Grantville Gazette 43 Page 9

  "And there's one last thing . . . " Henry paused. "Now, Jane, you're not going to like this."

  " What else do I have to do to prostitute myself?" Jane sulked in front of the two men.

  "Names," from Mister DePaul, prompting so quietly it was difficult to hear.

  "Rick here has said as well as re-arranging the story a bit, what we need to do as well is change some of the names."

  "What?"

  "Well, to start you'll have to change some of the girl's names. Jane and Eliza are common enough, but Cassandra is a bit too obvious. Cousin Caroline we can leave in. That haughty madam still needs taking down a peg or five."

  Henry mused a bit, tapping his chin with a finger, "Oh and yes—daughters of a poor country vicar? Really, Jane! Can we change that just a little to a country gentleman of undetermined means? Just enough for half the ladies of Hampshire and Bath not to point at the Austens, and unmask A Lady before we receive a penny?

  Jane screwed her hands around the pen, twisting, twisting. When Henry started using "we," why did she feel that all the apple racks from the barn loft were about to fall and hit her on the head?

  Again the London copyrighter prompted, "And the hero . . . "

  "Yes, the hero. Quite right, Rick! Now this is important—if you left it like this we'd all be sued for libel and defamation. Your hero, Mr. Derby, for instance? Very funny, very droll, Jane, when you wrote that, what, nearly fifteen years ago? But still you need to be sensible if this is going to be published. The old duke of Devonshire may have been a blunt-speaking prig, but he was a very, very rich blunt-speaking prig, full of the honor of his family name.

  "Now they've buried him this year, we have to assume the new sixth duke, Lord William Tall, Dark, and Moody will probably be just as touchy."

  Jane had to admit the newspaper reports on the dealings of the libel courts were often salacious. The end result though, was always the same. The golden rule always applied—those with the gold made the rules, and hired the best advocates from the London Temples of law. Anyone caught badmouthing the noble families of England usually wound up squished like a bug.

  "Did you hear that he was on only ten thousand a year before assuming the title? A shocking state, considering the size of the family fortune. Now Edward, our brother, Mr DePaul, our host in the Great House tonight—he himself was on fifteen."

  "Why so?"

  "Well, now they've just gone and capped it off. The prince regent just made the richest man in England the lord lieutenant of Derbyshire!" Henry gesticulated wildly around the room. "So, unless we want the bailiffs to strip the house of all its possessions and leave you, Cassandra, Martha, and mother standing in your last shifts, we suggest you have to find another name for the hero."

  He rummaged in his bag again. "Here, try this." He dropped Grandpapa Austen's tatty copy of Visitations to the County of Southampton onto the small writing table, the listings of the noble and landed classes family trees enumerated within.

  Jane gaped like a fish. She hadn't seen this old thing in ages. Since, since—well, since she'd pinched Bennet from amongst the families on the page opposite Austen for her girls in First Impressions all those years ago.

  "Someone dead, very dead." Her brother's enthusiasm was getting the better of his diction. "And so I was thinking, why don't you start with the duke of Bolton's family? The current duke is only a cousin, the main line are all dead and buried so they can't sue. Go back a bit, one hundred, two hundred years—there must be someone there you can steal?"

  Henry had that smug expression on his face again. Jane wanted to slap it.

  "A last thought . . . " DePaul finally managed to bridge the torrent from her brother. "I almost forgot, Miss Austen, Mister Austen. The soldier, Mr Wheaton, the cad? I was thinking the name's too nice, too safe—might I suggest something darker for him too? Our educated readers need to know instantly he's a bad-un. Here's something I've been working on lately for another author."

  A pamphlet advertising a new publication, The Evil and Satanic Practices of the Hellfire Club, the True Horrors and Depravities in the Caves of West Wyckham joined the book on the table.

  Somewhere close, a pen snapped.

  1635

  Friday 23rd November, St. Clement's Day

  "Just so, hold your sword up, so." The portraitist grabbed at the boy's wrist in both of his hands. "Up there."

  William Russell, eldest son and heir of the duke of Bedford, and self-proclaimed imager to the lords and ladies of England, grinned desperately at the uncle, who was paying handsomely for this series of shots.

