That reminds me that a novelist can’t merely drop people into a room and set them sneering at one another. Miss Austen, for example, routinely uses rain to nearly kill off her heroines, but I can do better. My heroine would climb a (craggy) cliff with a dagger clenched in her teeth and not get a cold, even though the rocks were crusted with snow.
Anyway, this morning Squibby dragged me along to watch the shooting party, so here’s a description of Delaford woods—or “hanger,” as the Colonel has it. (An aside: You’d think Squibby would be transformed by two years of unrelenting culture on the Continent, but other than a truly exquisite coat, he seems unchanged.)
We came through the yew arbor, its tree trunks dark and wreathed with fog. A bird (rook? wood pigeon?) was singing, until the retrievers started barking as loudly as pie sellers at the county fair. At least fifty men beat the underbrush to make pheasants fly up and be shot. The hills around were gray and lonely. Perhaps gray and naked.
Novels are all about detail, so I must do better. Words I should use: bold, uncouth, rugged, hazy, promentary. Or is it “promontory”? Neither looks right.
Another try: Clouds cast lowering shadows over the pheasants that cowered in the shrubbery before flinging themselves at the sky in a frantic attempt to avoid being shot in cold blood.
I expect I’ll do better when describing drawing rooms, becausedead pigeons lying in a row are uninspiring. I was disturbed by the way they had been set down with their thin necks all crooked to the right, especially after Squibby remarked they reminded him of opera dancers in Paris (a stinging reminder of his foreign experiences). Apparently, those dancers stand in a line, balancing on one leg and kicking the other over their heads.
Another detail: the revolting smell of blood mingled with gun oil. The beaters threw their oily rags onto the wagon, right on top of the bleeding pheasants.
That is not a romantic detail; I must aim at more flowery descriptions.
In the interest of accurate detail, here are the gowns by which I intend to entrance my suitors:
My new tea gown is pale thrush-egg blue. (I wonder if thrushes were making all that noise in the woods?) It is caught up under my breasts and drapes over my slippers. The modiste wanted to hem it above my ankles but I refused, since my skirts must disguise my feet. I have practiced tucking them back so that only the tips peek out from my gown.
I’ll describe more gowns later, as I must go down to tea. I’ve been hearing carriages arrive all morning, rumbling over the gravel with a sound like a hailstorm. (Cliché: must do better.)
June 5, 1814, sent by Baron Hugh Skelmers Vaughan to Miss Margaret Dashwood:
Snaps, I’ve reached Florence, Italy. I know you want me to write about museums (and I will), but I came across people dancing in a piazza last night. You know how much I hate dancing, but a strange woman grabbed my hands and whirled me around. She reminded me of you, scolding me for being so awkward while waltzing.
Later that Afternoon
I have now met all the eligible men summoned to look me over. Marianne is determined to trade my dowry for a title, so they’re mostly future knights, along with one future marquess (Squibby). Due to my passion for culture, Marianne included a poet and a novelist (future barons). It occurred to me when we were sitting around chirping over cups of tea that everyone is a “future,” because I am a future wife.
Sadly, the conversation hadn’t a shred of culture and centered on the likelihood of pigeon pie for dinner, given the morning’s successful shoot. If I were as sensitive as Marianne used to be, the thought would have made me long for death. I comforted myself by thinking that somewhere in the world people were discussing Chaucer and Raphael, but it didn’t help much, especially when the conversation turned to pig farming.
I smiled so much that my cheek muscles hurt. At some point, Squibby brought me a fresh cup of tea—he’s awfully good at noticing empty cups—and asked me why I was grimacing so much. Rude! I scowled and made him go away, and after that Miss Feodora Wintresse confessed that she was devastatingly in love with him.
With Squibby!
I didn’t ask why, but I must have looked astonished, because she waxed poetic about his cheekbones and the way his dark hair curls over his brow. (Browis a good word for a hero. Of course, we all have one, but I shall reserve the word for my hero.) When I noted that his thirty thousand pounds are also very attractive, she turned pink and said that I needn’t be vulgar. I almost retorted that I was too highbrowto be vulgar, but luckily I didn’t, because now that sounds rather stupid.
At any rate: a description of Miss Feodora Wintresse. She has flaxen hair and small earlobes to go with her very small feet. Her nose is small, too. Her heart is probably small, and as Squibby’s true friend, I should warn him. But I shan’t. Likely he will be entranced by the way her feet steal in and out of her petticoats like little mice. (Is that a poem? I’m sure I read it somewhere.) Her gown was so light that the line of her French stays was perfectly visible.
I wore my thrush-egg blue tea gown with a corset as confining as my grandmother might have worn, thanks to my mother’s dislike of everything French. As soon as I’m married, I shall throw out my corsets and wear only stays, with no boning.
At any rate, I inquired about Feodora’s reading habits, and she confessed to reading novels, but only in secret, as her mother disapproves. I would have pulled outCeciliaand starting reading then and there, but my sister banished everyone to rest before dinner.
We all obediently filed out of the room, but I saw Squibby saunter off toward the back of the house, so I expect he was going to the stables. He’s obsessed with horses, though, to his credit, he doesn’t bore one to tears talking about it. I was tempted to follow, but, of course, one mustn’t. I might be caught and my reputation dented.
I suspect he was going to the stables to see if my darling mare, Bobbin, was in good form. Squibby and I share a passion for hunting—though it has nothing to do with killing a fox. We love tearing over hedges and leaping stone walls on horseback. Bobbin is smaller than his mount, Belial, but she’s wily and clever. We often manage to bump Belial from the path because he’s too well bred to bumpus. On occasion, Bobbin will even bite at his flank.
Back to the novel.
Novels are never confined to the exploits of lords and ladies, so I shall practice by describing my maid, Sally. I know girls who are horribly bullied by their French maids, but, thanks to my mother’s provincialism, Sally is from Northamptonshire. She has blue eyes and bigger feet than me. She claims to be grateful for her feet, because otherwise they would ache after a long day—which is a salutary reminder that most people work, whereas I am feckless and haven’t completed a single petit point chair. Another important point: Sally has a much larger bosom than mine, supposedly the reason why most of the footmen are in love with her.
I considered making my heroine an impoverished orphan with a fanciable bosom, but I am unnerved by the idea of fictionalizing (if that’s a word) a life I don’t know much about and which can be so arduous. Sally gets frightfully tired, though she assures me that Colonel Brandon’s butler is fair, and no one is overworked.
I expect I’ll end up with someone like Feodora as my heroine. But smarter. Like me, but with small feet.
I won’t be able to write again until after supper and dancing, but I’ll just say that tonight I shall wear a fir-green evening gown with the tiniest bodice you can imagine. Sally has managed to trade one of my lace-trimmed handkerchiefs for some lip color—my mother refused to buy me any—so my lips won’t look grimly pale compared to other girls.
July 25, 1814, sent by Baron Hugh Skelmers Vaughan to Miss Margaret Dashwood:
