Through the Opera Glasses - 54 - Sharpe's Challenge and Sharpe's Peril

For a 5 on Friday I did a few weeks ago, I mentioned that the opening theme music to the Sharpe series is way up there on my list of favorites. In fact, everything about the Sharpe series is way up there on my list of favorites.

Sharpe is based on the series of books which follow Napoleonic-era British soldier Richard Sharpe, written by the awesome Bernard Cornwell.


Tom Clegg directed all sixteen of the 2-hour film adaptations of Cornwell's books, starring the sigh-worthy Sean Bean and Daragh O'Malley.

I've been so grateful, these past two weekends, for PBS Masterpiece's broadcasts of the latest two Sharpe's.





Sharpe's Challenge, 2006

This one I'd seen before, but I can never get enough of Sharpe.














It features Toby Stephens in a rather dastardly role, whom I've also enjoyed in many other productions, including his role as the rotten Prince John in season 3 of BBC's Robin Hood.














It also introduces the very handsome Karan Panthaky as a rajah not quite of age, and who is at the mercy of his regent, his late father's foremost concubine and her lover, played by Toby Stephens.

Here's the trailer:



Sharpe's Peril, 2008


















I was delighted to find Raza Jaffrey in this one, who played Zaf in seasons 4-6 of Spooks/MI-5.


















I was also happy to see David Robb appearing as Major Tredinnick. He looks like this when you can get a close-up:














I saw him in another PBS Masterpiece broadcast back in grade 11 (that's 1981, if you're wondering) in The Flame Trees of Thika and have always admired him since then - especially his gorgeous voice, which is why he obviously does a lot of voice work.














And you can't beat the joy of seeing a recurring character like Simmerson show up, played with elitist relish by Michael Cochrane. He has appeared in 5 of the 16 Sharpe films.














There's lots of challenge in these two stories for our intrepid hero. And amazing stuntwork by dreamy Sean.











And did I mention peril? Did I mention I can never resist a hero in chains?

NOTE: There is a 30-second leader at the beginning of this trailer.



Both of these films are available on DVD, and Sharpe's Peril will be rebroadcast on Saturday on PBS.

Beth says Wow, I've never heard of these before!

Naquility says You've intrigued me. I will have to check these out as they look like very good shows.

Poetry Train Monday - 97 - As Prisons Go

This is the next in my found poetry series, which I've been doing since the new year. I've taken it from one of my manuscripts, featuring Jocelyne, Lady Moncrieffe, the Dowager Countess of Kinnoull. It's the early 1820's near Crieff, Scotland.

Guthrie Carmichael is a Highland Scot working on her lowland estate as the gamekeeper. His decision to stop poaching from her estate requires one last delivery of game in town.

I've based Lady Moncrieffe on Canadian actress Neve Campbell. Guthrie is based on English actor Sean Bean.

You can read a previous poem about Jocelyne HERE.

You can Ride the Poetry Train by clicking HERE.



As Prisons Go


I arranged to be taken into Crieff
Meet up with my sister coming in by coach
First time in four years. Four years!
Disheartening thing - if not for Finlay’s death

Would this visit even take place?

The MacDougal resentments
Only stretched so far, thank Heaven
Whom did I see seated across the square
But the gamekeeper, Carmichael
















Soldier stopped before him

Gaze traveled up to the red jacket
Before he had a chance to blink
One of those booted feet kicked
The pipe from Carmichael’s mouth

Scarred hand reached down

Took up the sacks. Carmichael
Kept his gaze trained on the soldier
“What would this be? Eh?
You wouldn’t be the lord of these parts, now?”

Carmichael neither moved nor spoke

Soldier lifted grouse from sack
Dropped the rest into the dust
Dangled bird from taloned feet
Too close to Carmichael’s face

“Name!” the soldier barked

Black boot planted on Carmichael’s hand
“Stop! Stop, I beg you! What is going on here?
Let him be!” Pulled at red-jacketed arm
Sergeant shook me off angrily

Until he saw who it was

Guthrie snatched hand to chest
Soldier saluted sharply
“This man is poaching from the estate.
I’ve apprehended him for you.”

I recalled these very sacks

Fixed to the back of the gamekeeper's saddle
That morning after the storm
That morning when he'd found me
Wet, bedraggled, desperate

Had seen me safely home

I'd sleepwalked but
He'd found me
Found me with these sacks
Fixed to the back of his saddle

Carmichael hung his head

Cradled his hand
I stared at his crumpled hat
Lying in the dust
“You have made a rather unfortunate error, Sergeant.

This man is my gamekeeper.”

Carmichael looked up
Soldier’s bravado paled
“Can you stand, Mr. Carmichael?”
I extended my hand to him

“Don’t be too concerned, Milady.”