  "And hold that pose . . . "

  "Lord Bolton! Charles—please! Right arm straight—Your Lordship must always be ready to strike an opponent down from his saddle," Lord John called from the other side of the yard.

  John's first impression hadn't changed. He still was shocked at the lack of the boy's basic education. Even with the new short, page-style haircut and fine silk clothes, Charles had absolutely no deportment at all. The lad looks like a sack of cabbages draped over a donkey. John felt this was partly his fault, pressures of state had ruled his life too heavily after Charles had been born. His contribution as a godfather so far had been nonexistent, and he mentally squirmed that his vows before God were found so lacking.

  More penance.

  But still! By God the Father's golden balls, this house was the largest in England and almost a royal palace. His late sister's husband, the marquis, was the premier noble by rank and precedence in England. His brother-in-law might have retired from court, and be as poor as a church mouse right now, but that was no excuse not to ask for assistance from the wider family. His godson had no skill at arms, not even the basics of short staff training given by a dancing master, for goodness sake, and no inclination to a future role as one of the leading nobles in the land.

  In his own mind, the fine pony, miniature sword, and exquisite hunting saddle tooled with an emblem of a bear's paw holding three swords aloft might be wasted on this one.

  "Hold the reins with the left hand, tight," he shouted, trying to ignore the peril for the servant holding the pony's bridle. The stable boy was in danger of the chop if young Charles dropped the sword.

  Across the yard, with all the surface poise and dash of the advanced age of twenty-two, the imager strode quickly ten feet to the other side of the table in the middle of the courtyard, looking up into the winter midday sunlight.

  Mistress Weasenham appeared from up the top step through the inner gatehouse between the east and center courts, being dragged closer by Ollie in harness, the hound straining to get to the boy at the other side.

  Oh, dear Lord above . . .

  This time the woman was wearing a Victorian hunting outfit; long dark skirt, a silk blouse, velvet waistcoat, and a black tail-coat, a black silk lady's top hat that looked for all the earth like the black top of a chimney. Very strange. She had been a major pest, asking all kinds of intrusive questions about his family in the early part of last night's meal. Some people just wouldn't take a hint.

  Oh well, just wait until Mother gets here. Her Majestic Highness, the Lady Catherine D'Arcy Rivers, will put the fear of God Almighty on the women of the house. I might then get some peace and quiet time with Charles.

  Today the woman looked hunched, lackluster, and depressed for some reason. Of course, the hound broke free from the strangely-attired woman, and loped across the court. John snatched the plaited leather dog-lead with his left gloved hand as it snaked past his head with a hiss.

  "Down, Ollie, get down."

  The hound took his cue from the deep voice of Lord Savage, who without thinking stood on the leash a hand span from the dog harness. Mary watched as the long-backed animal lay prone on the courtyard chippings, Ollie's eyes swiveling back and forward between the godfather and Charles, the new Lord Bolton on his new pony.

  "Just to let you know, your brother-in-law wants to know when he'll be needed for the group photographs."

  O
llie whined quietly.

  "He's in his library I think . . . "

  "Drinking, I expect?" Lord Savage finished her sentence.

  Mary blinked her eyes in silent reply, then looking around the court. "Where's the other one, the artist?"

  "Wenceslaus Hollar? He's gone out to the park somewhere to rough up a sketch of the house"

  A young scribbler had also arrived on William Russell's coat tails. Having made some name for himself in Prague recently, the artist was staying in England for the winter. In an attempt to drum up some business, the artist was availing himself to try to sell copies of prints of his work from the future, a few English scenes that had made it through the Ring of Fire.

  In this house, with no spare cash? Not a chance! Mary was sure of that at least.

  "Is that thing going to work?" she asked Sir John, nodding toward William's chest-sized box on the table. On one side was a covered lens, surrounded at the back by a brown felt jacket with the arms reversed inside.

  "As long as William takes his time, and no one tries to rush him . . . "

  "But it's not American?" Mary was confused. The wooden device's outside was decorated with stylized representations of eagles, lynxes, rooks and rats. So much larger, it looked nothing like the hand-held Box Brownie her husband had ordered from the catalogue.

