Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to a picture prompt. I’ve started a Christmas story with some of the same characters in my book, Lord of Misrule, that releases later this month. I wasn’t quite ready to let the characters go.  This snippet is the beginning of the story. Not edited. 🙂

The tales are limited to 300 words. Mine is 298! 🙂  Be sure to check out the other tales here. 

Charles Lockwood skirted around the edge of the ballroom, eyes darting, taking in who was in attendance. Hoping a certain Lord and Lady weren’t there.

The last time he’d been in this ballroom was right before he made a fool of himself taking a young lady hostage and hiding her at his old nanny’s cottage. He had initially turned down the invitation to appear tonight, but the hostess was an old friend of the family and insisted he come. So here he was, praying not to be seen.

As he took refuge behind a plant and against a side wall, the irony of what happened last time filled him with shame. The young lady who had hidden in this spot then was the same one he had treated so abysmally.

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, he watched the dancers doing a country reel. He had to admit, they looked enchanting in the candlelight. The hostess chose the unusual color of red candles for her Yuletide decor. Her choice made the ballroom almost magical.

Charles suppressed a snort. People would surely talk if they heard me make such a romantic statement.

To cover for his true inclinations, Charles had taken on the guise of a rake. Mothers asked him to their balls only to make up numbers and they closely guarded their daughters from him. That was perfectly fine by him as he didn’t want any female entanglements to interfere with his life. He supposed he would have to take a bride eventually. Being a thirty-two year old bachelor was fine, but much longer than forty-five, members of the ton might start wondering at his reasons. It was bad enough the Lord and Lady he didn’t want to see knew the truth and could expose him.

This week’s word prompt for Tuesday Tales is square. I am between books (doing edits on Honora’s story I’ve been sharing which should be out soon) and haven’t decided where to go next so I’ve written a little short story for this week. I hope you like it.

You can find the other tales here. 

A young man with a blade runner leg on his right side, a pretty girl with vivid blue hair and another girl in tight short-shorts, slightly heavier than the blue-haired one passed by the bench where I sat in the middle of the town square. I’m a people watcher and most days, I take refuge under the big oak tree that gives the best shade.

I like to imagine the lives of those who pass by. These three I see as a boyfriend and girlfriend with the heavier girl as the best friend of the blue-haired girlfriend of Blade Man. I have memories of being the pretty girl with the best friend who always seemed to fade into the background and I’m ashamed now to recall how I never realized how the third-wheel girl felt.

Imagine always being number two. I know how that feels now. Having gained some years and also weight, I see what I didn’t see when I was the toast of the town. Older, heavier people aren’t treated kindly by our society. This is why I’ve become a recluse who lives her life vicariously by watching others. Being ignored in stores and on the street is demoralizing.

For a moment, I’m tempted to take Third Wheel aside and advise her to get out of the shadow of Blue Hair while she’s still young enough to impact the world herself. But then I think about how she might react to my words. Probably ignore me or give me a sneer like I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about.

The moment passes, they move on and I direct my attention to the group of four people on the grass lolling around as if they’re an art installation. The guy with the long dreads is on his stomach, a girl with a plaid shirt and not much else on is on her side with one knee up and another girl has a book in her hand she’s just holding up in the air. The last young man has his body draped around the vignette like a capital C. They intrigue me.

Before I can come up with their “story,” an unexpected shower arises. Rain pours on the grass, quickly making mud puddles. The art installation moment is ruined as the four characters flee for the awning of one of the stores across from the square.

As for me? I’ll keep sitting here with my face raised to capture the cool drops from heaven. Getting soaked is no big deal. It makes me feel alive. Which is something new for me.

I wasn’t able to do Tuesday Tales this week due to a lot of my work cases getting moved due to co-vid to be heard  by phone and they are all coming up for hearing now.  BUT it is picture prompt week and there are some good tales going on so I thought I’d share the pictures the authors are writing to. Each tale is limited to 300 words today. Check them out here.  

This week, the Tuesday Tales writers are writing to the word prompt pink.  This is still my Regency story but it is now done so this is the last I’ll be sharing of it until it comes out.

Check out the other tales here

Trying not to cry, Honora stood straighter as she headed down the corridor. She’d survive this night like she had many times before. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow, she could go riding in Rotten Row and soothe herself with her best friend, Shadrach. A horse with no equal. Riding him always made her feel accepted and powerful.

Mary soon arrived and helped Honora into her gown. “Miss Honora?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to be impertinent, but I’d like to set your hair a different way this evening. I had a thought and want to try it.”

Honora didn’t think how she wore her hair would make her any more attractive to the men at the ball, but she wanted to encourage Mary to grow and improve herself. “Go ahead. I’m sure it’ll look wonderful.”

She sat still while Mary tended to her. It was always nice to have the gentle maid work on her. Too bad she was always last served, but being the youngest sister, she supposed it was fair.  It wasn’t one more thing wrong with her life. It was merely the birth order.

When Mary completed Honora’s hair, she assisted her into her gown. It was a lovely color of pale pink that Honora chose at the dressmakers. Charlotte said it was insipid and it probably was, but it was easier to fade into the background and not be so noticeable when your garment blended into the walls of the ballroom. Honora knew their hosts’ décor was cream and white, so she purposely chose the color.

She peered into the looking glass. Her hair did look nice the way it was styled. Making eye contact with Mary, she said, “Thank you. I think it suits me.”

Mary clapped her hands. “Do you really like it, Miss?”

