Part the Sixth: Containing Entirely Too Little Digby (i.e., none at all.)

Hortense wasn't experienced at soundless reconnaissance, but she flattered herself she was doing reasonably well. Of course, this... skulking (surely there must be a more dashing word for it?) took all of her concentration, causing her to move slowly. The man from the castle had quite disappeared by the time she flitted across the street and into the copse.

Disappointed, she decided to press on and see if she could spot him around the back of the inn. There were a few fits and starts, and an appallingly intimate encounter with an all-too-excitable ground squirrel, but Hortense soon found herself ensconced behind a gratifyingly leafy bush that boasted a clear view of the kitchen garden.

As she paused to catch her breath and untangle some rather forward twigs from her hair, she surveyed the scene before her. Spring's sunshine highlighted pale green sprouts, chickens clucked, and a bird sang cheerily nearby... everything was disappointingly pastoral. No intrigue in sight. Somewhat crestfallen, it occurred to Hortense that she may have been mistaken. Papa always did tease her about needing spectacles - maybe she had imagined the whole thing.

As the bird suddenly took flight, Hortense heard somewhat muffled angry voice approaching. The back door of the inn flew open "- And you'll fetch me them eggs with none of yer mewling, you bird-witted girl! Do I has to do everything around here?" A maid of all work was shoved out the door, and scrambled over to the chicken pen as the owner of the angry voice continued to stand at the door and heap abuse on her head. From the content of the diatribe, Hortense divined that the voice must belong to the Marie that Mrs. Pomfret thought "could've done a lot better" than Tom Forkley. Apparently Marie felt the same way, because a large part of her monologue consisted of bitter invective directed against the "cow-handed provincials" and how things were different in The City. The cowed maid hustled back into the inn with her eggs, and the door closed behind them, depriving Hortense of hearing the end of a potentially interesting sentence about "ale-drapers who choose to set up in the back of beyond".

Busily committing a few of the more choice phrases to memory, Hortense straightened and turned to leave. She took only one step before slamming into a hard, warm surface. Dazed, she stumbled backwards. Strong hands caught her and set her firmly on her feet. "Learn anything interesting, Madam?"

Hortense raised her eyes to meet an accusatory forest green glare. Her heart began beating faster, and her breath came unaccountably short. "I do not care for your tone, Sir."

"I don't care what you think of my tone. What are you doing crashing about in the underbrush, watching people? And who the devil are you, anyhow?"

Hortense stiffened. She may have been caught in the teensiest bit of a compromising situation, but No One was to speak to her that way. "I am a lady. You may be unfamiliar with decent manners, but it is considered extremely rude to swear at a person when you've never even been formally introduced. I will excuse your immoderate behavior on the grounds of ignorance, and I will bid you good day, sir."

He moved to block her exit. Pity, that. She had almost managed a credible haughty swish. "I hardly think a muddy eavesdropper with leaves in her hair is in the best position to lecture me about manners. A trespasser, too - weren't you traipsing on my land yesterday? Your name and your business here, madam."

Hortense fumed. Really, it was enough to make a girl speak in capital letters. "I was certainly not eavesdropping OR trespassing. I am exploring and Soaking in the Bucolic Vistas of the Countryside. My cousin is very interested in Natural Beauty, and wished to make a Study of the Landscape. We had no idea yesterday that we had ventured off our property in our harmless woodside ramble."

He caught her arm as she attempted to brush by him once again. "Come now, madam, that's doing it a bit too brown, don't you think? A packed earth chicken coop is hardly a fount of poetic inspiration. And yesterday, the sight of Radulf Castle didn't serve as a hint that you were on someone else's front lawn?"

Hortense felt unaccountably warm, and strangely aware of the feel of his hand on her arm. She stared pointed the hand until he released her. That was better. She took a deep breath, looked up and fixed him with her most Formidable Stare. "Sir, I do not have to suffer your impertinent questions. I would hate to have to mention your ill-bred conduct to the vicar and to the ladies of the neighborhood. I am quite finished with this improper conversation. Good day, sir."

This time he made no motion to stop her as she left. Good. The Formidable Stare had always worked wonders on the local butcher, as well. Papa had always affectionately said that there was no tradesman that his girl couldn't whip into shape. As she hurried back across the street to the vicarage, she snuck a quick look back. He still stood there, eyes narrowed, studying her. She quickly averted her eyes forward, and tried not to feel as though the weight of his stare was a physical sensation of warmth on her back.

Not a creature was stirring.

A tale of bustles and kilts.

So, last night I stayed up way-the-hell late reading Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage by Jennifer Ashley... and that "staying up late" bit says quite a lot, actually, because I had a hella busy day yesterday involving a pre-school Christmas show and present wrapping and bread baking and preparing a roast chicken dinner for my morning-sick friend's entire family. I digress. Suffice it to say that I wasn't in the mood to stay up late at all, believe me... but I couldn't put the book down.

Liked:
1. The heroine was great -- relatable, with genuine-seeming motivations. She was also sexually aware, which makes a pleasant change from all the innocent flowers I've been reading about. ("Oh, my stars. You're so... large! Are you quite sure it will fit?" gets old after a while.)
2. Which reminds me that the dialogue was also great. Parts were quite witty.
3. The cast of characters (the hero is one of 4 brothers, and I'm guessing each one's getting his own book if he hasn't already) were fairly diverse... way beyond the diversity you've come to expect when you hear the phrase "The hero is one of 4 brothers." I mean, the eldest brother is the silent, withdrawn hard-ass. And there is the horse-mad middle brother. And yes the brother in this book is the wild and carefree artist... Damn it! Fine. There's exactly as much diversity as you've come to expect when you hear the phrase "The hero is one of 4 brothers," except that the 4th brother seems to be autistic to some degree (takes phrases literally, has trouble with touching and direct eye contact, is brilliant but unable to understand or display emotions, etc.) And that's new. (Apparently, a glittery hooha can cure all manner of ills.)
4. Which reminds me, I liked that the hero and heroine had to deal with serious emotional hurdles, like alcoholism and miscarriage.
5. They also have to deal with completely preposterous hurdles, like a psychotic artist-doppelganger who tries to "steal" the hero's life. Doppelgangers are fun! Whee!
6. Have I mentioned the kilts?

Disliked:
1. The hero! I'm so, so sorry to say this because I was predisposed to like him. (See: kilts, above. Also, he's the artistic brother with the long hair and the reputation. *ahem* ) But this is one of those books that starts in the middle of the marriage, where we see how the gal and guy have screwed shit up, and how they've Changed and become Better People who are ready for a Real Marriage, you know? And I just didn't get that he'd changed. I mean, he kept mulling over the fact that he'd changed, and how hard it was to change, and the turning point where he began to change... but while he's reflecting on all this, I'm thinking "Dude, don't tell me, show me." Clearly Isabella was easier to please than I am, because she seemed fine with the whole thing.  Whatevs.

2. It's hard to get busy with a bustle. This book was set in the, erm, coughgrumblecough period (Note: Wikipedia says Victorian! ) rather than the Regency Period.  Clearly I know almost nothing about that period, not even its name, so I don't know what was acceptable behavior at that time, and have only the slightest idea of what was fashionable. But when they talk about him pressing his hot, hard length against her... bustle, or his having to unfasten her skirt... and her petticoats... and the tapes that hold her bustle in place, before he can get down to business... well it takes the zing out of the whole thing for me, kinda the way that butt plugs are a total mood-killer for me in contemporary romance. Bustles: Victorians:: Butt plugs: Navy SEALS.

Put that on a T-shirt...  

 3. Loose ends are so... frustrating! Midway through, the author has the couple adopt a baby (who comes to them under verrrrry sketchy circumstances that require suspension of disbelief already). The child is kind of a loose plot device that forces the characters to physically be together more often, and also forces them to deal with a loss in their past. But about 10 minutes after introducing the baby, the author hires her a nanny and hardly talks about her again until the Epilogue. I don't know why this makes me peevish, but it does. I think because she went to all the trouble of setting up this farfetched story to introduce the baby (rather than having her fall off a convenient turnip truck in front of the house), and then absolutely didn't maximize the baby or the backstory to teach us more about the guy's character and how he's changed.

Anyway, those minor issues aside, I really enjoyed the book. Add it to your TBR piles, while I go catch up on last night's sleep.

Part the Fifth, in which Amaryllis blossoms and Hortense decides to skulk.

“Hortense, dear, please try to avoid the mud puddles when you can. You’re absolutely ruining those slippers,” Amaryllis fretted.

“It’s not as though I’m trying to step in them, Amaryllis. In fact, I’m trying to very carefully step around them. It’s just not… working out as well as one would hope,” Hortense grumbled as she slipped on a particularly slick puddle.

Truly, nothing about this day was working out as well as Hortense had hoped. How could a day that started out so well, with sunshine, clear blue skies, and the promise of all sorts of mystery and intrigue, have ended up like this? That she was out strolling with Amaryllis again was bad enough. Given the events of the previous day, she thought she deserved at least a day’s reprieve from this sort of thing. Worse yet, the easy, mile-long walk along the main village road that Amaryllis promised was actually more of a stumble down a rutted, muddy lane, thanks to the previous evening’s rain. But that was not the worst part of this venture.

“Not too much further now. Just around the next bend in the road.”

No, worst, by far the worst of all, at the end of this walk she was expected to present herself to Mrs. Dinwiddie, wife of the village vicar, and spend the remainder of the afternoon taking tea and making idle chitchat, a skill she had never had much cause or opportunity to practice in the years she lived with her father.

Hortense cast a sideways glance at Amaryllis, the epitome of beauty and femininity, and sighed. Hortense knew that her cousin had flaws... had good cause to know it, after acting as her companion for the last few months. Amaryllis could be mercurial and vain, a trifle thoughtless, often silly, and more than a little selfish. But at moments like these, Hortense wondered if she wouldn’t rather be just a bit sillier, herself, if it meant that she could also be poised and socially adept and… accepted, as her cousin was.

Amaryllis smoothed imaginary stray hairs from her forehead and adjusted the wide pink ribbons that fastened her bonnet securely under her chin.

“Amaryllis, you look perfect,” Hortense said suddenly.

Amaryllis paused and gazed at Hortense with wide, amethyst eyes. “Really? Why, thank you, cousin! I worried, you know, whether this bonnet might be considered too extravagant for a country tea. But one never knows who one might meet in the village…”

“I’m sure you’re right. And it suits you, Ammy. Really,” Hortense declared sincerely.

“Oh, Hortense!” Amaryllis beamed. “And you…” Amaryllis assessed Hortense, from her skewed bonnet and perspiring face to her mud-drenched hem and ruined slippers. “You… have quite a lovely color in your cheeks. Quite… unmistakable.”

Just then, the road curved to the right and they entered the town proper. As the vicarage came into view, Amaryllis began smoothing invisible wrinkles from her rose-colored pelisse.

“Er…” Hortense tilted her head to the side and eyed her cousin critically. “Amaryllis, is there any particular reason why you’re so concerned with your appearance?”

“Oh, you know, it’s just… important to make a good impression on Mrs. Dinwiddie and… anyone else we might meet,” Amaryllis hedged.

“Anyone el…. Oh! It’s Mr. Peppercorn, isn’t it?” Hortense realized.

“Nonsense. It’s always important for one to look one’s best… although, I do think he’s such a dashing figure, don’t you? To think of the way he rescued you yesterday!” Amaryllis gushed.

Hortense thought privately that there were other adjectives she’d use to describe Mr. Peppercorn. Harmless, perhaps. Genial. Or… generally well-intentioned.

“… and his mother is a Pembroke… her father was Viscount Langley, you know?”

Hortense definitely didn’t know. And it rather boggled her mind that Amaryllis did. As her cousin rattled off incredibly detailed information about all of Mr. Peppercorn’s nearest and dearest, obviously having spent last evening poring over De Brett’s, Hortense pondered, as she often did, what sort of deficiency in her own brain prevented her from even being able to pay attention to this sort of information, let alone recall it so minutely.

“And so his great grandfather was made a baronet, for service to the Crown… Isn’t that fascinating?” Amaryllis finished, just as they reached the front door of the vicarage.

“Fascinating,” Hortense echoed miserably, as the housekeeper ushered them inside.

They found that they were not Mrs. Dinwiddie’s only callers that morning, as the vicar’s wife was already chattering animatedly to another guest. The guest, a grim but undeniably handsome middle-aged woman, was enthroned in the middle of a large settee, and appeared to be listening to Mrs. Dinwiddie’s chatter with thinly-veiled impatience. She noticed the moment the girls entered the room, and appraised them critically with sharp black eyes. Hortense straightened her posture and checked that her ruined slippers were hidden by the hem of her gown.

Mrs. Dinwiddie belatedly sprang forward to greet them, brown curls bobbing beneath her cap. “Oh, Miss Huntington! And Miss Worthing!” she exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome! I’m so thrilled to meet you at last. Lady Aberforthe has talked of little but your upcoming visit these last few months. It’s too sad that she’s been called away just as you arrived!”

“Indeed, ma’am,” replied Amaryllis smoothly. “I was quite disappointed myself. But her dear childhood friend Ambergris Pennington (nee Bartleby? Of the Lockchester Penningtons, you know?) fell ill, and my aunt rightly felt that her place was at her friend’s bedside. We expect that she’ll return soon. And in the meantime, the village ladies have been so kind in extending us invitations.”

Mrs. Worthington colored rosily. “Nonsense, my dear. Only too pleased. Come, please, sit and… Oh! Where are my manners? May I introduce you to Lady Peppercorn? She is the foremost hostesses, and her husband one of the most respected men, in our neighborhood.”

Hortense heard her cousin inhale sharply before quickly recovering herself.

“Lady Peppercorn, my dear, may I present Miss Amaryllis Huntington and Miss Hortense Worthing?”

Amaryllis greeted Mrs. Peppercorn with shining amethyst eyes and a beaming smile, a dazzling combination. Mrs. Peppercorn blinked, then narrowed her eyes as Amaryllis took her seat.

“Good afternoon, ladies!” interrupted a cheerful voice.

“Mr. Dinwiddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinwiddie. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“It’s not often that I have four such lovely ladies in my own parlor, and two of them newcomers to our parish. I thought I must come and say hello,” Mr. Dinwiddie returned, smiling. The vicar, a kindly man with large sideburns and twinkling blue eyes, looked to be about forty years old. And he reminded Hortense so much of her Papa that she swallowed… hard.

“We were just discussing Lady Aberforthe’s selflessness in attending her friend’s bedside, my dear,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie, as her husband sat down and she began passing out teacups.

“Miss Huntington,” cooed Lady Peppercorn. “Your aunt’s generosity is indeed well-known. It’s often said in the neighborhood that whenever disaster, death, illness, or scandal strikes, Lady Aberforthe will be the first to arrive.”

Hortense, who had been fully consumed with the challenge of balancing her teacup on its saucer without rattling it, looked up quickly at this remark, wondering if she had imagined the double meaning. Mrs. Dinwiddie looked unconcerned, but Amaryllis looked startled and her eyes narrowed. And Mr. Dinwiddie choked on a sip of his tea, and tried to cover it with a cough.

Mr. Dinwiddie cleared his throat. “Erm… Miss Worthing. Your father was quite a scholar of ancient folklore, was he not?”

“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Hortense, glad for a change of subject.

“I knew your father slightly, back at Cambridge. He and I had quite a few friends in common. I’m something of a scholar in that field, myself. In fact, I came upon a manuscript several months back that I thought he might help me translate… but before I could inquire as to his direction, I heard that he had passed away. He was a good man, my dear. You have my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hortense replied gratefully. “It was an honor to work alongside him and help him in his research right up until the end. He was always patient with me, though my Greek was abysmal!” she said, smiling at the recollection. “I learned so much.”

“Good Lud!” exclaimed Lady Peppercorn in exaggerated horror. “Do you mean to tell me that your father died just recently?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Hortense replied in confusion. “Just over half a year ago.”

“God forbid that a daughter of mine should ever disgrace my memory in such a way! Not even dead a year, and here you are gadding about the country, and not even dressed in mourning! When my father died, I couldn’t be persuaded to leave the house for an entire year, and wore nothing but bombazine for two! I knew my duty!”

“My father insisted upon it,” Hortense explained as politely as she could. “He despised mourning rituals.”

“Indeed,” sniffed Lady Peppercorn. “One would expect no less from a man who taught his daughter Greek and encouraged her to study. He would have done far better to teach you proper manners and how not to appear at a social call dressed like a ragamuffin.”

Hortense flushed deeply. They could insult her all they liked, but they should never dare to insult her Papa. She had just opened her mouth to say something ill-advised when Amaryllis caught her eye and gave a small negative shake of her head.

“Hortense, my dear,” Amaryllis began brightly. “Don’t you think that you could help Mr. Dinwiddie with his translation? Mr. Dinwiddie, would you be so good? I fear that my cousin is quite overcome with all this talk of her dear Papa, given that her grief is quite fresh,” she continued, directing the last to Lady Peppercorn. “She could do with some air.”

Hortense rose and sent a grateful glance at her cousin, who nodded slightly in acknowledgment. She felt slightly guilty about leaving her cousin at Lady Peppercorn’s mercy. But as Mr. Dinwiddie escorted her from the room, she heard Amaryllis say “You mentioned your daughter, Lady Peppercorn. How is dear Charlotte? Her engagement was the talk of the town last May, Mrs. Dinwiddie, and I heard she made Lady Peppercorn a grandmother before Christmas. No one could accuse her of being remiss in doing her duty. I’m sure she’s a great credit to you, Lady Peppercorn.” Hortense stifled a laugh. Amaryllis was in her element.

Mr. Dinwiddie showed her to his library and carefully removed a yellowing manuscript from its calf-hide wrapping.

“Why, it’s in Aramaic!” Hortense exclaimed. “My father had just begun teaching me before… before he passed. He would have been thrilled to see this,” she breathed.

“Any assistance you could give me with it would be invaluable, Miss Worthing! I…” he trailed off as the housekeeper appeared with a note.

“Ah, Miss Worthing, I’m afraid I’ve been called away. Please, do take your time with the manuscript, or even take it away with you, if you prefer. I apologize for rushing off. Shall I escort you back to the ladies?”

Hortense demurred, asserting that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself back to the parlor, and Mr. Dinwiddie took his leave.

Hortense sat down before the yellowed parchment and began the familiar task of deciphering the ancient script, searching for patterns and familiar words. Unconsciously, her thoughts turned to the many quiet evenings she’d spent hunched over her desk at home doing just this, while her father labored over a similar task at his own desk nearby. The words blurred on the page and hot tears fell from her eyes. If only Papa were here! But she gave in to the sorrow and homesickness for only a minute before hastily drying her eyes. It wouldn’t do for one of the servants or, worse, one of the ladies, to see her weep.

She was just returning the manuscript to its protective wrapping, having decided it would be better to work in privacy, when a flash of light outside the window caught her eye. Curious, she peeked out the curtains. She found that the library window faced the front yard of the Bull and Finch, the village’s only inn and tavern (as proclaimed on the wooden sign swinging by the door). The yard was deserted at this time of day, since the noon hour had long since passed and it was not nearly time for nighttime patrons to arrive at the tavern. The flash came again, and she saw that it came from something or someone hidden in a copse of bushes to the right of the yard. As she watched, a black-caped figure emerged from the bushes and walked surreptitiously (there was no other word for it, really) towards the stable. The figure was a familiar one, though she had only seen it from quite a distance the day before. She felt a tingle of awareness as the man from the Castle turned his head towards her. She let the curtain fall quickly.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she crept quietly out of the library and down the hall, pausing for a moment to ensure that the ladies’ voices continued uninterrupted from the parlor. Then she snuck out the side door of the vicarage, taking care to leave the door unlocked behind her, and hurried across the street.

Part the Fourth, in which a Shocking Revelation is Made!

“Ah, there you are, deary. Feeling better, then?” inquired Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper.

Hortense opened her eyes and blinked blearily against the strong sunlight. She felt strangely disoriented, and as though she’d forgotten something important. She grasped at the remnants of her dream, but couldn't force her brain to recall anything. She sighed.

“Fine! I’m fine now, just as I was fine yesterday when that silly doctor insisted on dosing me, against my will, with enough laudanum to fell an elephant just because I’d had the misfortune to fall in a pond,” she huffed.

“Oh, well,” replied Mrs. Pomfret, unperturbed. “Miss Amaryllis wouldn’t rest until Dr. Quincy had been called, she was that worried about you. And, of course, it was handy that he was here, since Miss Amaryllis fainted, herself, the second you’d been tended to. ‘Overcome by the events of the afternoon,’ she said.” Mrs. Pomfret’s twinkling eyes met Hortense’s conspiratorially, and Hortense grinned in reply.

“In any case,” Mrs. Pomfret continued as she bustled around the room straightening the bedclothes and adjusting the curtains. “It was just as well you took the laudanum. Such strange dreams as you were havin’! Tossing and turning the night long, you were! And you weren’t the only one losing sleep around here, I’d wager. Nasty storm blew in last night, n’ brought down the last of the peaches I was savin’ for the fair. Ah, well,” she sighed.

A soft scratching at the door interrupted their conversation. “Please miss,” said Polly, the upstairs maid, apologetically. “Dr. Quincy’s come to see you.”

“Show him in, girl!” said Mrs. Pomfret, as Hortense opened her mouth to refuse. To Hortense, she added “Let the doctor give you a look-over and be done with it. It would take longer to argue.”

Hortense snapped her mouth shut. “Oh, alright. But I’ll not make conversation with him!” She closed her eyes and tried to feign sleep.

“Well, well, well!" bellowed Dr. Quincy as he entered the room. "Looking much better today, isn’t she Mrs. Pomfret? Appears that a pinch of laudanum and a cup of hot tea was just what she needed after all, eh? A bit peaked yet, though that’s only to be expected when one goes swimming in April. It’s the sort of hi jinks one might expect from a young man, but not what one expects from a lady,” he admonished.

“Buh…” Hortense sputtered, before remembering that she was supposed to be asleep. She sighed, as though dreaming, and concentrated on breathing evenly.

“Speaking of which,” the doctor continued to Mrs. Pomfret, in a lower voice. “Have you heard the goings on in the village this morning?”

Mrs. Pomfret mumbled that she had not.

“Tom the Innkeeper... Dead!”

“Tom Forkley? Dead?" Mrs. Pomfret gasped. "Never say so, Dr. Quincy! I just walked down to the village on Tuesday to see my sister, and didn’t I see Old Tom sittin’ out in front of the Bull and Finch playin’ that penny whistle of his? ‘Mrs. Burston,’ I said to my sister. ‘I don’t mean to be un-Christian, but I often wonder what Marie sees in that man. Never does a lick of work if he can help it, keeps her slaving away in the taproom all day long, though the crowd at the Bull does get rowdy and it’s not fit work for a woman. Marie could’ve done a lot better, I said.’ But he looked healthy as any man around, ‘cept for that peg leg of his. Whatever happened to him?”

“That’s just it!” exclaimed the good doctor, his hushed voice quivering with excitement. “No one knows for sure! He was found this morning near the rocks at Bald Head Point, and the Jade Lady is missing. Marie hadn’t seen him since eight last evening.”

“Oh, good Heavens! What a drunken fool to have taken that boat out in the storm!” Mrs. Pomfret shook her head.

“That’s just it, my dear Minerva! He didn’t die in the storm. He was…” Dr. Quincy paused for effect. “Murdered! Shot in the back of the head!”

Mrs. Pomfret gasped. Hortense could barely restrain a gasp of her own. As it was, she drew in breath sharply.

“Aha! Some trouble breathing, there. Could be an early sign of inflammation of the lung. I shall apply a poultice immediately to draw out the infection.”

Hortense had never felt less in danger of a lung infection in her life, but she allowed the doctor to apply the smelly poultice to her chest anyway, hoping that he would continue his story.

Her forbearance was rewarded when he continued. “Saw it all m’self this mornin’ when I examined the body. Squire Widdows rode all the way over from Haverton to begin an inquest, and I suppose I shall have to testify.” Dr. Quincy’s attempt to sound burdened by this necessity was an abject failure. He was clearly delighted to play a role in what must surely be the village’s most exciting event for generations.

“An inquest!” breathed Mrs. Pomfret, all horrified excitement. “But who do they think might have…” Her voice trailed off.

“Too early to tell, I’m sure. But based on some evidence they found, they’re looking at anyone who’s recently arrived in the neighborhood and, of course, they’re looking at McTavish and his gang.”

“Oh, what nonsense!” Mrs. Pomfret protested hotly. “The McTavish boys would never have anything to do with murder.  I’ve known Henry McTavish since he was in leading strings. A kinder man you’ve never met!”

“Minerva, those of us who know McTavish might make allowances for his, er, passtimes…” the doctor whispered urgently. “After all, the war has been hard on trade, and a man has to make a living. But to anyone outside this village, a man who’s guilty of smuggling could just as easily be guilty of murder.”

Hortense’s brain, so unaccustomed to strenuous use in the months she'd been a companion, now struggled to take in all of this new information. She longed to “awaken” and ask a question or two, but was certain that would put an end to all conversation on the topic.

“Poor Henry!” Mrs. Pomfret cried. “They’ll string him up for sure, for there surely haven’t been any new arrivals in the area. Well, except for Miss Amaryllis and Miss Hortense, here, and they could hardly be suspected.”

“Hmmm…” the doctor mused. “You’d be surprised at who they might suspect. After all,” he continued in the barest whisper. “What do we really know about these girls? Amaryllis is Rose’s niece, certainly, but we know little about her beyond that. And this girl here, why… she has nothing to recommend her. Certainly, her rude and unappreciative behavior to me last night when I, in my capacity as her physician, insisted that she take a dram of laudanum, an accepted remedy and preventative against all forms of chill and ague since time immemorial, indicates a girl who was not gently bred,” he sniffed.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Pomfret.