  "The formulae for the glass plates and paper, yes," Lord Savage conceded. "The device itself, no. I believe not—something William picked on tour."

  Mary sniffed meaningfully to herself. Her husband had sneered at the idiot boys with fat purses and brains stuck in their crotches, whoring and gambling around the tour of Genoa, Venice, Florence, Tivoli and Naples. Rob had taken her to Rome after their own wedding, and they'd watched with suspicion the noble English turista hovering over estate sales like ghouls. Statues of dubious origin, goldleaf-framed mirrors, impossible glassware guaranteed to smash in a ship's hold, and crates of gold plate and Chinese ware . . . the English merchant classes were making small fortunes shipping the stuff back to England.

  There were those few who preferred mechanical curios; boxes and boxes of scope-this and scope-that, Venetian astrolabes, Genovese clocks and Bavarian watches.

  What was it her husband was calling the gadget hounds now? Something classical? It was all Greek to her.

  "Are you interested in the sciences, Mistress Weasenham?"

  They both watched as the imager thrust his hands inside the jacket on the table. The young man had shown them all the workings of the camera obscura, and the otter-skin gloves sewn onto the end of each turned-in sleeve of the felt jacket pinned to the side of the box.

  With what looked like a fight between two ferrets in a gamekeeper's sack, a closed wooden box frame was hurriedly loaded into the back of the chest. Last night William had said he normally captured two pictures; something called a negative print to gauge the veracity of the light, then switching to a glass-something . . .

  Mary shook her head, already forgetting the technicalities. "No—more my husband's thing, but I warn you, Rob's interest only goes as far as the money he can make with it."

  "Then get him to ask William later to show the signature on the inside. I think your husband will be impressed. This camera obscura was made by a master of the sciences, a Maestro Galileo."

  "Who?"

  Lord John waved a hand casually. "Oh, just someone most of the Americans I've dined with would fall over themselves to meet."

  Mary shrugged, nonplussed, then watched in silence as the imager setup the next photograph with the specially prepared glass plate. She could, however, see William's showmanship and spiel was obviously well-practiced.

  "Hold that pose." The imager struggled out of the gloves and sleeves then checked the light again from the mid-day November sun over his shoulder.

  "Hold it . . . no one move." He flicked the lens cover off the front of the box.

  "One elephant . . . "

  "Surely it can't be as good as an American camera?" Mary whispered to Lord Savage.

  "Two elephant . . . "

  "Probably takes a little longer, but we used him for the christening in May." Lord John fished inside his overcoat . . .

  "Three elephant . . . "

  . . . extracting a wallet used for the folding paper money and postage stamps now being used on the Continent.

  "Four elephant . . . "

  "Here—these are my girls." He handed over a three-by-two inch photograph, the subjects posed in the brown and white tableau outdoors sitting on a settee in front of an imposing doorway.

  "Five elephant . . . "

  "Jane is the eldest." He pointed at the image of a girl somewhat under ten; all blond ringlets, lace collars and bows.

  "Six elephant . . . "

  "Then Elizabeth, who's three." The next figure with dark hair and a pair of legs swinging from the seat.

  "Seven elephant . . . "

  "And the twins. Kitty . . . "

  "Eight elephant . . . "

  " . . . and Mary, in their christening shawls."

  "Nine elephant . . . "

  Mary's hand shook, glancing back and forward from the photograph and Lord John like an idiot. For once, she was completely at a loss for words.

  "Ten elephant . . . and done." The imager finished and flicked the cover back over the lens.

  Mary looked up again at the tall man, a mad rush in her head, and then turned south-southwest, roughly in the direction of Chawton village some miles away.

  Naughty, naughty she chided her patroness. "Oh. My. Lord." Mary Weasenham hesitated. Paused. Paused again, then in another rush decided, and turned back to the man beside her. "My Lord Savage, do you read for pleasure? Are you interested in literature?"

  She didn't wait for a reply. "Have you heard of an English author called Jane Austen, and her most famous book, Pride and Prejudice?"

