A DETESTABLE NAME Arabella Brown
EXCERPT 1 (Beginning of novel)
“Unnatural son!”
Lady Newsam
surged to her feet, shawls and rugs slipping to the floor, as the new Lord
Newsam entered her airless, heavily-draped parlour.
“At last you
condescend to call upon your family, Granville?” she assailed him. “You had so
little regard for the social decencies that you could not even trouble yourself
to attend your brother's funeral! That
was beyond toleration!"
This unjust
accusation pushed Lord Newsam to protest, "But I never even received news
of Anthony’s accident until well after he was buried! And I had to have my
blacks made!"
"And did you
then post home at once, to comfort your grieving mother? No! You preferred to
dally with your friend! Why were you not here with us, to begin with?" his
mother demanded. "But you have never cared for Gomersall!" She threw
up an outraged hand. Another shawl slipped off.
Lord Newsam's
hands, holding the edges of his coat, were white at the knuckles. He prided
himself on his self-control, but it threatened to crumble.
"You have
always made it plain that my presence at Gomersall was not desired. And I found
it heartbreaking to see the estate neglected.”
Lady Newsam
sniffed. "You need not put on airs merely because you have been elevated
to the title!" she informed him. "Your absences from Gomersall have
told me more clearly than any oily words how little you feel for your ancestral
heritage! What does your fathers' estate mean to you? Mere bricks and mortar
and clods of earth, I have no doubt!”
“But – “
"And when
have you ever cared for your family? Do you believe your dereliction of duty
has gone unnoticed? When have you ever shown concern for your sisters' welfare?
Or made the slightest push to see them settled? What affection have you shown
me, your own mother, weak and ill as I am?”
“Now, Mama – “
"But
then," she pressed ahead with unabated energy, "you have none of the
nobility of the Newsams, have you? Anthony was everything that was elegant and
gentlemanly! His airs! His manners! His dress! He was so bold-spirited – but
what would you know of such things? You, a spiritless, dull, Quakerish lump!”
Lord Newsam
privately considered it preferable to be even a Quakerish lump than to kill
oneself cramming one’s horse at a hedge in the turmoil of a hunt, but he made
no reply.
“And what have you
have done to ensure the succession?” his mother rushed on. “Nothing! That the
title should descend to someone like you when it might have been held by
Anthony, who was so completely worthy of it! Oh, the tragedy of it! It is not
to be borne!"
She flung her hand
out, shedding a further wrap. Lord Newsam’s sister Amelia glanced at her
brother’s face and, startled, checked in the act of restoring her mother’s
shawl. She had often thought her brother a fine-looking man, but the black
scowl and thinned mouth made him look actually ugly. Amelia hated dissension,
but as she opened trembling lips to pour oil on the stormy waters, her mother
leapt to the attack again.
"And the
thought of your father's chamber being occupied by you! You! You are not fit to
occupy his stables!" Lady Newsam's voice throbbed with sensibility.
"You may set
your mind at rest, Mama; I shall remain at the Dower House," Lord Newsam
said shortly. “I bid you good evening.” Bestowing a frigid bow upon his mother,
he left the room. The door closed with a faint click.
Within the
sitting-room, Lord Newsam’s younger sister Charlotte rose from her seat in a
corner. “Well done, Mama!” she said coolly. “You have no doubt worked up an
appetite for dinner while removing everyone else’s.”
EXCERPT 2
Mrs. Thorpe
sobered. "My lord, I have no wish to ruin this wonderful day, but you must
not persist in this familiarity. No other relationship is possible. I assure
you I am perfectly adamant, for your sake and for the sake of Gomersall."
She forced a smile. "But I have not had so lighthearted a time since I
cannot remember when! And for that, I do say 'thank you', my very good
friend."
She gave him both
her hands; he took them for only a moment, though it seemed to her he would
have liked to have held them for longer; and then, saying nothing, he returned
to the tilbury and drove back to the Hall.
He was met at the door by Badger, who
approached him with the disdainful look that Lord Newsam was convinced he
reserved exclusively for him.
"My lord,
Lady Newsam and Miss Newsam desire your presence in my lady's parlour with the
utmost celerity," he announced in the pompous tone that always irritated
Lord Newsam.
"All
right," said Lord Newsam briefly, and went upstairs. "Did you want
me, Mama?" he asked mildly as he entered. He observed that Lady Newsam
appeared to be in a state of prostration, lying on the couch while Amelia
offered her occasional sniffs at the vinaigrette and fanned her face. Charlotte
was absent.
"Granville!
At last!" his mother exclaimed feebly. "Amelia will tell you what has
occurred!"
The memory of the
pleasurable day he had spent away from Gomersall only exacerbated Lord Newsam's
vexation at being confronted by difficulties the instant he returned.
"Great heavens, not another domestic crisis!" he exclaimed
uncharitably.