“And, what's more,” continued the doctor as though she hadn’t spoken. “Oliver Preston’s returned to the Castle.”

“No!” Mrs. Pomfret whispered.

“Indeed! I had the word from his cousin Digby just this morning. Arrived the night before last. Apparently he’s going to open up that monstrous house again after all these years, if you can believe it.” The doctor’s outraged tones suggested that he certainly could not believe it.

“And why shouldn’t he? I’ve never believed any of the talk about the Prestons, anyway. I grew up at Radulf Castle – my father was in charge of the stables over there. I knew his grandfather, and his father… kind, honorable men, both of them.” Mrs. Pomfret averred.

“Hmmm,” the doctor replied dubiously. “Time will tell, I suppose. Well, I must be off! Miss Amaryllis asked me to look in on her again before I leave.”

Mrs. Pomfret showed the doctor out, and Hortense sat up, removing the poultice and swinging her feet off the bed. Digby… he was the silly man who’d escorted them home yesterday. If he was talking about a castle and his cousin… then the man she’d spotted outside the castle walls yesterday afternoon must be the Oliver Preston that Dr. Quincy was talking about. Oliver Preston. She was certain she’d never heard the name before. Why, then, did it sound so familiar?

She shook off the uncomfortable feeling. Life as a ladies companion was playing tricks on her brain, causing her to "remember" names she'd never heard before and forget dreams that she desperately wanted to recall. "No matter," she thought, as she strode to the wardrobe and selected a dress for the day. Now she had something new to occupy her time and her thoughts -- the murder of Tom Forkley.

Today I Learned

Apparently in the Year Of Our Lord 18somethingorother, all of England was simultaneously struck with laryngitis. Source of this knowledge: Bedding the Baron, by Deborah Raleigh.

Evidence:

p.16 "'Holy hell,' Ian rasped."

p.64 "'Beneath all your starch and wool you smell like midnight roses, poppet,' he husked."

p.72 "'Certainly not,' she breathed, her voice oddly husky."

p.100 "'I need to return to the inn,' she husked."

p.114 "'Of course it is a matter of choice,' she protested, her voice husky."

p.117 "'You are a woman who never fails to surprise, poppet,' he husked"

p.124 "'So after all we have shared you intend to scurry back behind your barriers?' he rasped."

p.138 "'Good evening, Portia,' he husked"

p.170 "'God..." he husked"

p.172 "'Whatever you desire, poppet, ' he husked"

p.174 "'Oh...' she rasped"

p.180 "'I have never wanted a woman as I want you,' he rasped"

p.219 "'How could I resist when the scenery is so very charming?' Ian husked."

p.219 "'A Mr. Smith to see you, Ma'am,' the maid croaked."

p.226 "'Where? Where was the ceremony?' he rasped."

p.243 "'No, Father, I do not believe that you could possibly realize just what it means to be a bastard,' he grated."

p.244 "'Hardly the same as being offered a grand estate and respectable place in society, is it?' he gritted."

p.245 "His short laugh rasped throughout the room."

p.247 "'You... You spoke with Mrs. Greaves?' the older man rasped, his countenance ashen."

p.254 "'By the gods, I wish I had,' he rasped"

p.255 "'You must understand that the estate was on the brink of ruin,' he rasped."

p.266 "'I returned last eve,' he said, his voice thick and raspy as if his throat was raw."

p.275 "'Yes, I can,' Frederick gritted, a startling color flaring along his cheekbones."

p.280 "'Good God, he gained you as his wife,' he rasped."

p.294 "'Yes, perhaps you are right,' she husked."

p.297 "'Please, Frederick,' she pleaded huskily."

p.321 "'One thing that I desire above all others, poppet,' he husked."



(**NOTE: I do NOT mock while claiming that I can do any better. Believe you me, my writing is every bit as full of mockability.**)

Part The Third, in which We Meet a Mysterious Stranger.

The man snatched his hat back from Amaryllis's grip in order to sweep it in a bow that seemed (to Hortense's eye) a trifle overdone. "Digby Peppercorn, at your service, gentle ladies. M'father, Sir Charles, lives over thereabouts. I say, I know this is all terribly improper, but might I have the honor knowing whom I'm addressing?"

Amaryllis flushed, dimpled, and curtsied. "I am Amaryllis Huntington, and this is my companion Hortense Worthing." He bowed again. "A pleasure to meet you, madam. Not to be forward, but should we take your worthy companion to shelter? Wouldn't want the chill to settle in her lungs, what?"

"Oh! Hortense, dear, we simply must remove up to the castle immediately! Think how horrid it would be if you take the ague! This way, come!" Amaryllis fluttered. Hortense rolled her eyes inwardly. Amaryllis had always enjoyed a dramatic fear of illness. "It's a perfectly warm day, Amaryllis. I would much rather go home and change into dry clothes."

"I say, it wouldn't be at all proper to enter that den of iniquity. It's m'cousin's, y'know, and he's not at all the thing. Chap is deuced queer in the attic. He's been away, doing who knows what over on the continent with those dashed Frogs - but he's back now, and gently bred unmarried ladies certainly shouldn't be in his company."

Hortense paused from wringing out her skirts. "Sir, we've been given to understand that our neighbors are not at home. Are you saying that this gentleman is in residence?"

"By golly, yes - just arrived. I was on my way up to see him, do the pretty on behalf of my family. Can't say as I enjoy it - fellow's some kind of brain, and it's dashed tedious trying to converse with him. D'you know, he had the temerity to suggest that my new waistcoat made me look a coxcomb?"

Eyeing the aggressively yellow garment, Hortense was inclined to agree with the unknown cousin. Just as she was about to suggest they leave, a movement up near the castle caught her eye. A tall, dark haired man stood near the front entrance. "Look," she said. "Is that your cousin there?"

"'Pon rep, it is! See here, come away. I'll escort you ladies home - I hate to be rag mannered and not introduce you, but the fellow's hardly fit for polite company."

"Oh my!" Squeaked Amaryllis. "I see what you mean - he's positively beastly, isn't he!" Hortense didn't think so - he seemed oddly familiar to her. She squinted, trying to get a better look, and felt the strangest sensation come over her. Her vision dimmed, and she swayed on her feet. She felt as though the greenery of the forest underbrush was before her eyes, and she felt almost as though someone was trying to push her away from the castle. She heard Amaryllis as though she was far away: "Hortense! Sir! Do catch her! Oh no, do be careful of your coat!" At the feel of a hand grasping her forearm, the mists cleared and she felt more secure on her feet.

