears.
All she had to do was raise the teeth of the portcullis twelve inches above the water — so Pete could swim in. Maisie put her back into it. One, two, three shoves down on the lever, thrusting her whole body weight down on the heavy wooden arm each time. The gears groaned softly in the night. The gate began to lift with a low creak that sounded like a gull winging up the Thames. She looked around. No one came running. A little splash made her look down at the gray water.
“You there?” she whispered.
“Shut it!” came the sharp reply, then a muffled sluicing sound as something floated beneath the gate’s waterlogged tongs. Pete emerged, dripping, and pulled himself up onto the stone shelf beside the lever. “All right then. You go first.”
She planted her feet and stared at him. “No. You said all I had to do was let you in.”
“Changed me mind, didn’t I? You lead the way straight to the Wakefield Tower.” The Jewel House.
She bit down on her bottom lip. This wasn’t part of the plan, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She dared not cross him.
She held her breath as they approached the first guard post. She peered into the dark while Pete hung back. If the guard was still there and awake, he didn’t challenge them as they moved on.
Two more guards to go. She glanced back and saw Pete pull a leather-covered cudgel from inside his shirt, but the shiv she knew lived in his boot stayed there.
“No,” she whispered, “give it here. I’ll do it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his face but he handed her the club.
They came up behind the sentry outside Wakefield Tower. As stealthy as they were, she felt certain he would have heard them, but the man didn’t turn around. She clobbered him at the back of his head beneath the rim of his Tudor bonnet. Spinning as he fell, his eyes flickered toward her before rolling skyward. He dropped to the ground. Maisie shook her head at Pete when she saw the blade appear in his hand.
“Don’t waste time,” she snapped. “Only one guard left.”
He seemed to think on this — as if slicing the sentry’s throat and guaranteeing his silence, might be worth an extra three seconds — but then shrugged and followed her inside. She saw him gape greedily at the immense glass case in the center of the torch-lit exhibit room.
Maisie said, “This man keeps moving all night long. He walks room to room. Takes fifteen minutes to come all the way back ‘round.”
Pete narrowed his eyes at her. “How you know that?”
“Some nights, I bring him a pasty.” She gave him a sly smile. “He’s a friend is all.”
He huffed knowingly then shifted his gaze toward the rafters, as if listening. Boots scuffed across the floor planks above them.
She pointed at the ceiling. “He’s halfway ‘round. To be safe, you got maybe six minutes.”
“Plenty.” He grinned.
The glass case held St. Edward’s crown. Solid gold, it was said to have over four hundred precious stones — diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires and pearls. Soft ermine circled its base. Glittering crosses arched over a velvet cap. It was the official coronation crown, over two hundred years old.
Pete wasted no time admiring it. He stuck out his hand for the cudgel. Maisie’s heart raced as she handed it over and stepped back. The glass shattered on impact. She jumped at the sudden noise and explosion of bright shards. Pete reached in, seized the crown and, without another word, turned and ran from the room, leaving her standing amidst telltale debris.
For a moment, Maisie couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then she heard shouts. A watchman’s whistle split the night. She felt the vibrations of men running through the building, and still she was unable to move.
From outside in the courtyard came scuffling sounds, more voices. “Stop! Halt, you demon!” Was that Geoff?
The report of a gun. She winced. Moments later, another shot. Maisie drew a slow, deep breath and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. It was over. Done.
She looked down at her feet. Shattered glass, prettily glittering but worthless. Why did the sparkle of rocks dug out of the ground provoke men to risk their lives? It was beyond her. She suddenly felt woozy at the thought of what she’d done.
Heavy footfalls ascended the steps. They stopped in front of the doorway to the treasure room. Maisie looked up. Geoffrey stood on the threshold flanked by two of his burly men, their expressions stern.
Men make the rules. Had her husband changed his mind about their plan for freeing her forever from Pete Dunn’s wickedness?
“Did he hurt you?” Geoff said. He crunched across the carpet of broken glass and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m fine.” Now was the time for her rehearsed speech, for the benefit of their two witnesses. “Oh, Geoff, he came to the house when you’d gone. Said he’d slit my throat I didn’t let him in the gate.” She swallowed, her eyes tearing up with no effort at all. She saw the sympathy in his men’s eyes. “Did you get him?”
“He tried to escape, though we warned him to stop. My boys shot him dead. He can’t hurt you now, love.”
“Thank you,” she breathed in his ear.
When you don’t make the rules, you have to be clever to survive. You have to look after yourself. So said Miss Sarah in between the Bible readings. After that first day when Maisie saw Pete Dunn tromping around her Tower grounds, she knew if she didn’t remove him from her life forever he’d drag her back down with him. She’d mulled over her options and decided how to do it.
“I’m glad you weren’t afraid to come to me,” Geoff said, as they sat at their scuffed little table the morning after the break in. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to live in fear of the likes of him.”
Maisie smiled and sipped her tea. “I’m glad you understand.” She had weighed the risks and told her husband about Pete just days ago. Not everything, mind you, but enough for him to understand how dangerous Pete could be to her. To both of them.
“Making you steal for him,” Geoff murmured while spooning down porridge, “when you was but a child and knew no better. How low can a man stoop?”
