Tidbits: The Three China Doll of Ardennes by Penny Freeman

By Photoplay magazine [Public domain],
via Wikimedia Commons

A deleted scene from My Father's Son

Durant blinked and forced his thoughts back into he room. He did not know how or if he should even attempt to answer that question, but one glance at the lady before him bespoke her utmost need for the information.

He wondered how to begin, then recalled the watch in his pocket. It was not the chronometer he had purchased that morning.

Rather, it was very old and very precious. The workmanship was unsurpassed, but for what it meant to Jeanne, to all the Marchands, to Isabella, and to himself, it was irreplaceable. He had found it in LeDuc’s desk at the study as he cleaned out the drawers.

He knew exactly what it was, and could not help but sense that his father had it put there of a purpose, knowing Durant would know exactly what to do with it.

Durant had brought the watch along with him on that venture, thinking he would return it to Madam Marchand. However, for reasons he little cared to explore, it always remained in his pocket.

The voice inside him which he tried to follow told him that it was as intended, for Jeanne required it just then, and that it was vital that he give it to her.  She had to understand.  She could not go seeking answers from that creature. 

Tidbits: Piper's Fantasy

Deleted Scene from My Father's Son by Penny Freeman

Cassandra offered a smile of encouragement. “Well, perhaps he must be taken to task for it. Perhaps it would do him some good.”

“If anyone could help him, Miss Sterling . . .” He dared speak no more and the lady turned her face away to wrestle with her own warring sensibilities. As she gazed out the window, the setting sun silhouetting her face and igniting the fire in her hair, Durant fell into the fantasy which she opened up to him. It fit hand-in-glove with his daydream of retreating to Trinity and a smithy to carve his own life from the forests and rolling prairies of east Texas.

He thought of a work-weary stonemason making his way home in the twilight. His clothes were plain and common, but they were kept clean and well-mended. His knapsack of tools professed a master’s skill. He would make himself a master mason and stonecutter, avail himself of every opportunity for betterment. He would have only the best for his wife, and so gave the best of himself to accomplish it.

As he walked, his oldest lad and his dog would run up to meet him from where they kept watch and waited. The lad would simply walk silently beside him, or they would consult man-to-man as he reported his day, his own chores done, his morning in school and his afternoon on the moors, his assurance to his father of his use to his mother.

Well-commended, the boy’s bright face would sing in the stonemason’s heart. He would ruffle the thatch atop the lad’s head and assure him of his approval. Very soon indeed, he would take him on as an apprentice and in no time the lad’s work would excel his own. It was a precious bit of time they spent together walking and conferring, and the stonemason savored every moment. He knew that too soon his son would have sons of his own.

Tidbits: Introductions by Penny Freeman

Deleted Scene from My Father's Son:

“Oh, Sandy!  Come see!  Come see!”

Sandy turned from where she buttoned Chloe’s frock, having completed her markings on the new silk gown.  She merely looked at Zoe, surprised to see her serene sister all aflutter, but she infected Chloe immediately.  ”Oh, hurry, Sandy.  I want to see.”

“See what?” Sandy wondered.

“Just come see,” Zoe insisted.  “Come to the stables.”

Dragged by both girls, Sandy hurried down the back stairs and outside, after having slipped on her clogs at the back door.  She laughed and teased the girls with pause and delay, but when they rounded the stables, she stopped short in earnest.  She saw before her Paris sliding off the back of the most marvelous hunter she had ever beheld, lively, high-bred and surely more expensive than her father could ever afford.  Yet, there he stood, with Paris patting his head and holding his bridle, his pleasure outstripped only by the sensibilities his father’s faith engendered.

Nothing more bespoke Mr. Sterling’s pride in his son than that horse.  She did not require sight of him standing hard by with a look of supreme satisfaction on his face to know it.

However, the third gentleman surprised her.  Sandy had never before seen the man in the neighborhood, but at first sight, she felt an air of familiarity about him.  Perhaps the age of Merit— probably the age of Merit—he was taller and broader.  He wore his dark hair so long and unruly it taunted her, and she fought back the urge to go comb it.  Even so, he had an intensity of manner which radiated from him, even as he leisurely stood back, away, fairly in the shadows of the stable, as if he wished to absent himself from the family scene.  And yet, his look of satisfaction exceeded her father’s own, and Paris could not help glancing to him now and again to assure himself the gentleman yet remained. 

Standing there in her garden clogs, in an old frock professing it had seen better days, her work apron so stuck with pins she appeared a porcupine, and her hair hanging long and loose, only drawn back from her face and held with a ribbon, she colored at the very thought of being seen in such a state, especially by that elevated gentleman, and stepped back.