She became aware the Mr. Peppercorn was speaking: "Come over all queer, did you? There there, ladies are delicate creatures. Let's get you home." He removed his handkerchief from her hand, and wrapped it around her arm, so he didn't have to dirty his hand while steadying her. Hortense felt dazed - what had just happened? Was she having visions, like Mad Mary down in the village?

"I told you Hortense, wet clothing is dangerous. You're a bluestocking type, you should know better. Oh dear, oh dear, I hope you don't bring disease into the house."

"Don't be silly, Amaryllis," Hortense mumbled. "I never get sick. I just had a... momentary chill. I can stand perfectly well on my own. You're right though, sir, let us return to the manor." While Mr. Peppercorn was taking up the reins of his horse so that he could walk beside them down the lane, Hortense couldn't resist glancing back towards the castle for one last look at the mysteriously familiar man. Strangely, he had disappeared as quickly and quietly as he had appeared. Troubled by vague premonitions, she slowly followed the sound of Amaryllis's chatter as the party set off.

Part The Second, in which Hortense is Saved.

Amaryllis glided into progressively denser areas of the forest, slipping between the trees like a dryad. Hortense crashed through the brush behind her, grimacing as the twigs scratched her exposed arms and face. Surely this was the largest forest in all England. Surely this was further than Uncle John, Amaryllis’s doting papa, would want them to venture. Just as Hortense opened her mouth to form these words, however, the trees miraculously began to thin, and shafts of sunlight shone down through the leaves. Silently giving thanks that their afternoon ramble was over with no more serious casualties than her scraped cheek and muddy hem, Hortense trailed Amaryllis into the clearing.

To be fair, Hortense admitted, the view may (only may, mind) have been worth the walk. Rolling meadows of green, green grass strewn with puffy white sheep stretched as far as the eye could see to the left or right. A lovely ornamental pond dotted the landscape a short ways ahead. And behind all rose an enormous stone castle (there was no other word for it) so forbidding, so imposing, as to impress and delight the heroines of those Gothic novels that Amaryllis so adored. Four large gray towers stood out starkly against the horizon and… yes! A drawbridge, an actual wooden drawbridge! Who ever heard of such a thing in this day and age? Hortense allowed that she might be just a smidgen impressed herself.  The best view of all, however, was the carpet of purple blooms framing the edge of the forest. Violets aplenty – enough to satisfy even Ammy’s passion for them, and no more walking! For the first time in hours, Hortense smiled.

“Violets!” she said, gloatingly.

“Hmm?”

“Violets!” Hortense repeated, quite accustomed to pointing out the obvious.

“Mmm… no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Wha… what? Amaryllis, there are thousands here… millions, even. Surely there must be one or two among them perfect enough to sketch!”

“Hortense. Dear, dear Hortense. These aren’t violets. They’re monkshood. Surely you’ve seen them before, even living in Poorchester.”

“PORTchester. It’s Portchester. And as I’ve told you, Papa was quite ill for several years before he…” Hortense took a breath and released it quickly, suppressing the quick jolt of pain that thoughts of Papa always brought. “Died. Before he died. He hardly ventured out of doors, and I helped him with his research. We certainly didn’t have time to study flora.”

Amaryllis sighed. “And I don’t suppose your mother would have known monkshood, even if she’d been alive to teach you. Do they have monkshood in France? Well, no matter! You’re with me now, darling, and I shall teach you everything I know!”

Shouldn’t take long, Hortense thought uncharitably. 

“In any case, I’ve decided that today, I shall sketch… a landscape,” Amaryllis pronounced gravely.

And, truly, it was a momentous decision. In all the months that Hyacinth had acted as companion to Lord Huntington’s youngest daughter,  she’d never known Amaryllis to paint anything but… violets. Violets on china and violets on handkerchiefs, violets on canvas and violets on teacups, violets in groups and violets alone. The sudden decision to paint a landscape felt… portentous. As though the hand of fate had… No. Hyacinth shook off the thought and considered that perhaps she had read one too many Gothic novels herself.

“Quickly, Horry! Scurry down to the pond and stand just so in front of it.” Amaryllis demonstrated the perfect contemplative, melancholy pose.

Hortense did as she was bid, trying to coax her limbs into some semblance of melancholy contemplation.

Amaryllis surveyed her critically, a perfect crease appearing between her amethyst eyes. “Your arm, dear, a bit more… up… yes! Just so. Now move nearer that rock… to the right... no, your right, dear, and back just a bit so I can get the proper perspective with the castle… Almost, almost… Back just a little further… now hold…”

Except that Hortense couldn’t hold. The combination of her raised arm, her extended leg, and her old nemesis, gravity, proved to be too much for Hortense. She screamed, arms windmilling wildly, and fell backward into the pond… only to find that there wasn’t far to fall. The pond was no more than 18 inches deep around the edge. Enough to thoroughly wet one’s clothes, embarrass one to no end, and put one in the foulest of tempers with one’s cousin, but not nearly deep enough to drown, more’s the pity. 

Hortense had just managed to sit up, and was drawing breath to calm her cousin’s hysterical cries when suddenly a horse and rider emerged from the forest several hundred yards away and galloped towards them at breakneck pace.

“Good Lud!” cried the man, reining to a halt and dismounting. “May I be of assistance, my lady?”

“Oh, thank Heavens! I know not what to do! My companion, Hortense, has fallen in the pond, and I’m concerned for her very life! Oh, dear sir, please save her! She is but a poor relation from my father’s side of the family and quite ignorant about everything important, but she is such a kindhearted girl, and if she dies I’m certain my dear Papa will make me go back to that horrid finishing school where they allow the daughters of tradesmen to be educated alongside daughters of the peerage, and I don’t see how I could bear it, I really don’t!”

“Good Lud!” was the man’s unoriginal reply. “Take heart! I shall save her for you, I swear it! And when a Peppercorn makes a vow, that vow is… sacred.” The man swept the hat from his head and pressed it to his chest as proof of his sincerity. “Please, madam, hold my hat,” he said, placing the hat carefully in Amaryllis’s outstretched hands. “And m’coat. Meyer, don’t you know? Brummel’s man. Finest in London.” After some contortions, the coat was also removed and given into Amaryllis’s safekeeping, and the man began striding towards the water.

“But, sir! Your boots!” cried Amaryllis.

“Good Lud!” cried the man, yet again. “Dear Lady, you have done me a great service. My valet would have my head if I’d ruined these boots. Hoby, don’t you know?” With an appreciative glance for Amaryllis, he carefully lowered himself to the ground and removed his polished Hessians.

By this time, Hortense had managed, with much floundering, to get herself up on her hands and knees and begin crawling toward the bank. Progress was slow, given that the bottom of the pond was coated in a thick sludge, her knees kept tangling in her skirts, and her hair was plastered across her face. Finally, she reached the edge of the water, and levered herself up to a half-standing position, her hands braced on her knees as she caught her breath.  

“I’m coming, companion!” called the man, as he strode towards the pond barefooted.  He approached Hortense, arms fully outstretched, as though ready to embrace her bodily and carry her up the bank.

“Sir! Be careful! The… the… the mud!!”  Amaryllis exclaimed, gesturing vaguely toward Hortense’s sludge-covered form.

“Too right, too right!” he called cheerfully. Wrapping an enormous embroidered handkerchief tightly around his left hand, he gingerly grasped Hortense’s right index finger, and led her toward her cousin.

 “At your service, My Lady of the Violet Eyes,” he proclaimed, presenting her to Amaryllis with a formal bow. To Hortense he added, “You can keep the handkerchief, what?”

“Oh, sir! You… you… you saved her!” Amaryllis’s voice quavered. Her lower lip trembled. Her brilliant amethyst eyes shone brighter than ever. A single, jewel-like tear tracked down her porcelain cheek. Truly, the effect was breathtaking.  “Please, tell me your name! I must know to whom I owe all my happiness...”

Chapter 1: A gentle and melting beauty.

Amaryllis sighed. Her soft brown hair waved romantically from her forehead, as she looked off in the distance with an expression of indescribable melancholy. One willowy arm rested on a nearby tree. Her attitude seemed to suggest a sense of unspeakable tragedy, the sort that would inspire any true gentleman to immediately offer her his wealth, protection, and services... if only that would ease her lovely suffering.

Hortense sighed. Really, she shouldn't be so impatient with her cousin - Amaryllis couldn't help it. If you are the youngest and most staggeringly beautiful daughter out of a family of staggeringly beautiful daughters, then you tend to be accustomed to getting your way. Difficulties tend to magically right themselves when faced with amethyst eyes, and a sizable inheritance.

However, since they had recently repaired to the country, Amaryllis was temporarily absent her usual following of entranced gentlemen eager to vie for the honor of coaxing a smile. Instead, her only follower was Hortense. Hortense had absolutely no interest in following Amaryllis as she wafted through the woods in search of violets. Hortense didn't waft. Hortense, if truth be told, occasionally got her skirts caught on bushes and stepped in rabbit holes. The woods were... difficult. Forests made Hortense frown uneasily, and concentrate heavily on her footing.

Amaryllis pivoted gracefully. "Hortense, come on! These woods are unacceptable." Accustomed to translating Amaryllis's cryptic speeches, Hortense divined that this meant that if they were to tramp further away from the manor, the perfect patch of violets would be revealed. Hortense didn't doubt it. Things like that happened to Amaryllis. Things like turning her ankle and falling into a stream happened to Hortense. She sighed inwardly, thought "wages", and followed.

Young lovahs in Paree!

Just read Anna and the French Kiss, which I found on NPR's list of the best teen fiction of 2010.

Ignore, if you can, the silly title. Instead, jump right in and meet 17-year-old Anna, who's sent to boarding school in Paris to complete her final year of high school, for reasons she doesn't fully understand but seem to stem from her divorced father's desire to brag about having a daughter in a French boarding school. (Her father, a thinly-veiled Nicholas Sparks send-up, writes tragic romances that middle-aged ladies love, but Anna disdains.) Within her first week at SOAP (the School of Americans in Paris), Anna manages to catch the attention of the hottest, cutest, guy at the school (who happens to have grown up in London, probably so the author can pepper his speech with British-isms like bloody, bugger, and, my personal favorite, pants, and so Anna can gush about his accent), and she's run afoul of the beautiful-but-mean-spirited popular girls. I know, I know, stop me if you've heard this one before. But what made this book different was the honest, believable friendship that develops between Anna and her guy, even as the sparks begin to fly.

Anna finds herself attracted to French-American hero Etienne St. Clair, mais quel horreur (*snicker*)! Etienne has a girlfriend, a college girlfriend no less, and their penchant for PDA is a favorite topic of lunch table conversation. He and his girlfriend are fighting, though, and it seems that Etienne's feelings for Anna go far beyond even the deep friendship that quickly develops between them. Still, Anna clings to her old friends, her old crush, her old life back in Georgia in a vain attempt to stop herself from falling for Etienne and risking the friendship that's become precious to her.

Although the entire book was well-written, certain scenes were exceptionally realistic and touching. Anna returns home to Atlanta for Christmas break, only to find that the home she resisted leaving doesn't feel like home anymore. Her old friends and even her family have forged new ties in her absence, and she finds herself on the phone with St. Clair for hours each day, homesick for him, because she realizes that he has become home to her. "Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?", she wonders.

And when Etienne, dealing with the upheaval caused by his mother's cancer diagnosis and his controlling father's plans for Etienne's future, begs Anna to understand that he can't break up with his girlfriend because he "doesn't want to be alone," one can't help but realize how much it costs Anna to stand up for herself and retort "You weren't alone, asshole."

Perhaps the most lovable character in the book, though, is the city itself --  its neighborhoods, its quirky locals, its tourist traps and patisseries. Anna's changing relationship with the city reflects her growing confidence and maturity. It's a journey from the initial fear that kept her from venturing beyond the boundaries of the campus, to the romantic climax of the novel where Anna finds herself at the pinnacle of Notre Dame, the city of Paris literally at her feet and the boy she loves finally in her arms.

I don't generally like YA. The never-ending ping-pong match of poor timing and missed connections, the constant sturm und drang, and the OMIGOD drama exhaust my poor middle-aged brain. This book was such a pleasant surprise -- emotional without being sappy, sweet without being trite, predictable without feeling too contrived.

Like like like!

Those who can, do. Those who can't be bothered, snark about those who did.

Because my NaNoWriMo novel has reached a point where I would rather pluck out my eyelashes than write another word about those poor characters (born without personalities! so tragic!), I think my time is better served criticizing an ackshual published author (Kresley Cole)'s akshual published work (Demon from the Dark).

Have ya read this one yet?

Now, I love the Immortals After Dark series as much as (more than!) the next gal, and this was no exception. The Lore is fascinating, the writing is great, and I totally dig the humor and the way she writes her female characters' friendships and sisterhood. But, can I just say that after 10 IAD books I'm starting to lose the plot a little bit? Literally.