“He truly was a creature of the devil.”
“Sarah Williams always said you were lucky not to have fallen as low as some women.” He looked at her, then away, but didn’t ask the question. “I’m glad she found you when she did, Maisie. Glad I found you.”
“Me too.” She realized her gaze had slipped away toward the sink-cupboard, and she focused back on her husband. “You was so very sharp to think of trapping the rogue the way you did, in the very act of his mischief.” At least, he believed it was his idea.
He chuckled. “Sergeant Wilkes has a sore neck from that wallop you gave him. But that’s the worst of our injuries.” He spooned down more oats, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “How’d you know he’d pull a knife and not give up?”
She shrugged. “Types like him are stupid like that.” She studied his face. “Would you have shot him if he didn’t try to fight?”
“Like you said, Maise, we couldn’t let him spoil our good reputation by his wicked gossip and lies.”
She smiled at him and stood to clear the dishes. “I think I’m learning to trust you, Geoffrey Harris.”
“And I you, Missus H.” He rose from his seat, wrapped his strong arms around her, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. “And now I must be off to work, my love.” He released her and turned toward the brass ring of keys hanging on the back wall of her kitchen. Keys to the chapel, the armory, and every door, gate, and display case in the Tower compound. Clipping them to his belt, he said, “There’ll be an inquest, you know. But I doubt they’ll want to talk to you. You did nothing less than rid London of a scoundrel.”
Maisie finished washing up after breakfast. She stood looking out her cottage window, drying her hands, watching a pair of ravens being fed by one of the guards. Legend said, so long as the huge black birds made The Tower their home, there would be an England. Soon the gates would open and the tourists pour in. But before she made ready to go out among them with her pasties and tarts, she squatted down on the floor and reached under the sink.
Her fingertips traced the crevice along the back wall, finally touching the burlap scrap she’d tucked back there three days ago. Carefully she pulled free the tiny packet, unfolded it and slipped the two stones into her palm. A single blue sapphire the size of a wren’s egg and a brilliant white diamond as big as her littlest fingernail.
When the guards had pulled the crown from beneath Peter Dunn’s body, they’d discovered two stones had gone missing from the least noticeable place at the back. The police assumed the gems had loosened from their settings in the scuffle and fallen into the river near Traitor’s Gate, which was as far as Pete Dunn had run before being brought down by the Yeoman Warders.
She’d only needed to borrow the one small key on the night before Pete swam through Traitor’s Gate. While the sentry made his rounds, while her husband slept, she’d popped out the two loosest stones in the ancient crown. Just like Pete said. Easy.
Maisie rewrapped the gems and tucked them back into their hidey place. Humming to herself she went on with her day’s work. Miss Sarah, the Bible notwithstanding, would definitely approve.
#####
If you enjoy reading Victorian mysteries, you might want to check out my novels when I'm writing as Mary Hart Perry. Or check out the other great writers who had contributed to the short-story collection: I Never Thought I'd See You Again.
Cheers! MHP (aka Kathryn Johnson)
March 20, 2013
Mary Hart Perry's Newest Newsletter
My latest newsletter has just come out, including oodles of writing tips and suggestions for everyone interested in establishing a new writing (or other) good habit. Enjoy, everyone! Mary Hart Perry
You can find it online here: http://e2.ma/message/6anvd/aa1w4e
You can find it online here: http://e2.ma/message/6anvd/aa1w4e
March 4, 2013
Downton Abbey and Food: Why Not?
Partly because I write historical fiction, I'm a huge fan of Downton Abbey, the BBC series. My husband watches it with me, and we've grown attached to many of the wonderful characters.
Recently, though, a local radio commentator commented on his watching along with his wife. She's a fan; he is not. He said he was so bored by what he called an ordinary "soap opera" he had to entertain himself by counting the number of scenes in which the characters were eating, which he thought were ridiculously frequent.
Okay, so what's wrong with characters eating in a book, movie, or TV series? There are many good reasons for including food in stories. Here are a few:
1) When characters share a meal, it allows for interesting conversation.
2) Characters seem more believable, more real when performing a task we all share, like eating.
3) The way people eat--wolfing food down, daintily picking at a dish, pushing food away--reveals something about them or their circumstances.
4) Delicious looking/sounding food adds texture to a story.
5) Plot twists often are revealed during a shared meal.
6) Conflicts are highlighted while a meal is prepared, eaten...or thrown!
I'm sure you can find more ways that food is used in stories. In The Gentleman Poet (writing as Kathryn Johnson) I used food as a vehicle for the heroine's struggle to restructure her life. It also served as a running joke. (The recipes were based on early colonial dishes, and were pretty horrible sounding at times. Not what we would willingly eat today!)
I would ask that commentator, if I ever met him, to consider the very good reasons why food and meals feature so vividly in many types of stories. Besides, food provides life. Why should we not find it a fascinating and natural element in our fiction?
TEMPEST-CAT ALERT
Mom just left the computer to go get a snack...she loves chocolate best. Me, I like a nice bit of tuna! Here's Excerpt #3 from her new book. Read fast, before she makes it go away... (heh-heh)
“Oh my child, you do look precious,” Victoria cooed. “How pretty in this delicate pink you look. Thank goodness it’s not that unfortunate bold rose some girls are choosing this season. Your dear mama in heaven, my Alice, will be so proud of you tonight, and tomorrow of course in church.”
