fcdc
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2007
- Posts
- 491
I have an editor lined up to look at the entire thing, but I was curious if people generally like the style and whatnot. This is about the first fifth of the story. There's no sex scene in this part, I'm afraid. There will be one in the complete story. A few questions, and then without further ado:
Virtuosi have been long remarked to have little conscience in their favorite pursuits. A man will steal a rarity who would cut off his hand rather than take the money it is worth. Yet, in fact, the crime is the same. - Horace Walpole
Then there was darkness. Polly could hear James’ breath rasp harshly in the wall of the cell, and tried to keep out of the way of being jostled as he flung the second door shut and barred it from the inside. He’d thrown the first false panel just in time. They could both hear the servants starting to poke around the drawing room, words audible but incomprehensible. It was the valet and a housemaid, but not the maid Ann, whom she knew. Ann was from Dorset Street, and this girl sounded like she was from east of Watling.
She had expected Ann to be the one to search near their quarters. Ann, dark and tall like the thief she was with, had promised to let them both out, and Polly had seen enough of the housemaid to know the girl was a sallow blonde like herself, and unlike Ann. It couldn’t have been Ann, regardless of the East Anglian accent. It looked nothing like her. Still, Ann wouldn’t have forgotten to volunteer her help in the search. Polly couldn’t imagine that.
Lost in her thoughts at first, she didn’t understand the Irishman’s words closer to her ear. “Your girl isn’t out there, is she?”
Polly wanted to curse in frustration, but she whispered instead. “She ain’t.”
“We’ve only a few hours until they head for bed, then. We’ll slip out then and flee. Promise, love.”
The last word made her stare, but he couldn’t see that in the darkness, and she was grateful for that. Her hand slipped from his arm where she’d clutched, and she moved to the far end of the hiding space, stopping only when her outstretched hands felt the cool stone of the ground-level hiding place.
He didn’t follow her. Her eyes began to adjust to the blackness, and she could make out the silhouette of his form, pressed close against the door, his long, lean body outstretched and his knees looking like they were about to buckle. His breath continued to come in gasps, and she realized he had been more frightened by nearly being captured than she’d been.
Keeping as much of a distance from the close-stool as she could, she knelt to light the paraffin lamp, watching him. The click made him wince, his shoulders visibly flinching.
“We’re not caught,” Polly said quietly, starting back towards the man, watching the light bounce off the walls and illuminate him starkly. “We’re safe, an’ we’ll be safe, so never you worry.”
James’ eyes squeezed shut for a few long moments. A muscle twitched in his neck. “We’ll be safe,” he agreed, and he sounded more confident than he looked. He sounded just as confident as he had seemed when he had asked her to come along to Grangeton in Lancashire. She had believed him then, but she found it slightly more unconvincing now.
He smiled at her then, and he was much more convincing when he grinned than when he spoke. He hadn’t had the opportunity to shave over the two days that they had already been hiding in the Jesuits’ stowaway room. The smile, the black stubble, and his typical arrogant manner should have been believable. She did her best to trust all three.
She’d left red marks where she’d grabbed his arm, she noticed, and she felt a little guilty at that. He didn’t notice. He wasn’t paying attention to her. He was listening to the voices outside, even as he cast the exact smile towards her that he’d cast a thousand times before, probably to a thousand other girls.
“You’ve eaten the last apple?”
She nodded.
He clearly didn’t like her answer, and something dark and cold lurked on his face for a moment before it slid away. “Then that settles it. We’ll be out before we get hungry again.” His voice still wasn’t desperate. She would have been desperate, knowing they were out of food.
She wondered what his plans were, but she had made a promise not to ask that of him. It would be bad for her to know, James had said. If he were the only one that knew, he would be the only one risking the plans. All she needed to do was follow his orders.
She was not particularly fond of that agreement, but she had promised him that she would perform well, and she meant to do that. If that meant simply being his puppet, she would have to swallow her pride and do it. He was the portico thief, after all. She was just the accomplice who had stupidly agreed to help him.
He had not even had the opportunity to steal the Amati that he wanted. The violin sat temptingly in the drawing room, and Polly knew how much it was chiseling away at him not to just rush out and grab it. He was smarter and more controlled than that, but it was a concerted effort, she knew. He would think about it for the next few hours if she didn’t do something to distract him.
Her hand reached out to where she had seized upon his arm before, but this time it seized him much more gently. He had stripped off his Norfolk jacket and pushed up his sleeves to locate the false door to the hiding place, and hadn’t bothered to push them down yet, so the small red fingerprints were still visible.
