Back to editing…bit by bit

Admittedly it has been a while. The old ‘progressing with life’ kind of got in the way for a bit but I’m back chomping at the bit to start the edit on book 2 – Lord Bovingdon’s Son. The second installment you say? Where was the first one? I can hear you say. Yes, I’m editing book 2 whilst starting to contact publishers and put feelers out. Will anything stick? Who knows but I’ll give it a whirl and see what comes back.

Meanwhile I have decided to give you lovely readers a little taste of Lady Dixon’s Niece to whet the appetite. I hope you enjoy 🙂

Introducing Mr. Emmett Rosland

The air was alive with music and laughter as revellers began arriving enmasse at Lye Green Manor.  The full moon acted as a spotlight illuminating the entire parkland. Against the backdrop of the Chiltern’s rolling hills sat Lye Green Manor beseeching full recognition. From the veranda, the sounds of approval could be heard, bringing an instant smile and gratification to the owner. Downstairs he could hear the hum of party-guests exchanging opinions. None of the particulars really mattered a great deal to him as-long-as their views were favourable of Lye Green Manor.  

He deliberately waited until just enough attendees were inside the ballroom to make his grand entrance. Bounding down the stairs, impeccably attired, his thick mass of dark locks neatly slicked back with petroleum jelly and his chiselled jawline immaculately shaved, Mr. Emmett Rosland, the son of Lord Bovingdon, oozed charisma and charm. He was met at the foot of the grand staircase by his butler, scotch whiskey in hand. Knowing all eyes were now watching him, he of course made ceremony by taking the tumbler in his hand, raising it up to Heaven as if to toast the maker and all civilisation, before pursing his lips around the crystal glass, and letting the taste of the amber hued liquor linger on his tongue. He raised an eyebrow as he moved the tumbler away from his face. His lips curled, giving way to a wry smile, before he nodded to his audience. This was his crowning moment, he thought proudly. Throngs of jubilant guests were flocking to his home for the first of what he hoped would be many lavish parties.

He was determined to be a most gracious host. One, who ensured that all guests were given a personal welcome, made feel important by being asked at least two questions about themselves, and above all were entertained. Fastidious in nature, he took it upon himself to see to every detail of the engagement, from appointing a string quartet for musical entertainment, personally selecting the hors-d’oeuvres for the buffet table to importing cases of the finest wine and spirits. He had observed from his vast experience of socialising that the best parties were ones where the liquor flowed freely and lively music provided ample opportunities for the guests to dance and engage in merriment, after all nobody enjoyed dull parties. He had endured his fair share of those parties at Hamilton Court, and they always reeked of pretension. This was his chance to showcase his beautifully restored Georgian home and have all in his circle congratulate him on his fine eye for design. His Palladian style residence would be the talk of society for some time.

He floated around the entrance hall greeting his guests, enquiring after their health, allowing them to bestow their praise of Lye Green Manor on him, before making enthusiastic introductions between strangers when he felt he had spent too long with one set. He could lap the entire room in minutes, dipping in and out of conversations artfully. He had a talent for overhearing others discourse before joining them. That way he was armed with a quip or a casual innuendo that nearly always had the women in convulsions. Sometimes, if he particularly admired a lady, he would make sure to overhear her opinion on a topic before engaging with her so that he could repeat it back to her as his own point of view. He found it to be the best way of attracting the attentions of the opposite sex.

He also had a great way to ensure he never forgot a name. As soon as an introduction was made, he would find something about the person that made them distinctive, such as a long nose or learn their profession. He would then make up a moniker or rhyme, a little musing to help him remember them. For instance, Mrs. Manning’s first name is Myrtle. He thought it a very unusual name. He was sure he would not remember it, so he always says to himself … Mrs. Manning is Mrytle the Turtle! For the most part it worked, and on those rare occasions when it failed him, he would simply pretend he knew them. Something he could do exceedingly well.