“I do. We should use this more often.”

“I’m so happy you’re pleased.”

This week’s word prompt for the writers of Tuesday Tales is Flower.  I am still working on the Regency novel.

Check out the other tales here. 

A knock on the door interrupted them. “Come along, snail. You’re going to make us late. I don’t want to miss the first dance.”

Honora moved to the door. She knew if she didn’t get there quickly enough, Charlotte would barge in.

Sure enough, before she could reach the door, her sister flung it open, almost catching Honora in the face.

“I was on my way. You don’t have to break the doorjamb. Never fear, your dance card will be filled almost before we’re even announced.”

“You better hope so, or you’ll be the one I blame.” Charlotte turned on her heel and pranced down the corridor. “Don’t dawdle.”

Since there would be no tolerating her sister if she didn’t get her way, Honora followed at a quick pace, almost tripping over the front hem of her gown in the process. She thought it was too long at the time it was altered, but didn’t want to cause a scene and didn’t speak up. Now, it looked like she might regret that choice. What if she fell at the ball and humiliated herself?

Even worse, if she did, Charlotte would hate her more than ever. Not that she really thought Charlotte hated her. That would take too much effort from the girl. More like she tolerated her.

“Why are you insisting on walking so slowly? It’s not like when you were presented to the queen. It’s our own hallway. Come on.” Charlotte stomped down the front staircase.

It was all Honora could do not to laugh. Her sister who wanted to present the appearance of a fine, delicate flower was clomping around like an elephant. What if all those marvelous suitors of hers could see her now?

This week is a picture prompt. The writers of Tuesday Tales chose from a series of photos and are limited to 300 words.

Check out the other tales here. 

Downstairs, James searched the crowd. Still no sign of Honora. Her mother and Charlotte were in the group waiting to be escorted into dinner. He made his way to them. “Is Miss Honora coming down?”

“Why are you so worried about her? She’s never been one to like balls. I wouldn’t be surprised if she skipped it altogether,” Charlotte said.

“She’s a guest in my home and no one has seen her for hours. I’d like to know if she’s all right.”

“We haven’t seen her, Your Lordship,” Mrs. Marlowe said. “I confess, I’ve become a bit frightened.” She fiddled with the emerald choker at her neck.

It was past time to be frightened in James’s mind. He scoured the crowd for Hugh Spencer.

Spotting him, he excused himself to all the guests between him and his friend.

When he arrived at Hugh’s side, he said, “Miss Honora Marlowe has been missing since before midday. Will you assist me in finding her? I’ll have some of the men of the estate rounded up as well.”

“Of course. Immediately.” Hugh squeezed his wife’s arm. “”Excuse me, darling.”

“Certainly. Please find the poor child.”

James turned to find his mother to alert her to the situation.

Charlotte stood at his feet. In the way.

“Don’t make a big deal about this. She’s probably in the stables. She always goes to the horses when she’s upset.”

Remembering when he found her crying on Aloysius’s mane, he snapped his fingers. “Yes. You’re probably right.”

“Then send a footman to fetch her. No need in ruining the evening’s dancing.”

He stared at her in horror. How can she be so unkind? About her own sister.

Sorry I’ve been missing Tuesday Tales. I’ve been out of town a lot and am even heading out again on Wednesday. I haven’t been writing much so I went back in my Regency story and grabbed some paragraphs that include the word prompt this week. This is closer to the beginning of the story than I’ve been sharing before.  The word this week is dirt.

Check out the other tales here.

Inside, as she waited for her parents to be announced, she glanced around at the glittering crowd. There was no shortage of jewels and tiaras here. It was too much dazzle for her taste, but she knew from growing up in this world—even in the periphery—that the women here took the competition to be the best and brightest in the room very seriously. She’d never understand the importance of that. Many times, she wondered why she was born into this way of life when she’d have been content to be the wife of a sheepherder.

Honora repressed a giggle. It was clear there were no sheepherders here. There were probably a number of earls present who owned sheep but they certainly wouldn’t get dirt on their own hands by shearing the animals themselves. What she loved about being around animals was touching them, talking to them and making sure they were well looked after. She’d never be successful as the wife of the landowner who only made sure the farms on his estate were tenanted and collected the rents. Not that she need worry about that. If no eligible bachelor spoke to you at a ball, chances were, you would end up a spinster as your sister predicted.

Determined to find a place to hunker down and pass the time, she spied a quiet corner with a big green plant in a lovely urn. There were some chairs nearby and one could easily be moved behind it with no one being the wiser.

“Meet us at midnight for dinner,” her mother said as soon as they were cleared into the ballroom. She winked at both girls. “Unless you have a young man ask you to partake with him.”

Charlotte smiled as two men headed straight toward her. “I’m sure I’ll see you when the ball is over, Mama. I’m positive I’ll have many offers for company at the meal.” She glanced in Honora’s direction. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with one daughter.”

There was no reason for her sister to always be mean to her, but it was like she couldn’t help it. Honora missed the days before the marriage quest. They used to get along when they were in the country. There were a few girls from the village who they played with for a time, but then Charlotte would lure them away and Honora would be left out again.

Now the sisterly bond was stretched too far and they hardly ever spent any time together. Maybe when Charlotte married, she’d become kinder.

Honora shook her head at that fancy. Charlotte was Charlotte. No man would stand a chance if he thought he could change her. That was probably why the two ardent admirers she was sure would propose last season left London altogether.