Beatrice observed her mother from a distance. Victoria wore no color at all on her barely five-foot-tall figure, a choice of wardrobe that had become a habit over the past two decades. Not since the death of the Prince Consort could Beatrice remember her mother wearing anything but black-black-black.
Although she now allowed members of her court a reprieve from deep mourning, she still insisted that her youngest daughter share her grim obsession with death. The queen preferred seeing her in true mourning garb but, on occasion, allowed the very deepest shades of blue or gray, almost indiscernible from black, relieved only by a narrow collar of white linen about the throat.
Even their everyday jewelry had to be subdued—only jet stones allowed, all gold settings dulled with coal dust. No sparkle. No joy.
Beatrice recalled her younger years—when her sisters or governess sometimes implored the queen to “permit Baby a bit of color.” She’d been granted a pretty dress for a few special occasions. But now, as Beatrice crept toward the disturbingly advanced age of 30, her mother flew into a rage if she saw even a scrap of brightness in her daughter’s wardrobe.
Beatrice shrugged in surrender. God forbid there appear a glimmer of cheer in their lives. “You, my most precious and faithful child,” the queen was fond of saying to her, “shall be my constant and loyal companion until I am lowered into my grave and join your dear Papa.”
Which apparently meant Beatrice must mirror her mother’s choice to remain unmarried.
“Beatrice.” Her mother held out a gloved hand to her, startling Beatrice out of her grim musing. “Come, give me your arm. I’m having a terrible time with my limbs tonight. The pain is unbearable. A return of the cursed gout, I expect.”
“Perhaps if you sit before the fire, Mama, you’ll be comforted by the warmth.” Lord knows she could use a little more time out of the castle’s damp drafts.
“Nonsense. Cold air is bracing, healthy. They keep this place far too hot.” The queen cast a grave eye about the room and latched onto the roaring fire with a disapproving grimace. “Mr. Brown always said fresh air is good for me.”
Even after the burly Scot’s death, her self-proclaimed body guard, John Brown, seemed to hold a mysterious power over his sovereign. Some said he had been more to the queen than a loyal gillie and escort. A few even suggested he’d taken over Albert’s most intimate duties to Victoria, in the bedchamber. But Beatrice believed their relationship had never gone that far.
She herself had been very fond of the man and missed his powerful masculine presence at Court, and his calming effect on her mother. In many ways, he had made her life easier.
Beatrice left the fire with reluctance and obediently crossed the room. She offered her arm to her mother, lowering her gaze in submission to the parquet floor. Slowly, they paraded with the rest of the party out the door and down the long hallway lined with the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt’s ancestral portraits. The paintings’ arrogant countenances seemed to glower down at her, challenging her right to be in their home.
Beatrice took a deep breath, raised her chin and gazed straight ahead. I am the daughter of a queen, she thought. Don’t dismiss me yet.
Seducing the Princess
Recently, though, a local radio commentator commented on his watching along with his wife. She's a fan; he is not. He said he was so bored by what he called an ordinary "soap opera" he had to entertain himself by counting the number of scenes in which the characters were eating, which he thought were ridiculously frequent.
Okay, so what's wrong with characters eating in a book, movie, or TV series? There are many good reasons for including food in stories. Here are a few:
1) When characters share a meal, it allows for interesting conversation.
2) Characters seem more believable, more real when performing a task we all share, like eating.
3) The way people eat--wolfing food down, daintily picking at a dish, pushing food away--reveals something about them or their circumstances.
4) Delicious looking/sounding food adds texture to a story.
5) Plot twists often are revealed during a shared meal.
6) Conflicts are highlighted while a meal is prepared, eaten...or thrown!
I'm sure you can find more ways that food is used in stories. In The Gentleman Poet (writing as Kathryn Johnson) I used food as a vehicle for the heroine's struggle to restructure her life. It also served as a running joke. (The recipes were based on early colonial dishes, and were pretty horrible sounding at times. Not what we would willingly eat today!)
I would ask that commentator, if I ever met him, to consider the very good reasons why food and meals feature so vividly in many types of stories. Besides, food provides life. Why should we not find it a fascinating and natural element in our fiction?
TEMPEST-CAT ALERT
Mom just left the computer to go get a snack...she loves chocolate best. Me, I like a nice bit of tuna! Here's Excerpt #3 from her new book. Read fast, before she makes it go away... (heh-heh)
“Oh my child, you do look precious,” Victoria cooed. “How pretty in this delicate pink you look. Thank goodness it’s not that unfortunate bold rose some girls are choosing this season. Your dear mama in heaven, my Alice, will be so proud of you tonight, and tomorrow of course in church.”
Beatrice observed her mother from a distance. Victoria wore no color at all on her barely five-foot-tall figure, a choice of wardrobe that had become a habit over the past two decades. Not since the death of the Prince Consort could Beatrice remember her mother wearing anything but black-black-black.
Although she now allowed members of her court a reprieve from deep mourning, she still insisted that her youngest daughter share her grim obsession with death. The queen preferred seeing her in true mourning garb but, on occasion, allowed the very deepest shades of blue or gray, almost indiscernible from black, relieved only by a narrow collar of white linen about the throat.
Even their everyday jewelry had to be subdued—only jet stones allowed, all gold settings dulled with coal dust. No sparkle. No joy.
Beatrice recalled her younger years—when her sisters or governess sometimes implored the queen to “permit Baby a bit of color.” She’d been granted a pretty dress for a few special occasions. But now, as Beatrice crept toward the disturbingly advanced age of 30, her mother flew into a rage if she saw even a scrap of brightness in her daughter’s wardrobe.
Beatrice shrugged in surrender. God forbid there appear a glimmer of cheer in their lives. “You, my most precious and faithful child,” the queen was fond of saying to her, “shall be my constant and loyal companion until I am lowered into my grave and join your dear Papa.”
Which apparently meant Beatrice must mirror her mother’s choice to remain unmarried.
“Beatrice.” Her mother held out a gloved hand to her, startling Beatrice out of her grim musing. “Come, give me your arm. I’m having a terrible time with my limbs tonight. The pain is unbearable. A return of the cursed gout, I expect.”
“Perhaps if you sit before the fire, Mama, you’ll be comforted by the warmth.” Lord knows she could use a little more time out of the castle’s damp drafts.
“Nonsense. Cold air is bracing, healthy. They keep this place far too hot.” The queen cast a grave eye about the room and latched onto the roaring fire with a disapproving grimace. “Mr. Brown always said fresh air is good for me.”
Even after the burly Scot’s death, her self-proclaimed body guard, John Brown, seemed to hold a mysterious power over his sovereign. Some said he had been more to the queen than a loyal gillie and escort. A few even suggested he’d taken over Albert’s most intimate duties to Victoria, in the bedchamber. But Beatrice believed their relationship had never gone that far.
She herself had been very fond of the man and missed his powerful masculine presence at Court, and his calming effect on her mother. In many ways, he had made her life easier.
Beatrice left the fire with reluctance and obediently crossed the room. She offered her arm to her mother, lowering her gaze in submission to the parquet floor. Slowly, they paraded with the rest of the party out the door and down the long hallway lined with the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt’s ancestral portraits. The paintings’ arrogant countenances seemed to glower down at her, challenging her right to be in their home.
Beatrice took a deep breath, raised her chin and gazed straight ahead. I am the daughter of a queen, she thought. Don’t dismiss me yet.
Seducing the Princess
March 2, 2013
Weighing the Joys--To Write...or Not?
I have a confession to make. I no longer enjoy reading the way I used to. I know. That's a horrid thing to admit, but it's true.
The fact is that the moment you give yourself over to learning to write fiction, you lose your innocence as a reader. Suddenly, you understand at least some of the tricks, devices and subterfuge that writers use to draw their readers into a story and hold them captive.
That saddens me, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I love entertaining people. I love making you laugh, gasp in surprise, weep, or wonder what-oh-what will happen next? I exchange the belief in an author's fantasy for my own ability to create fantasy for others. It's a bit like signing a contract with the devil but, I hope, not one that will condemn me to an eternity in that fiery place below.
So...consider this fair warning. If you need to write stories because your whole being calls you to do so--then by all means keep at it with all your heart. But know that you'll pay a price. No distant fictional world, no brave character, no breathtaking plot will seem quite as real to you...unless they are your own. Good luck, my lovelies, in making the choice! Mary Hart Perry (aka Kathryn Johnson)
Tempest-cat alert!
Here's Excerpt #2 from my Mom's new novel, Seducing the Princess. I'm not sure what "seducing" means. Maybe it's something like a belly rub? Anway, here it is. Read it quick before she catches me on her keyboard!
Beatrice gave the girl her best smile, ignoring the twinge of envy that came with her words. “Louis is so very lucky to have you as his bride. Tomorrow when you marry, I shall look on with such pride.”
Vicky beamed, holding out her tiny gloved hands. “You are an old sweetie to say such lovely things. And to think the first time I ever heard of Louis, his name was mentioned with—” The girl suddenly blushed, her blond eyelashes fluttering in agitation. “Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said.”
She squeezed her aunt’s hands.
Beatrice pulled stiff fingers free from her niece’s warm little paws. “Ah well, that was nonsense, yes? Court gossip. You know how they exaggerate.”
Her smile, she feared, was a bit watery as she turned away and back toward the fire. She welcomed the blaze that heated her cheeks. The raised color would cover for her discomfort at Vicky’s mention of the stories about her and Louis.
“Louis’s heart is all yours, my dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Anyone can see that by the way his eyes light up whenever you walk into a room.”
It was true. And the two were a fine match both in humor and appearance, although he was a good deal older than she.
Before Beatrice had a chance to fully recover her composure, the massive oak door to the bride’s bedchamber creaked open. Vicky’s gasp and squeal, “Grand-mere!” announced the arrival of Queen Victoria.
Beatrice drew a breath to calm herself. The queen would no doubt insist Beatrice accompany her to the Grand Salon where the family gathered in preparation for the Lord Chamberlain announcing them to the bejeweled guests, already waiting in the ballroom. Louis would be in the salon too, with his family. How awkward.