He scanned the ballroom partly to ensure musicians were setting up. He had made several requests, among them the latest offerings of Elgar and Ralph Vaughn Williams. Everybody who was anybody was raving about them in London. Some of his gentleman club acquaintances were attending tonight and he didn’t want to disappoint. As for talent, this season’s debutantes didn’t thrill him and the ones that did were already engaged in some arrangement. Lord Byron had famously referred to the debutante balls as marriage marts. It was true, so many of the pretty young things would be engaged by the end of the season… it was a shame, he reflected. Every season he enjoyed making acquaintance with the latest array of coming-of-age females, some of whom, he particularly enjoyed the company of, but he wasn’t ready to offer marriage. For if he committed to one of the prospective ladies that would mean he could no longer publicly toy with the affections of the others.  

There were two ladies that he was curious to meet that evening; the first was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Lord Walcott. Lady Jane had spent the earlier part of the season in Bath. Lord Walcott promised so faithfully to bring her, but Emmett did question if it were mere lip service in exchange for a discount on legal representation. Alas, it was nothing more than an empty promise. He spotted Lord and Lady Walcott, but the daughter was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lord and Lady Walcott, what a pleasure it is to have your company this evening,’ he greeted in good spirits. They nodded graciously before shaking his hand.

‘And your daughter? What a shame she has been detained. The beauty of Bath is too great an attraction I fear’.

They unapologetically conceded that she was to spend the rest of the season in Bath.

‘What a shame. Bath’s victory and Lye Green’s loss.’

With little else to converse about, he rather wondered why he bothered extending an invitation to them. The only consolation was that their title would be received well amongst his father’s generation in attendance. Perhaps the Lord’s only daughter was not that pretty after all. If that were the case, then he really ought to congratulate himself on escaping having to flatter a plain Jane.

The second lady of interest on that evening was rather more mysterious. An elusive niece of Lady Dixon. He knew little about the wife of the late knight, Sir William Dixon. She was as much above his notice as beneath until now. He knew that all the young ladies at the party would want to know more about this latest arrival to Boxmoor and what better way to quell their curiosity than to invite her. After all, they would more than likely spend much of the evening speculating about her. She might as well be in their presence. He had heard that Miss Annaliese Schmidt was quite pretty and spoke German. Though, the latter piece of information was hardly surprising considering Lady Dixon was from one of the German speaking countries.

Was this niece from the continent? According to his source, she spoke fluent English and it was considered that she grew up in England. As for the precise whereabouts, his source could not say.

‘Mr. Rosland, I congratulate you on a fine home you have here.’

His trail of thought now interrupted, he turned to see Mr and Mrs. Price and their two daughters, Louisa and Eleanor, standing before him. He smiled graciously as he shook hands with Mr. Price and bowed to the ladies. Louisa was looking particularly attractive in a turquoise blue kimono style gown. ‘Miss Price you are looking rather delectable this evening’, he simpered. Her face lit up.

‘Why thank you sir’, she replied politely. Her father was now eager to draw Mr. Rosland into a discussion about the particulars of the restoration. Giving him just half his attention, he could answer satisfactorily, whilst continuing to leer at his eldest daughter, as she confidently moved around the ballroom. He had to credit Louisa; her choice of gown was impeccable. No doubt it cost a small fortune and was probably one of Lady Duff Gordon’s collection, but it certainly was worth every penny. If love was a game, Louisa Price, was quite a good challenger. She would drive him wild with desire and hope that he would grant her the one thing she desired – to be the lady of the house at Lye Green. Her family clearly desired a match between them too. Such was their attentiveness to Mr. Rosland over the past year, having been invited for dinner on more occasions than he had digits on his hands, and more often than not struggled to find acceptable excuses to turn down their hospitality.

When he finally did find an opening to take his leave of Mr. Price, he was immediately thwarted by the arrival of another family, Mr. and Mrs. Winters and their daughter, Penelope, or Penny as she was more commonly called. Pushing their daughter forward awkwardly, Mr and Mrs. Winters were full of praise of Lye Green Manor.

