Slow of Wit: Late(!) Chapter 3

Whew, I'm late! I've been experimenting with new covers for some of my books, and I completely lost track of time. In all honesty, though, how cool do these look?

See, on Kindle you only have to focus on the front cover (which is what I've made before). I actually got a decent sized screen this month (shoutout to my fellow Car-Boot-Sale electronics peeps!) and thought I'd try to make full covers instead.

It turns out they're a fun challenge (emphasis on the 'challenge' side!) I'm sure my covers look pretty generic, but that's half the battle. A reader should know what kind of story to expect by looking at the cover. So, for example, when you look at RATS you'll expect it to be... er, brown.

Alright, so I still have lots to learn!

In other news, here is Chapter 3 of my poor Mary's plight. At this point in the story I was just beginning to relax into the style, albeit poorly. I'm trying not to gloss over the flaws too much - I'm hugely critical of my writing now, but when I was a teenager I was proud of the same things I'd probably remove today.

Slow of Wit: Chapter 3

The steward who Mary had mentioned to her sister was not a newly hired man, but a servant who had spent most of his life in the employ of the Lucas household. Like many such creatures, he had grown up with an intense sense of loyalty towards the family. Those estimable people repaid him with an utter disregarded for his affection, and so as an adult the boyish sympathy had turned into a desire for reparation.

His name, if any person thought well enough of him to enquire, was Luke. Just as his boots, shirts and meals were the unwanted leavings of the Lucas family, so too was his name. Like the boots, he wore it with a mixture of pride and utter disdain. Spoken on the family’s lips it was an insult, more proof of their ownership of the foundling house child who they purchased with food and sticks of firewood. On other lips it was a name that warmed him.

The Bennet family arrived in state that morning, forming a gaggling line of pastels and flounces and muddied boots which they hastily let their petticoats drape over in the entryway before they were announced. The declaration was not needed; if the Lucases were deaf to the outrageous giggling of the two youngest girls then they could barely miss the obstinate proclamations of the mother, nor the responses from her eldest which were intended to be placatory, but ended with Elizabeth almost matching her mother’s tone. Of them all, Jane and Mary were always the quiet ones. Once the men had retreated she would be heard, but not before. Her voice was not designed for such domestic debates.

Luke waited, leaning against the topiary wall with his hands tucked into his breeches. It would not be long before the sweet sounds of feminine pastimes drifted from the window. After a long pause the percussive sound of the piano lid roused him from his reverie, and when the music began he knew that it was Mary’s fingers who brushed the keys. She played with a surety and skill which put the Lucas household to shame.

Her mother drowned out the rapid scales with her news of the new tenants at the great house.

After a brief interlude where the good Mrs. Lucas attempted to breach the wall of conversation, and Mary’s playing was increasingly ignored, the tenor of the room altered. Now, rather than a graceful aria, the artiste embellished nothing more than a few simple scales with heavy, dissonant chords. The forebearance of the Miss Bennets – never a thing of much duration – was sorely tested, and at the last they entreated their sweet sister to play something lighter.

Mary, in much distaste, stated her adamant dislike for lighter music in general, and her sisters’ suggestions in particular. There was the sound of a most unladylike interruption, and when the music began anew it was under the clumsy fingers of the youngest Miss Bennet, and had taken the form of a military march quite unsuited to the dainty atmosphere Mrs. Lucas strove in vain to sustain.

Luke Lucas, much amused, lit his pipe and turned away.

A short foray into the garden bore the expected but much welcome sight of the pianist herself, who in some agitation had ventured into the wilderness without taking the precaution of equipping herself with a stout pair of boots.

“I know your Missus Hill won’t be pleased to be cleaning those petticoats, miss!” Luke called out, and expelled a smoke ring to hide his grin.

“You should not speak of such things.” Mary folded her arms, and quickly unfolded them in order to keep her balance on the slippery ground. At her exclamation, Luke hastened to her side, and with his proffered arm they made good progress towards the more solid earth of the orchard. The steward waved away her gratitude with his pipe-hand, and she coughed at the smoke.

“I read,” Mary offered formally, “That tobacco is a good cure for ailments of the chest. Are you unwell?”

“I’ve never felt better, miss.”

“Then perhaps you would expel your pipe,” She suggested with a raised eyebrow, “Since I myself am not ill, either.”

“May the saints be praised.” Luke returned in kind, and dashed the glowing embers into the sodden grass.

They walked in silence for a time, which suited them both. Whatever conversation they had was rarely shared among their peers, and in such mixed company their own counsel was its own censor.

They had played together as children. The familiarity of those long years allowed the young lady to accept the offered assistance when their path became troublesome, and allowed the young man to offer his arm without fear of offence. It did not provide them with a suitable topic, and so they lapsed into a contented, if frustrated, peace.

“Do you wish I should return you to your sisters?” Luke offered eventually, when the darkening sky promised a wealth of rain for the trees under which they walked. Mary shook her head absently, and then blushed and offered a reply.

“I do not wish to... they will not speak to me, and so I do not feel they will miss my company for some time.”

“You do not speak to me, either.” He pointed out, recalling the half hour they had just spent in absolute silence. To his surprise, the young lady’s yellowed skin turned a little pink. The gentle colour suited her cheeks, much as the way the cold had reddened the end of her nose made its flat shapelessness more apparent.

“I stutter.” She mumbled it, and blushed again.

Luke said in some surprise, “Stutter! What an idea. I never heard it! And I have known you all of my life, Miss Bennet.”

Mary shaped her next words slowly, and curiosity cobwebbed her eyes when she looked at him. “I... I do not think it matters if I get words wrong, when I’m with you.”

Luke felt the sting of those words immediately, and drew away from the lady with some haste. She looked at him levelly, and he saw the frankness in her dark eyes as a species of pitiable disdain.

The worse insult, which he felt most keenly, was that the lady clearly did not understand that her words had made such an impression. She was not a stupid girl, nor was she slow of wit or temperament. There was very little chance that Miss Bennet would take back those words now they were spoken, and yet he wished to give her the chance.

“It doesn’t matter?” He repeated her own words back at her, and instead of apology he saw only irritation in her arch gaze.

Mary honestly did not understand his upset, although she recognised it immediately.

The girl searched her conscience for some lingering guilt to instruct her on her misstep, but having found none, she could only nod and repeat that it did not matter – not in the same way – because her mother was forcing her to shape words for lords and ladies, and Luke was a servant, and naturally (she explained) that was not the same thing.

Luke retreated back into their silence, but this time there was no comfort in it. Leading the girl back to the main house with a callousness which he had not known he possessed, he left her by the kitchen door. From thence, it took him only ten steps to stride into the kitchen and inform the housekeeper that he would soon be leaving her employ.

His anger was inscrutable, even to the man himself, and at the housekeeper’s urging he explained only that he wished to move on, and to see the world. The dislike for the household which had named him was well known, and his disaffection noted. The violence of his sudden conviction was born elsewhere.