“You know,” she said quietly, “Ain’t no reason that you have to stand there at the door, all nerves. You’ll waste away there.”
Polly could feel him close against her, and he leaned a bit more heavily on her arm than she would have expected. She almost stumbled, but managed to bear him upright. She’d been working since she was seven, and she was strong, if nothing else.
James’ voice was close to her ear again, and she heard unexpected grimness in it. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it, Poll?” His hand wrapped around her waist, and she wished she were rich enough to own a corset. Her waist felt large, even though he could easily fit his hand around it. When they left the manor house and headed for Manchester, with all the money they’d stolen, she decided that she would buy the corset first.
She didn’t know how to reply at first, and then she managed a surprisingly even, “There’s a way to make it more fun, you know.”
James did not have to have the hint spelled out. He grinned, his voice warming at her suggestion. “Rare girl, you are. Not many who would even suggest the idea.” His lips pressed lightly against her temple. He sounded grateful. “That’s right good of you, like.”
He spoke strangely to her ears, but she liked the compliment, and liked the kiss even more, sharing his smile. She pressed herself against him, her skirt rustling. “A few hours’ll be enough, but we’d best start quick.”
His grin shone again in the glow of the flickering lantern, and then his lips descended to hers. There was a strange desperation there. It had same intensity that she’d caught in his question about the fun of their adventure, but she couldn’t think to ask about it. The only thing she could do was kiss him back, their lips both chapped from lack of water. Her hand slid to the back of his neck as his hands moved lightly around her waist, and had the space been a little bigger, a little less musty and dingy, and the feel of both the space and her companion a little less haunted, she might have found it dashing and romantic.
She could only think of the look in his eyes, and as she felt James’ fingers unlacing and stripping away the bodice of her dress and then settling on the tucks of her chemise, she wondered for a wild moment if she was being undressed by a ghost.
- Are my accents solid? I am aiming for Cockney/Spitalfields (Polly) and Corkonian (James) accents. I do not want them to fall into caricature, and I'm pretty sure they don't. I do want them to sound at least reasonably accented, because each being from those particular locations is important to the story as I have it planned, and I want that to come through.
- The way I have the story planned out is this scene (1000 words), a flashback scene (500), and then into a sex scene (3000 words), then another flashback (500), then a resolution (1000 words). There's a definite, intentional plot to things, and the sex scene will move things forward. Will people read that? Is 1500 words, including a flashback, before getting into the sex scene too much of a buildup for people who actually want to read this sort of thing, as opposed to a 'stroke story'?
- I know my voice for this piece is pretty precise and formal, and intended it to be so, to contrast with the realism of what's going on, and the loose speech of the two main characters. Does it still come off as too old-fashioned?
- Any random Americanisms/modernisms that are specifically jarring? I think I caught the main one (paraffin lamp to the British; kerosene lamp to Americans). I don't want to write in a British tone of voice, but I do want the characters' dialogue to be accurate, and to have terminology correct. There's a fine line there, but I think it's obvious enough.
- Any good ideas for a title, even from this first part? Titling's an art, and if anyone can come up with anything artistic from this, I welcome suggestions.
Virtuosi have been long remarked to have little conscience in their favorite pursuits. A man will steal a rarity who would cut off his hand rather than take the money it is worth. Yet, in fact, the crime is the same. - Horace Walpole
Then there was darkness. Polly could hear James’ breath rasp harshly in the wall of the cell, and tried to keep out of the way of being jostled as he flung the second door shut and barred it from the inside. He’d thrown the first false panel just in time. They could both hear the servants starting to poke around the drawing room, words audible but incomprehensible. It was the valet and a housemaid, but not the maid Ann, whom she knew. Ann was from Dorset Street, and this girl sounded like she was from east of Watling.
She had expected Ann to be the one to search near their quarters. Ann, dark and tall like the thief she was with, had promised to let them both out, and Polly had seen enough of the housemaid to know the girl was a sallow blonde like herself, and unlike Ann. It couldn’t have been Ann, regardless of the East Anglian accent. It looked nothing like her. Still, Ann wouldn’t have forgotten to volunteer her help in the search. Polly couldn’t imagine that.
Lost in her thoughts at first, she didn’t understand the Irishman’s words closer to her ear. “Your girl isn’t out there, is she?”
Polly wanted to curse in frustration, but she whispered instead. “She ain’t.”
“We’ve only a few hours until they head for bed, then. We’ll slip out then and flee. Promise, love.”
The last word made her stare, but he couldn’t see that in the darkness, and she was grateful for that. Her hand slipped from his arm where she’d clutched, and she moved to the far end of the hiding space, stopping only when her outstretched hands felt the cool stone of the ground-level hiding place.