The 150,000-Word Question

Recently, my good friends over on the iWriteNetwork Facebook group were tallying up how many words they had finished of their current work in progress.  Some proudly proclaimed thirty- or forty-thousand words, halfway to the acceptable number for the average novel, which is 80,000 words.  Woohoo!  They were on their way.

I got to thinking, hmmm.  I wonder how far I am.  Now, (until I transfer it all over to yWriter5) each chapter of mine is a separate WordPerfect file (the one true word processor and victim of the great apostasy), so I painstakingly cut and past all 25 chapters into one big long document and then hit the word count button.  [drum roll please!]  I about fainted when it topped out at 149,000 words.

This is a problem.  This is a really, really big problem because I'm only halfway finished with this first installment of my series.  Did I mention that the plot of My Father's Son is so complex wrangling it into submission is like making a dozen two-year-olds dance a waltz?  (Sidebar:  it includes all the plot that has absolutely nothing to do with P&P and easily transferred over from The Famous Mrs. Darcy.)

Note to Self: Perfect Is Boring

I have a confession.  I have already mentioned that I actually finished my manuscript for The Famous Mrs. Darcy and was in the editorial process before I gave it up as a lost cause.  The truth is, I didn't give up because my writing was terrible, or even that my plot had grown so complex that I had no idea how to work myself out of it.  My brother/editor maintained that the reader may very well throw up their hands in disgust because it got so confusing, but not even that was enough to murder The Famous Mrs. Darcy.

The killing blow came as I penned the last compelling, heart-rending chapter and I  realized that anyone looking for a sequel to Pride and Prejudice would absolutely HATE this book.  My Mr. Darcy had demons and passions and deep and treacherous crevasses in his soul.  He battled to retain his sense of self.  He had developed evolved to such a degree that he had become unrecognizable.

Plagued with jealousy, torn loyalties and problems without solutions, my Mr. Darcy turned to alcohol.  The greater the stressors of honor and duty, the more intense the conflict between loyalties, the more volatile became his temper.  My Elizabeth threatened to become a cipher in his shadow.  She suffered indignities and made certain choices that would cause Jane Austen to turn over in her grave. My detractors would be screaming "anachronisms" and "social consequences" even louder than myself.

Tidbits: Paris

Here's another deleted scene from "My Father's Son" by Penny Freeman

Paris loved the harvest.  He loved the cool of the morning and the sun of midday.  He loved the smell of fresh mown hay, summer showers and the newly wetted earth.  He loved rich fields of grain, the heavy heads drooping with prosperity, ruffling in the breeze like waves of the sea.  He loved the way the harvesters worked in concert, the lead man taking several wide swaths with his scythe before the next man began, behind and beside him, and then the next, and the next, as the women followed likewise to tie the fallen stalks into sheaves. He loved to watch as the single organism worked its way up the field, leaving bunches of heavy sheaves propped in its wake, but more still, he loved to be a part of it.  They were a great machine, and to be one of those cogs, to have a purpose, to feel himself an asset rather than a liability filled him with strength.

There was something immensely satisfying in advancing row after row, reducing each to stubble and moving on to the next.  He found the rhythmic swish of the scythe through the stalks soothing, even mesmerizing, and it freed him from the multitude of thoughts constantly whirring in his head.  He loved the grit on his hands, the sweat running in rivers down his back, the burn of his muscles from a hard day's work, and the fatigue professing he had done something of worth.

Tidbits: Cortege by Penny Freeman

Sneak Peak:  "Cortege" from My Father's Son by Penny Freeman

Although the morning was bright and clear, a thousand candles burned in the rotunda to ease the darkness, the windows shrouded as they were in crepe.  The various hearths encircling the space blazed, the first time in a week the rotunda had not been purposely kept freezing cold.  Across the vast floor, a full fifty gentlemen of intimate connection stood in ranks behind his father’s bier.

The ladies of the family all congregated on the mezzanine upon long upholstered benches and his mother’s best chairs.  From where he stood, he saw them perched upon their seats all clad in mourning and the proper bereaved masks upon their faces, and thought of ravens in a rookery, howsoever silent they may be.

He stood deep in the shadows of the mezzanine, summoning up his courage to begin.  His courage was slow to respond.  Matlock stood on his left, Archer to the right of Sophia who gripped Piper’s hand in her own.  They stood there, silent, tense, expectant, more than one hundred people utterly still and waiting for Piper’s appearance.