‘Our daughter was in London these past two months. You didn’t happen to see her?’, asked Mr. Winters. Emmett responded that he had not the pleasure of happening upon her.

‘Oh, but it was thought that you might have been at the same showing of Pygmalion in the West End’, added Mrs. Winters, nudging her daughter to speak.

The shy young lady grimaced.

‘It is highly possible for I was in attendance. Were you at one of the opening week showings Miss Winters?’

Miss Winters blushed as he focused his attention on her.

‘I can’t recall the exact date, but I was fortunate to see the show on the fifth or sixth night,’ he continued. His hopes that he would be asked how he came upon a ticket to one of those highly sought-after initial showings were dashed. 

She dared not look up at him and her parents were too concerned with willing their daughter on to say something. With nothing forthcoming, Mr. Rosland continued, ‘Perhaps you saw me but were too bashful to come speak to me. You really ought to have come hither. One always enjoys meeting acquaintances from home whilst in London.’ He was lying. They were precisely the people he wanted to avoid in London.

‘What did you think of Pygmalion?’ she voiced meekly, finally plucking up the courage to speak. He gave his gargantuan smile. This was his opportunity to let all those around him know how well-heeled he is.

‘It was bloody great’, he replied jovially. He was hoping for the family to burst into laughter, for the word ‘bloody’ was highly controversial. Surely the Winters would know this. It was all theatre goers could talk about – whether Stella Patrick Campbell was going to say the contentious line; ‘not bloody likely’? Oh, how he hated when he had to explain his humour. How laborious, he thought. On this occasion he chose not to bother for he deemed the family not to be worth the effort.

‘What did you think of the show Miss Winters?’ he enquired out of civility.

She hesitated. This was rather testing his patience.

‘I enjoyed it immensely’, she replied softly.

‘Any part in particular?’

She simpered. The pressure of having to give a preference was too great so she remained silent.

‘Perhaps the part when Stella Patrick Campbell says that controversial line?’

he suggested, willing her to say it, explaining his original reference.

She continued to simper. Oh, how tedious this is, he thought.

‘You know Miss Winters the part when she says, ‘not bloody likely’ and the audience were in hysterics for I kid you not a solid sixty seconds. We all waited with bated breath. We didn’t know if she would say it, but she did. It was ‘bloody’ marvellous,’ he declared gaily.

A forced laugh followed from her parents as their daughter’s cheeks continued to redden. Having grown so impatient with the reaction of his present company, he did not even wait for them to say something, for he knew it would be exceedingly dull indeed.

‘As I said, I was most fortuitous to have front of house seats on the fifth or sixth night. I am acquainted with Herbert Beerbohm Tree and most obliged to be given a personal invitation to the show’. That was not entirely accurate. Mr. Rosland did get the chance to shake hands with Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the star of the show, following that night’s performance. They had never met before this and nor were likely to meet again. In fact, he had not been a recipient of a personal invitation from Herbert. In truth, he had been invited along by a client, Mr. Thomas, who was in the theatre business. Though, it was tenable that Mr. Thomas knew Herbert Beerbohm Tree. It was now the turn of Mr. and Mrs. Winters to simper politely. It was evident they had not a clue that Herbert Beerbohm Tree was the lead actor.  The daughter though did react. Her plain face lit up at the very mention of him knowing Herbert. Well thank Heavens! he thought.

‘You know him?’

He nodded. If the term ‘know’ was the same as once had the pleasure of meeting than he was not perjuring himself.

‘Is he really so outrageous? People say he is quite the bombast,’ she continued, gaining new- found confidence with every syllable.

His reply would have to be vague. ‘Oh, you know those thespians, they are all quite dramatic when they have an audience.’

This should satisfy them, he thought. Now that he had accomplished what he set out to do, he could take his leave of them. He was glad he had persisted despite it being long drawn out. Mrs. Winters would be relied on to spread the news for she was a proficient gossiper. Soon the whole room would know of the company he keeps, he thought satisfactorily.