  "A woman, an authoress? Certainly not. Should I have?"

  Mary beamed, handing back the photograph finally. "You have a lot in common with the marquis' new wife, Lady Honora de Bourgh. Can I suggest you ask to borrow her copy for a couple of days whilst you're here? I think you'll be interested at the contents within."

  ****

  John stood bemused as the strange woman bustled off in a hurry, talking wildly and giggling to herself as she left the courtyard.

  He could make no sense of her last remark . . .

  "I'll need to get the printers to run off two more copies, one for Lady Catherine Rivers, and one for Lord Savage. Just wait until the Ladies at EGARR hear about this!"

  1813, 29th January

  I want to tell you I have got my own darling Child from London; on Wednesday I received one Copy, sent down by Falknor.

  The Advertisement is in our paper today, for the first time

  Parts of a letter to Cassandra from Jane on the arrival of her new book Pride and Prejudice

  1635

  tap tap

  A hand knocked on the open doorframe to the wine store.

  "Your Grace?"

  Lizzy was facing away from the doorway, in the middle of tipping a gallon of cider through a funnel of muslin cloth, her tongue between her teeth, and glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  "Seeking clarity, Your Grace?" Sir John Savage chuckled.

  Lizzy looked quickly over her shoulder. What does he want? "Hold your horses. Let me finish this."

  If anything, the silence as she finished pouring was more infuriating than the gabbling torrent at table last night. There were many more containers of apple cider and pear perry waiting to be checked before tonight's revels; the men from the village would be demanding apples, pears, and alcohol in exchange for songs and stories.

  Lizzy pursed her lips in distaste at her task. "I wonder." She swirled the remaining contents of the demijohn. "It might have been easier staying the housekeeper." She tipped the last drips into the funnel.

  "A bit too late for that, milady." John stared at the woman, back in her old grey uniform, and the dust sm
ears on the kirtle. The news of her reappearance would be spreading like wildfire and halfway to London and Southampton by now.

  "How can I help you, Sir John?" Milady Essex wiped her hands on a cloth. The expression was the same as last night; all countess; haughty, pithy and prideful. He thought the ensemble cute, a smudge of dust on the end of the thin nose set off the effect nicely—not that he would ever say so.

  "We need to hurry. Right now, Cinderella!" he ordered like the solider he was. "We need you in centre court, whilst we still have the light for the rest of the photographs."

  "Cinda-what?"

  "Loooong story and we don't have the time." He beckoned furiously. "I've come to play fairy godfather." John grabbed Lizzy's left hand, dragging her out of the winery, and into the garden. "Come on, milady! Charles has commanded I come get you. I was wondering how quickly you can change back into your outfit from last night?"

  ****

  The Marked Man

  Written by Kerryn Offord

  Travemünde, April 1635

  George Watson poked his head out of the water and scouted out the lay of the land. Ahead of him was the landing stage. All that lay between it and him was the main deep-water channel of the river. There was a ship sailing up-stream, towards Lübeck. George paused, unsure as to whether or not to risk trying to get across ahead of the vessel. His companion, Matt Tisdel, after barely a pause to check up and down-stream for shipping, sped across. George thought about following, but age brought with it wisdom, and wisdom was telling him not to be a silly old fool. He treaded water until the vessel was past before crossing the channel.

  He was feeling quite pleased with himself as he hauled himself out of the water. This time last year he'd been hit by a breathing problem that had him gasping for breath just walking from his house to the garage. The doc had advised him to stop smoking and get out of mining. And now, after several months of clean living and cleaner air, he could actually swim a mile—not all at once, of course.

  The wind felt bitterly cold on his wet body, and he hurriedly dried himself on the towel he'd left hanging over the rail. While he was drying his hair he looked down. He'd always been able to see his toes, but these days he could see more. He could now see abdominal muscles. He'd always had them, just like he'd always had toes, but it was only in the few months since he quit Grantville that he'd finally lost the layer of padding that had hidden them for over thirty years. He glanced over at Matt, who was already pulling on his pants. The kid must be a hit with the girls. Even his muscles had muscles. Their eyes met, and Matt jerked his head towards the pier above.