"I am so
sorry, Granville, I am afraid it is!" said Amelia regretfully. "It is
Charlotte, you see! For some reason she has been down in the kitchens – I
cannot imagine what has attracted her; she has never displayed any interest in
them before! – and she seems to have been poking around and asking questions
and Philippe – the cook, you know! – has taken offence – he is always
temperamental and I have often had to mollify him – I am sure it is a
consequence of his being a Comte in exile – and he has given notice, and
nothing I say will change his mind!"
"Let him go,
then!" said Lord Newsam shortly.
Lady Newsam gave a
piteous moan. Amelia said, "Nobody has ever suited Mama half so well! He
knows just how to please her!"
"Let Badger
try to persuade him, then!" said her brother.
Amelia shook her
head. "He considers Badger his inferior," she informed him
discouragingly. "Granville, you are the court of last resort! Do, please,
try!" she implored.
Lord Newsam
acceded with an ill grace and ordered the cook to attend him in his office. Not
long afterwards, Philippe entered, a weedy individual with an air of offended
self-consequence.
"I understand
that you have given notice," said Lord Newsam indifferently.
"Oui! I 'ave
been insult' more zan 'uman can bear!" Philippe averred. "I leave at
ze week end!"
"All
right," said Lord Newsam.
The cook stared at
him, dumfounded. "I am leave'!" he reiterated.
"You need not
wait until the weekend; you may go now," Lord Newsam offered helpfully.
"I shall get the cook in from the Dower House."
"What! A mere
wooman in ze Gomersall kitchen!" exclaimed Philippe in horror. "Zis
cannot be!"
"Well, we
must eat," Lord Newsam pointed out practically. "And I am not
particular about my food, in any case."
"But Madame!
She will wizzer away!"
"Not at all;
she will learn to do without the dainties you provide: that is all." Lord
Newsam remained unmoved.
"Non! You are
torture' your own muzzer! She tell me all ze time 'ow she love my cooking! You
'ave no feeling, milor'!"
"Granted, I
have no sympathy for her delicate palate!" agreed Lord Newsam. "But
it is you who have no feeling, deserting my mother over some silly
nonsense!"
"Silly
nonsense! When Miss Charlotte, she come ask' question – where I get zis? 'ow I
make zat? – I am not good enough? I am good enough for Madame but not good
enough for Mademoiselle?" explained Philippe indignantly. "Is zis 'ow
I am treat'?"
"Has it not
occurred to you that she was not criticising, she was asking to learn? And
asking the greatest expert she knew? And for this you wish to give
notice?" Lord Newsam made a shooing
motion. "Go, then, if you cannot even understand the greatest compliment
of all!"
The cook stood
silent. He was not accustomed to thinking further than the week's menus, and
this complex philosophical point came close to evading him. At length, however,
he grasped the issue. "She wish me to teach 'er?" he asked, his eyes
lighting. "Ze noble Mademoiselle a student of Philippe? Ciel! Why she not
say before? But of course!"
Lord Newsam held
up a finger. "Only one day a week! She has many other duties!" He could visualise the cook demanding
Charlotte at all hours of the day; the man was capable of it.
"Ah,
oui!" responded the cook, only a little disappointed. "One day a
week, I teach Mademoiselle to cook comme
des anges!" He departed borne
upon clouds of imagined glory.
When I was little, my relatives used to cluster around me
asking, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I remember staring up at
them, thinking, “I’m seven years old! How should I know?”, but what I actually
said was “I don’t know.” “Be a teacher!” they all chorused. So I knew for sure
I didn’t want to be a teacher.
However, I think I’ve always been imaginative. As my mother
vacuumed, I remember sitting on the sofa directing a vast army in parade-ground
exercises – Napoleonic era, to guess from the uniforms. I told stories about
baby mosquitoes to the other kids in day camp, and – this was in the days when
Westerns were the ONLY thing on TV – when I was about ten, I wrote a whole episode
of a Western, which my sisters and I performed for our parents (I even remember
the theme song). It was not great literature. When I learned about iambic
pentameter, probably in junior high school, I wrote a page of it, describing
the radiators banging. It began “Whence come these clanks and moans of darkest
night? / Stalks a ghost our battlements? / Does a specter haunt our walls?”
(except I hit the wrong typewriter key so it read “dardest night”). The odd
thing was that I never got much encouragement at home. Nobody suggested I enter
competitions, and the idea of becoming a novelist or – more sensibly – a
journalist was never mentioned.
Fortunately, the last of my high schools offered an excellent
creative writing course for those whose English was proficient enough, and I
qualified. The content of what I wrote was, for the most part, pretty awful,
but one or two essays show real promise. I look at them (my mother saved a few)
and wish I could write like that!
Nevertheless, I didn’t start writing till after I was married
– and that was just occasional short opinion pieces for a local newspaper. I
didn’t write my first novel till I was 39, with eight children. For a year I
wrote from 10pm to 2am, the only quiet time I had. Yes, I was a zombie for a year.
The house was a mess. But everybody survived. This should give hope to a lot of
people.
I like the cover
ReplyDeleteFrom Arabella Brown: Thank you! So many people have liked that cover that I've even thanked the cover designer for his beautiful job.
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