But she resolved to confront the evening with equanimity, if not with enthusiasm. Balls were pleasant enough when a few of the more attractive gentlemen approached her for a dance. Then she could at least pretend to be admired and happy.
Just the hope of whirling across the ballroom floor cheered her considerably. She loved to dance. Adored it, though she didn’t have much chance to practice these days.
Family legend had it that, at a mere three years old—golden ringlets agleam beneath the crystal chandeliers, wearing tiny satin slippers to match her first ball gown—Beatrice had performed a perfect waltz across Buckingham Palace’s ballroom, partnered by her beaming father, Prince Albert. The entire Court had gazed on, enraptured. It was nearly the Prince’s last public appearance before his sudden and shocking death from typhoid fever. A loss from which the family had never truly recovered.
Yes, dancing seemed almost enough to make the night bearable. Unfortunately, she knew not to expect her partners (at least the young, good looking ones) to return for a second waltz or polka or anything else. Beatrice suspected her mother was right—she wasn’t the type to entice men romantically, not pretty enough to encourage them to stay for more than one dance, and certainly not intelligent or witty or special enough to prompt a man to ask for her hand in marriage.
Anxious at the thought of having to pretend she was enjoying herself in front of the critical gaze of Europe’s nobility, Beatrice smoothed her ebony taffeta skirts while the bride-to-be curtsied and kissed the queen’s hand, then rose to touch her lips to the plump older woman’s proffered cheek.
To be continued, tomorrow...Tempest-cat
The fact is that the moment you give yourself over to learning to write fiction, you lose your innocence as a reader. Suddenly, you understand at least some of the tricks, devices and subterfuge that writers use to draw their readers into a story and hold them captive.
That saddens me, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I love entertaining people. I love making you laugh, gasp in surprise, weep, or wonder what-oh-what will happen next? I exchange the belief in an author's fantasy for my own ability to create fantasy for others. It's a bit like signing a contract with the devil but, I hope, not one that will condemn me to an eternity in that fiery place below.
So...consider this fair warning. If you need to write stories because your whole being calls you to do so--then by all means keep at it with all your heart. But know that you'll pay a price. No distant fictional world, no brave character, no breathtaking plot will seem quite as real to you...unless they are your own. Good luck, my lovelies, in making the choice! Mary Hart Perry (aka Kathryn Johnson)
Tempest-cat alert!
Here's Excerpt #2 from my Mom's new novel, Seducing the Princess. I'm not sure what "seducing" means. Maybe it's something like a belly rub? Anway, here it is. Read it quick before she catches me on her keyboard!
Beatrice gave the girl her best smile, ignoring the twinge of envy that came with her words. “Louis is so very lucky to have you as his bride. Tomorrow when you marry, I shall look on with such pride.”
Vicky beamed, holding out her tiny gloved hands. “You are an old sweetie to say such lovely things. And to think the first time I ever heard of Louis, his name was mentioned with—” The girl suddenly blushed, her blond eyelashes fluttering in agitation. “Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said.”
She squeezed her aunt’s hands.
Beatrice pulled stiff fingers free from her niece’s warm little paws. “Ah well, that was nonsense, yes? Court gossip. You know how they exaggerate.”
Her smile, she feared, was a bit watery as she turned away and back toward the fire. She welcomed the blaze that heated her cheeks. The raised color would cover for her discomfort at Vicky’s mention of the stories about her and Louis.
“Louis’s heart is all yours, my dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Anyone can see that by the way his eyes light up whenever you walk into a room.”
It was true. And the two were a fine match both in humor and appearance, although he was a good deal older than she.
Before Beatrice had a chance to fully recover her composure, the massive oak door to the bride’s bedchamber creaked open. Vicky’s gasp and squeal, “Grand-mere!” announced the arrival of Queen Victoria.
Beatrice drew a breath to calm herself. The queen would no doubt insist Beatrice accompany her to the Grand Salon where the family gathered in preparation for the Lord Chamberlain announcing them to the bejeweled guests, already waiting in the ballroom. Louis would be in the salon too, with his family. How awkward.
But she resolved to confront the evening with equanimity, if not with enthusiasm. Balls were pleasant enough when a few of the more attractive gentlemen approached her for a dance. Then she could at least pretend to be admired and happy.
Just the hope of whirling across the ballroom floor cheered her considerably. She loved to dance. Adored it, though she didn’t have much chance to practice these days.
Family legend had it that, at a mere three years old—golden ringlets agleam beneath the crystal chandeliers, wearing tiny satin slippers to match her first ball gown—Beatrice had performed a perfect waltz across Buckingham Palace’s ballroom, partnered by her beaming father, Prince Albert. The entire Court had gazed on, enraptured. It was nearly the Prince’s last public appearance before his sudden and shocking death from typhoid fever. A loss from which the family had never truly recovered.
Yes, dancing seemed almost enough to make the night bearable. Unfortunately, she knew not to expect her partners (at least the young, good looking ones) to return for a second waltz or polka or anything else. Beatrice suspected her mother was right—she wasn’t the type to entice men romantically, not pretty enough to encourage them to stay for more than one dance, and certainly not intelligent or witty or special enough to prompt a man to ask for her hand in marriage.