Sophia laid her opposite hand on his breast and looked up into his face.  He blinked, nudged ever so gently from his own private torment.  “You can do this,” she whispered.  “We can do this.”

Piper met her gaze and swallowed hard.  “We can do this,” he agreed.  “With you, I can do this.”

Tidbits: Stillbrook Dairy

Deleted scene from My Father's Son by Penny Freeman

[In route to London, Duncan, Shepherd, Dovey and Foreman take shelter from a hundred-years storm.]

     Floundering through the mass of swirling white engulfing him, Duncan at last groped a low stone wall with the low eaves of a pitched roof just higher than his brow.  He had no idea what he found, but they would take any shelter in that storm. 
     "Wait here!" he shouted to his mates over the howling storm. "I will find the door!"  Deaf and blind with nature's fury, each had stopped after plowing into the horse before him.  Duncan surrendered the reins of his mount to his partner,  communication enough for the four friends.
     They had stumbled upon a small but prosperous dairy, with walls of stone and a flagstone floor, kept with meticulous care. It was not The George at Dover, but it would do. They had slept in far worse, and they would have never survived the fast encroaching night out of doors.
     Within, instead of darkness, a lantern burning low hung from the rafters near the doors. In the center of the space, a large, circular hearth contained a well-tended fire. Duncan turned to his partner, Shepherd. "Find him," he muttered softly.

Tidbits: Piper's Survivor's Guilt

Today, I'm off to College Station and then to Austin to help with the driving as my #2 son and his family relocate. So, yesterday, since I had already written two entries, I thought a quick Tidbits would serve as a post for today. 

Piper Durant is a soldier, and he went through a period when he really struggled with the consequences of the war. Since he was alone and isolated and cooling his heels in Paris, he started writing sonnets in lieu of phoning home. He must not have been able afford the roaming charges on his mobile bill.

Tidbits: A Knight's Tale (MFS)

Excerpt from Book 1 Chapter 8: A Knight's Tale

by Penny Freeman

(In the wake of his father's untimely death, Durant slips into Sandy's sickroom in the dead of night where she battles life-threatening pneumonia.)

     As Piper watched Sandy, contemplating exactly what he should do, she tugged at the collar of her nightgown and fretted at the bedclothes despite her drug-induced torpidity.  He thought to cool her fevered brow, but, before he ventured to her bedside, he moved the lamp to the far side of the room and lowered its flame until it almost guttered.  With only the light of the low fire at his back, his face would be completely veiled in shadow, as dark as the far side of the moon.

    “Hush, precious” he breathed as he replaced the cool compress upon her head. “Rest now. Be still.”

     To his dismay, Sandy struggled against the physic and managed to pry open first one eye and then the other, although her lids were heavy indeed. “Dragon?” she peeped. She reached up to touch his face, and he could not bring himself to deny her. “My dragon, is it you?”

     Piper forced his voice as deep into his chest as he could manage. “No darling. This is only a dream.” She fell into a fit of coughing, then curled into a ball in an attempt to relieve the pain. Tears seeped from her closed eyes. “It hurts,” was the extent of her complaint.

Tidbits: Piper Reports

Excerpt: Piper Reports at the Horse Guard

by Penny Freeman

Piper reports to Sir Alistair the results of his murder investigation.

    Weary and worn after a long evening of political wrangling in the Privy Chamber, with the slam of his chamber door, DuLac loosed the buttons of his coat, flung his hat on a sofa, and flopped in the high-backed chair behind his large mahogany desk. He tugged open his cravat, rested his head against the sumptuous upholstery behind him, and closed his eyes. However, a moment later he opened them to stare at the sealed note sitting squarely in the center of the otherwise pristine surface before him.

     “Greenwood!” he barked, and his orderly immediately appeared at the door.
     “Had I any messages or visitors whilst I was out? Any post?”
     “No, your lordship,” the seasoned professional announced confidently. DuLac thought better of bringing the missive to the man’s attention. The single symbol of crossed and sweeping strokes would mean nothing to him, and DuLac saw no need to rattle his well-deserved confidence. He required no explanation, and no level of security would keep out that particular shadow—not when he was determined.
     ‘Otosama’
     The Kanji symbol on the front caused the general to sigh. The lad could cut to the quick when he had a mind. That single word was as good as a full report for DuLac. Even so, he forced himself to break the seal.
     “Burn in hell.”
     DuLac bent to the grate and fed those four biting words to the flame. Perhaps it was time to engage. 

—A Chaotic Mind