He didn’t follow her. Her eyes began to adjust to the blackness, and she could make out the silhouette of his form, pressed close against the door, his long, lean body outstretched and his knees looking like they were about to buckle. His breath continued to come in gasps, and she realized he had been more frightened by nearly being captured than she’d been.
Keeping as much of a distance from the close-stool as she could, she knelt to light the paraffin lamp, watching him. The click made him wince, his shoulders visibly flinching.
“We’re not caught,” Polly said quietly, starting back towards the man, watching the light bounce off the walls and illuminate him starkly. “We’re safe, an’ we’ll be safe, so never you worry.”
James’ eyes squeezed shut for a few long moments. A muscle twitched in his neck. “We’ll be safe,” he agreed, and he sounded more confident than he looked. He sounded just as confident as he had seemed when he had asked her to come along to Grangeton in Lancashire. She had believed him then, but she found it slightly more unconvincing now.
He smiled at her then, and he was much more convincing when he grinned than when he spoke. He hadn’t had the opportunity to shave over the two days that they had already been hiding in the Jesuits’ stowaway room. The smile, the black stubble, and his typical arrogant manner should have been believable. She did her best to trust all three.
She’d left red marks where she’d grabbed his arm, she noticed, and she felt a little guilty at that. He didn’t notice. He wasn’t paying attention to her. He was listening to the voices outside, even as he cast the exact smile towards her that he’d cast a thousand times before, probably to a thousand other girls.
“You’ve eaten the last apple?”
She nodded.
He clearly didn’t like her answer, and something dark and cold lurked on his face for a moment before it slid away. “Then that settles it. We’ll be out before we get hungry again.” His voice still wasn’t desperate. She would have been desperate, knowing they were out of food.
She wondered what his plans were, but she had made a promise not to ask that of him. It would be bad for her to know, James had said. If he were the only one that knew, he would be the only one risking the plans. All she needed to do was follow his orders.
She was not particularly fond of that agreement, but she had promised him that she would perform well, and she meant to do that. If that meant simply being his puppet, she would have to swallow her pride and do it. He was the portico thief, after all. She was just the accomplice who had stupidly agreed to help him.
He had not even had the opportunity to steal the Amati that he wanted. The violin sat temptingly in the drawing room, and Polly knew how much it was chiseling away at him not to just rush out and grab it. He was smarter and more controlled than that, but it was a concerted effort, she knew. He would think about it for the next few hours if she didn’t do something to distract him.
Her hand reached out to where she had seized upon his arm before, but this time it seized him much more gently. He had stripped off his Norfolk jacket and pushed up his sleeves to locate the false door to the hiding place, and hadn’t bothered to push them down yet, so the small red fingerprints were still visible.
“You know,” she said quietly, “Ain’t no reason that you have to stand there at the door, all nerves. You’ll waste away there.”
Polly could feel him close against her, and he leaned a bit more heavily on her arm than she would have expected. She almost stumbled, but managed to bear him upright. She’d been working since she was seven, and she was strong, if nothing else.
James’ voice was close to her ear again, and she heard unexpected grimness in it. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it, Poll?” His hand wrapped around her waist, and she wished she were rich enough to own a corset. Her waist felt large, even though he could easily fit his hand around it. When they left the manor house and headed for Manchester, with all the money they’d stolen, she decided that she would buy the corset first.
She didn’t know how to reply at first, and then she managed a surprisingly even, “There’s a way to make it more fun, you know.”
James did not have to have the hint spelled out. He grinned, his voice warming at her suggestion. “Rare girl, you are. Not many who would even suggest the idea.” His lips pressed lightly against her temple. He sounded grateful. “That’s right good of you, like.”
He spoke strangely to her ears, but she liked the compliment, and liked the kiss even more, sharing his smile. She pressed herself against him, her skirt rustling. “A few hours’ll be enough, but we’d best start quick.”
His grin shone again in the glow of the flickering lantern, and then his lips descended to hers. There was a strange desperation there. It had same intensity that she’d caught in his question about the fun of their adventure, but she couldn’t think to ask about it. The only thing she could do was kiss him back, their lips both chapped from lack of water. Her hand slid to the back of his neck as his hands moved lightly around her waist, and had the space been a little bigger, a little less musty and dingy, and the feel of both the space and her companion a little less haunted, she might have found it dashing and romantic.
She could only think of the look in his eyes, and as she felt James’ fingers unlacing and stripping away the bodice of her dress and then settling on the tucks of her chemise, she wondered for a wild moment if she was being undressed by a ghost.