Anxious at the thought of having to pretend she was enjoying herself in front of the critical gaze of Europe’s nobility, Beatrice smoothed her ebony taffeta skirts while the bride-to-be curtsied and kissed the queen’s hand, then rose to touch her lips to the plump older woman’s proffered cheek.
To be continued, tomorrow...Tempest-cat
March 1, 2013
How My Cat Leaked My Book to the Internet
I swear, it's not my doing. But Tempest is a most mischievous cat, and there's no telling her what she can or cannot do. (I understand that Russian Greys are like that!) So when she heard about my special Facebook event to launch my latest book Seducing the Princess, she thought it would be cool to share morsels of the story with my readers...for free.
I'm doing my best to rein her in, but she's determined to keep sending out passages, starting with the very beginning. If I can't catch her in the act and stop her...she's likely to divulge the entire novel. Oh my!
Meanwhile, please join me for my FB Event, March 31-April 4. You can sign up now at https://www.facebook.com/events/42865... On all 5 days I will be doing random giveaways of Victorian mementos as well as gifting free e-books. Sign up now and drop in when you can to say, "Hi!" All my best, Mary Hart Perry
PS from Tempest-cat: Here's Part I from Seducing the Princess. I snuck it onto the end of my mom's blog. Meow!
Seducing the Princess
by Mary Hart Perry
Excerpt 1
Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany—April, 1884
Cold, as cold as death itself. I might as well be in my tomb.
Beatrice inched closer to the fire crackling in the castle’s immense black-granite fireplace. She extended icy fingertips toward the leaping flames and felt grateful for the precious warmth rising up through her frigid hands, along the velvet sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders.
How glorious it must be to live in the tropics, where it never gets cold!
She smiled at the mere thought of spending lazy afternoons basking under a Grecian sun or sailing aquamarine waters on the royal yacht between Caribbean islands. Instead of shut away in a drafty German castle that set her bones to aching.
Beatrice sighed. Little chance of that for a daughter of Queen Victoria. Their mother rarely had granted any of them permission to travel, except with her. After the older girls married that had changed, of course. Her four sisters had found husbands to escort them on their travels.
Unfortunately, marriage no longer seemed likely for her, at the advanced age of twenty-seven.
Some days—like this one, caught up in the middle of a giggling, shrieking bridal party of younger, prettier girls—she felt utterly ancient. Most women her age were popping out babies, managing their own homes and servants. In this progressive age of modern medicine, steam engines, factory-made lace, and (the latest miracle of the age) electricity—she should be enjoying the productive prime of her life.
Stop it! she scolded herself, feeling selfish for thinking of her own welfare on the eve of her dear niece’s wedding. Weddings were meant to be cheerful times, and Vicky was a delightful girl, really more like a sister to her they were so close in age. The bride deserved her affection and full attention.
“Auntie! Oh, Auntie Bea, do you really think this gown will do?” her niece’s voice cut through the female chatter around Beatrice. “It isn’t too prissy with all these ruffles and flounces, is it?”
Vicky spun on the tips of her toes, setting full skirts of petal-pink tulle and lush satin shimmering in a wide pool around her. Diamond clips pinched her earlobes. A stunning ruby-and-enamel locket hung about her neck. “I don’t want to look like a child on the night before my wedding.”
Beatrice smiled, shaking her head as the ladies-in-waiting who had been attending the bride flew like a noisy flock of bright-winged birds from the room, gowns rustling. The wedding ball was less than an hour away. It was time they joined the rest of the Court.
“My dear, you needn’t worry. So very grown up you look with that daring décolletage. Your gown is perfection, and you are truly a lovely sight.”
Tomorrow Princess Victoria of Hesse, granddaughter to the queen of England, would marry Prince Louis of Battenberg. Beatrice was happy for her…for them. Really, she was. Although she had more than enough justification for the nugget of regret lodged in her throat, and perhaps even for a lingering bitterness. Secretly. Guiltily. Tucked away in her heart.
(Watch for Part II, soon!)
I'm doing my best to rein her in, but she's determined to keep sending out passages, starting with the very beginning. If I can't catch her in the act and stop her...she's likely to divulge the entire novel. Oh my!
Meanwhile, please join me for my FB Event, March 31-April 4. You can sign up now at https://www.facebook.com/events/42865... On all 5 days I will be doing random giveaways of Victorian mementos as well as gifting free e-books. Sign up now and drop in when you can to say, "Hi!" All my best, Mary Hart Perry
PS from Tempest-cat: Here's Part I from Seducing the Princess. I snuck it onto the end of my mom's blog. Meow!
Seducing the Princess
by Mary Hart Perry
Excerpt 1
Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany—April, 1884
Cold, as cold as death itself. I might as well be in my tomb.
Beatrice inched closer to the fire crackling in the castle’s immense black-granite fireplace. She extended icy fingertips toward the leaping flames and felt grateful for the precious warmth rising up through her frigid hands, along the velvet sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders.
How glorious it must be to live in the tropics, where it never gets cold!
She smiled at the mere thought of spending lazy afternoons basking under a Grecian sun or sailing aquamarine waters on the royal yacht between Caribbean islands. Instead of shut away in a drafty German castle that set her bones to aching.
Beatrice sighed. Little chance of that for a daughter of Queen Victoria. Their mother rarely had granted any of them permission to travel, except with her. After the older girls married that had changed, of course. Her four sisters had found husbands to escort them on their travels.
Unfortunately, marriage no longer seemed likely for her, at the advanced age of twenty-seven.
Some days—like this one, caught up in the middle of a giggling, shrieking bridal party of younger, prettier girls—she felt utterly ancient. Most women her age were popping out babies, managing their own homes and servants. In this progressive age of modern medicine, steam engines, factory-made lace, and (the latest miracle of the age) electricity—she should be enjoying the productive prime of her life.
Stop it! she scolded herself, feeling selfish for thinking of her own welfare on the eve of her dear niece’s wedding. Weddings were meant to be cheerful times, and Vicky was a delightful girl, really more like a sister to her they were so close in age. The bride deserved her affection and full attention.
“Auntie! Oh, Auntie Bea, do you really think this gown will do?” her niece’s voice cut through the female chatter around Beatrice. “It isn’t too prissy with all these ruffles and flounces, is it?”
Vicky spun on the tips of her toes, setting full skirts of petal-pink tulle and lush satin shimmering in a wide pool around her. Diamond clips pinched her earlobes. A stunning ruby-and-enamel locket hung about her neck. “I don’t want to look like a child on the night before my wedding.”
Beatrice smiled, shaking her head as the ladies-in-waiting who had been attending the bride flew like a noisy flock of bright-winged birds from the room, gowns rustling. The wedding ball was less than an hour away. It was time they joined the rest of the Court.
“My dear, you needn’t worry. So very grown up you look with that daring décolletage. Your gown is perfection, and you are truly a lovely sight.”
Tomorrow Princess Victoria of Hesse, granddaughter to the queen of England, would marry Prince Louis of Battenberg. Beatrice was happy for her…for them. Really, she was. Although she had more than enough justification for the nugget of regret lodged in her throat, and perhaps even for a lingering bitterness. Secretly. Guiltily. Tucked away in her heart.
(Watch for Part II, soon!)
February 16, 2013
When Good Books Misbehave
I occasionally come across a terribly angry review of a novel. This is something I don't quite understand--the level of vehemence, the sense of personal affront and bitterness. The message is: "How dare she call herself a writer!" I am a firm believer in the concept of "each to his own" when it comes to novels, because of the varied forms of fiction available to us. What appeals to me may not be of any interest whatsoever to my husband. And what delights my neighbor may leave me unimpressed. Just as in choosing the foods we most enjoy, selecting a book is a very personal task.
Having met many writers over the years, I believe in my heart that anyone who devotes the immense amount of time and exhausting effort to writing an entire book never does so lightly. They/we all work very hard and to the best of our individual abilities. "Oh, too bad," I think if I find multiple typos, misspelled words, and grammatical errors in a novel I'm reading, "she really should have had a good editor go over this for her before self-pubbing it." But that author's errors don't hurt me; they only harm her reputation as a writer and probably will discourage readers from buying a second book from her. Errors of fact or detail can also be a bit annoying, and of course the author is ultimately responsible for checking these as thoroughly as possible. But will a misstatement of the name of a historical figure, place, or date in a novel endanger the reader's sanity, morally corrupt them, bring financial ruin, or even spoil the reader's dinner that evening? Hardly.
There are many reasons why errors appear in books. Laziness on the part of the author is, I believe, by far the rarest. We try very hard to get everything "right, " to make our books the best they can be. Most writers do what they do for the love of their art, not for the little money we earn. Like many writers, I've been warmed by readers' appreciation of my stories and love when they make well-thought-out suggestions and we can get a dialogue started. But I've also been shocked by scathing complaints aimed at me or other writers. Have I made mistakes in my books? Yes, and I wish I could say that it never happened. But a book is a huge undertaking and sometimes an error slips through.
In one of my recent novels, two erroneous details from an early draft, which I thought had been corrected during the editorial process, were inadvertently left in. Neither the copy editor nor the line editor tasked with fact checking by the publishing house caught the mistakes. And so the book was published with those errors. An insightful reader pointed them out to me in an email, very kindly worded. I was grateful and told her so, but of course there was now nothing I could do. Luckily, the mistakes didn't affect the story or readers' ability to enjoy it. But I knew to brace myself for other savvy readers who might not be so understanding of a half dozen wrong words out of over 100,000 right words. And of course, that's just what happened, in the most public of ways, from one irate reader over the internet.
When a good book misbehaves, despite the efforts of all involved in the writing and production process, there's no reason why a reader shouldn't point it out. I love these discussions with readers; often times both the reader and I learn something new. But writers are human, and we must remember that, no matter how hard we try, it's likely we'll make a mistake now and then. Either on the page or in life. It doesn't mean we've failed. It doesn't mean the end of the world. It means we may try even harder next time.
I thank all readers (well, nearly all of you) for being as patient with us writers as you are. And for understanding that, as serious as you are about your reading, we writers are right there with you, doing our darnedest to give you the best books we are able to write. Happy reading, everyone!
Having met many writers over the years, I believe in my heart that anyone who devotes the immense amount of time and exhausting effort to writing an entire book never does so lightly. They/we all work very hard and to the best of our individual abilities. "Oh, too bad," I think if I find multiple typos, misspelled words, and grammatical errors in a novel I'm reading, "she really should have had a good editor go over this for her before self-pubbing it." But that author's errors don't hurt me; they only harm her reputation as a writer and probably will discourage readers from buying a second book from her. Errors of fact or detail can also be a bit annoying, and of course the author is ultimately responsible for checking these as thoroughly as possible. But will a misstatement of the name of a historical figure, place, or date in a novel endanger the reader's sanity, morally corrupt them, bring financial ruin, or even spoil the reader's dinner that evening? Hardly.
There are many reasons why errors appear in books. Laziness on the part of the author is, I believe, by far the rarest. We try very hard to get everything "right, " to make our books the best they can be. Most writers do what they do for the love of their art, not for the little money we earn. Like many writers, I've been warmed by readers' appreciation of my stories and love when they make well-thought-out suggestions and we can get a dialogue started. But I've also been shocked by scathing complaints aimed at me or other writers. Have I made mistakes in my books? Yes, and I wish I could say that it never happened. But a book is a huge undertaking and sometimes an error slips through.
In one of my recent novels, two erroneous details from an early draft, which I thought had been corrected during the editorial process, were inadvertently left in. Neither the copy editor nor the line editor tasked with fact checking by the publishing house caught the mistakes. And so the book was published with those errors. An insightful reader pointed them out to me in an email, very kindly worded. I was grateful and told her so, but of course there was now nothing I could do. Luckily, the mistakes didn't affect the story or readers' ability to enjoy it. But I knew to brace myself for other savvy readers who might not be so understanding of a half dozen wrong words out of over 100,000 right words. And of course, that's just what happened, in the most public of ways, from one irate reader over the internet.
When a good book misbehaves, despite the efforts of all involved in the writing and production process, there's no reason why a reader shouldn't point it out. I love these discussions with readers; often times both the reader and I learn something new. But writers are human, and we must remember that, no matter how hard we try, it's likely we'll make a mistake now and then. Either on the page or in life. It doesn't mean we've failed. It doesn't mean the end of the world. It means we may try even harder next time.
I thank all readers (well, nearly all of you) for being as patient with us writers as you are. And for understanding that, as serious as you are about your reading, we writers are right there with you, doing our darnedest to give you the best books we are able to write. Happy reading, everyone!
February 8, 2013
Pennames: Who are you?
This is my first blog for Goodreads so I think it's important I come clean. My real name isn't Mary Hart Perry. I've written books for twenty years or more, and because I'm a woman (and unable to see into the future) my names have changed throughout my writing years. Sometimes for personal reasons, other times for professional ones--but never because I was hiding anything from my readers.
I started out as Kathryn Jensen, my then-married name. But when I began writing for young readers I didn't want them checking out my adult romances, so I borrowed my children's names and became Nicole Davidson. Later, after remarrying I wrote a historical novel with a literary flair (The Gentleman Poet), set in the Elizabethan era. I used my current name, Kathryn Johnson. But through another twist of fate, and a strong "suggestion" from an editor, I found I needed yet another penname. Unfortunately, by then several publishers had also "suggested" new pennames. Things were getting downright complicated.
At that point, I was pretty sure this leaping from one persona to another was just going to confuse my readers and make it impossible for them to find me. But if getting a contract on a next book meant tacking another name onto the list...so be it! Still, I didn't want it to be a meaningless name. I chose Mary Hart Perry to honor my grandmother, a hard-working Vermont farmer's wife who just happened to be (as we discovered after she'd passed) a closet poet.
So now I'm writing my books for Grandma. And it seems appropriate since she was a child of the Victorian era, and my two most recent novels are set in the late 19th century. I like to think she might enjoy my heroines' adventures. Just as I hope you, my wonderful readers, will feel transported into the world of Victorian London when you read The Wild Princess and also, launching in April 2013, Seducing the Princess.
I started out as Kathryn Jensen, my then-married name. But when I began writing for young readers I didn't want them checking out my adult romances, so I borrowed my children's names and became Nicole Davidson. Later, after remarrying I wrote a historical novel with a literary flair (The Gentleman Poet), set in the Elizabethan era. I used my current name, Kathryn Johnson. But through another twist of fate, and a strong "suggestion" from an editor, I found I needed yet another penname. Unfortunately, by then several publishers had also "suggested" new pennames. Things were getting downright complicated.
At that point, I was pretty sure this leaping from one persona to another was just going to confuse my readers and make it impossible for them to find me. But if getting a contract on a next book meant tacking another name onto the list...so be it! Still, I didn't want it to be a meaningless name. I chose Mary Hart Perry to honor my grandmother, a hard-working Vermont farmer's wife who just happened to be (as we discovered after she'd passed) a closet poet.
So now I'm writing my books for Grandma. And it seems appropriate since she was a child of the Victorian era, and my two most recent novels are set in the late 19th century. I like to think she might enjoy my heroines' adventures. Just as I hope you, my wonderful readers, will feel transported into the world of Victorian London when you read The Wild Princess and also, launching in April 2013, Seducing the Princess.
Escaping into the Past
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