Part of the problem is that I am a Bear of Little Brain, I admit this. But the other trouble is that there are now 10 books about 10 different couples, all somehow related to one another, sometimes in multiple ways. Reading this latest book was like being plunked down into someone else's family reunion. I found myself thinking "Wait, who are you again?" more than once...Which is off-putting, I'm sure you'll agree, since romance-novel-reading is generally the antithesis of conscious thought. If I wanted to actually THINK about shit, I'd be off interacting with the 3-dimensional people in my life. Amen.

More than that, there are 9 books of back-story preceding this book. I vaguely remember that there was some mention of a big war coming. And that's about all I remember. So, while I don't usually like it when an author goes into too much detail in re-telling what happened in the earlier books, I also think she could've gone just a skosh more review than she did. It was hard to put this one in context.

Now, all that picky-picky stuff aside, the book was good. I liked the female protagonist, I enjoyed the trust/loyalty relationship-challenge, and I thought that everyone (with the exception of the little girl, who was way too perky and unaffected after just losing her mother) had very believable, in-character reactions to their situations. Plus, holy sex scenes. The heat from my blushing cheeks could have warmed the whole house.

I'd say this one's definitely worth the read (especially since it's probably already on your TBR pile, if you haven't gotten to it already), if for no other reason than because this sets up Book 11 (Dreams of a Dark Warrior - due in February 2011), and the plot for Book 11 looks AMAZING! See?

From #1 New York Times bestseller Kresley Cole comes this gripping tale of a battle-maddenend warrior driven by revenge and the Valkyrie temptress who haunts his dreams.

He vowed he'd come for her. . .

Murdered before he could wed Regin the Radiant, warlord Aidan the Fierce seeks his beloved through eternity, reborn again and again into new identities, yet with no memory of his past lives—only an endless yearning.

She awaits his return. . .

When Regin encounters Declan Chase, a brutal Celtic soldier, she recognizes her proud warlord reincarnated. But Declan takes her captive, intending retribution against all immortals, unaware that he belongs to their world.

To sate a desire more powerful than death. . .

Yet every reincarnation comes with a price, for Aidan is doomed to die when he remembers his past. To save herself from Declan's torments, will Regin rekindle memories of the passion they once shared—even if it means once again losing the only man she could ever love?

Oooooh! Intriiiiiguing.

Grade: B+ (Worth the read, but don't pay full price)

Not it!

(stolen from arghink, who stole it from lolcats)

Words of wisdom from @FakeNaNoWriMoTips:

• Remember: 'The Cat in the Hat' could be 50,000 words if you use enough adjectives to describe the hat.

• Emoticons do not count as words until midnight November 29.

• "Said" is a boring and short word. Use synonyms, such as "communicated," "pronounced" or "broke silenced."

• Falling behind? Try the cut-up method: shank any motherfucker who pulls ahead of you in word count. Cervantes wrote Don Quixote in prison.

• If the need for sleep is hurting your daily word count, hop on your CB radio and ask truckers where to get the good speed.

4000 words.

Get into the groove....You know, like that Madonna song? Except NOT, because I really don't like Madonna's music, except for Ray of Light, and anyway, I was talking about a writing groove.

I thought these were an urban myth or, like multiple orgasms, something I'm just not hard-wired to experience, but IT HAPPENED! I sat down to write, and looked up a minute later, all disoriented, and said "Lunch time already?" and realized I'd been sitting all hunched over in one position for almost 2 hours. It was transcendant! As in, my pride at writing 800 words without pause transcended the pain of the horrible muscle cramps in my shoulders and neck.

:)


Of course, that was this morning. Many hours and a not-nearly-proportionate number of words have passed since then. Still...

So, 4,000 words. Not quite half of what I should have now, but twice as many as I had this morning and approximately 4000 times as many as I had this time last week. File under: Small victories.

Also, best-friend-ever-in-the-history-of-ever, can I tell you how much I love you and all these awesome links you sent me? Especially the ones along the lines of "4000 words of shit, but by God I wrote them." Those really resonate with me.

Can't think why.

WRITE MOAR.

Seriously, UNFRIEND HIM. Or at least hide his updates. He's not even your ex, why in the world do you torture yourself like this?!

Went back through the Genius of Crusie, and here be ideas for unsticking yourself:

Soundtracks. Maybe go with all 90s music to put you back in the head space of teenagerhood? Also, maybe you should listen all day so that your brain can simmer until writing time. HaHA! Mix tapes! I will make you mix tapes! I am good at procrastination.

Read Bird by Bird and Courage to Write. Especially Courage to Write. Neither one is available on Paperback Swap, but I am undaunted and still searching. Courage to Write is partly available on Google Books though.

Maybe you should take this in an entirely different direction. Maybe you should spend the month doing Girls in the Basement type things, and they will be your word count. This is how La Crusie writes. Maybe it will work for you, maybe it won't, but maybe it will keep you from beating yourself up so much. Ideas to let the Girls in the Basement out:

• Collage. Dude, I will be ALL OVER Arts and Crafts Fun Timez. I love a good time with glue sticks.

• You don't have to have an anal outline, but maybe you've gotten to the point in your process that you're looking for more direction. Maybe turning points will give you a general outline? She describes them as: "So it’s Act One, big surprise/turning point: Act Two bigger surprise/point of no return; Act Three, humongous surprise, trip to hell; Act Four." More detail here.

• Character development: Answer these questions. Answers from La Crusie for one of her characters. (for realsies, at one point I printed that entry out and stuck it to my craft inspiration board because it sparked ideas for stuff I wanted to make.)

Writing styles issues. Maybe this way of doing things isn't working for you. Or maybe you are just having Doubts. I am telling you, La Crusie can do doubts like no one's business:

"I did 2358 words. They’re lousy words, but by God I wrote them."

"This is when I always have grave doubts about the whole writing thing, especially my writing. Seriously, this is lousy, lousy prose, but it’s always lousy in the beginning until I find the rhythm and the characters, until the words start to bounce. So tomorrow I’ll do better."

"That 2000 word a night thing does not work if the words aren’t in your brain. I reread those 2000+ words from last night. They stink on ice."

"I did another 1000 words. Yes, I know I’m behind. I told you I hate this... Some of us were just not born linear. Which is why we collaborate with people who were... I swear, it feels as though this story is lurking just out of reach of my frontal lobe. I know it’s out there, I can see it moving around in the darkness, and yet . . ."

In conclusion, more things to read NOW please.