Carmichael's voice so ragged
“Where is your regiment stationed
Sergeant?" I asked
"I should like to have a word

With your commanding officer.”

Soldier colored till his face
Was indistinguishable from
Scarlet fullcloth of jacket
Bead of sweat trickled its way

From under black-plumed bonnet

Down his rough-skinned jawline
It vanished in the gap between
Neck and stiff white collar choking throat
“May I speak to you privately, Ma’am?”

“By all means, Sergeant.”

We stepped aside, walked a few paces
Along the wall. Stopped
Bent our heads together
In rapt discussion for some minutes

Soldier broke away abruptly

As though he’d been stung
He saluted, then moped from the square
I turned toward the carriage
Carmichael helped me up the step

My sister waiting for me

Carmichael withdrew his hand
Cradling his sore one
“You had better get in,” I said
“You have been injured, after all.”

He nodded toward his horse

Waiting patiently across the square
“Then be quick about your business.
Make a point of stopping at the castle
When you return."

He opened and closed his mouth

Like a fish in the grass
He nodded his assent. His hand
Moved up to tug at hat that wasn’t there
His fingers hung suspended in midair

For an awkward moment

Then ran through his hair
“Drive on, Willis,” I called out
Old man clucked to the horses
Carriage lurched forward

Carmichael stepped out of the way

Before wheels ran over his toes
I stood, my back to him
In the pale green drawing room
“Thank you for coming,” I said















“Your servant, Ma’am,” he answered

Bowing slightly
“Are you?”
“I am.”
I broke from where I stood

Moving slowly round the edges of the room

“I would question your definition
Of ‘servant’, Mr. Carmichael.
You have been using my late husband
And me to suit your own purposes.”

“Ma’am?” he croaked

I halted, turned and faced him
“If you were poaching that morning
After the storm...why
Did you come to my aid?”

Carmichael spluttered

As if he’d swallowed a
Gulp of water down the wrong pipe
“I couldn't very well leave you out there!”
“Another man might have done just that.

Well, we are in a fine pickle, are we not?”

“Aye, Milady. We are, that.”
“You should be turned over to
The magistrate, and have done with you."
He returned my gaze, giving himself over to me.

I shuddered

“Why did ye tell that lie for me?”
He asked
“Laird Moncrieffe - he would have
Had me in gaol by now, sure.”

“Perhaps. The man who fancies himself

The new lord of Kinnoull
Would be even more severe than that.
Think hard, now, and consider carefully
What I am going to offer you.

I once offered you a room here

To recuperate from your wounds
But you refused. I’m afraid I must
Make that offer again
And I beg you to accept this time.

I have need of your cottage.

As prisons go, I hope you’ll find
This one to be exceptional.
I, myself, have always considered this
To be a home.

Mr. Carmichael, I possess information

You would prefer me not to pass along.
You likewise hold secrets of mine.
‘Men do not despise a thief
If he steals to satisfy his soul

When he is hungry.'"

He looked as if he'd just
Dashed the contents of an upset stomach
Extending my right hand, I said
“I believe we must shake on it.”

Carmichael rallied

Taking my hand in his
After one shake for form’s sake
We let go with expediency
“I’ll ring for Kearney,” I said

Picking up the bell to shake it furiously

- Julia Smith, 2009

Sweet Talking Guy says The pictures add a little extra chemistry.

Anthony North says Quite a saga being enacted here.

Shelley Munro says Sean Bean is one of my favorites. Excellent inspiration. :)

Poetry Train Monday - 96 - Not After That Look

Happy Easter to all who celebrate this springtime holiday.

Continuing with my found poetry series, here's a poem I've taken from my very first attempt at writing a novel. It's my only completed manuscript to date, and it needs a lot of reworking. But as with many writers, since this is the first novel-length character to inhabit my thoughts and my heart, this character will always be the most special to me.

Guthrie is a Highland Scot in the early 1820's, working on a lowland estate as the gamekeeper. The lady he serves is a newly-widowed countess, whom he recently helped return to the castle when he discovered her out on the grounds in only her sodden nightdress after a storm.

A terrible miscalculation has convinced Guthrie he must stop poaching from the estate, as he's been doing to save money for a new life in the Canadas. Guthrie informs his best friend and poaching partner that he won't be taking part in it anymore.

Click HERE for a previous poem about Guthrie.

I've based him on English actor Sean Bean. Lady Moncrieffe is based on Canadian actress Neve Campbell.

You can Ride the Poetry Train by clicking HERE.













Not After That Look


Guthrie left Lundy’s room
Above the storehouse
Headed back over fields
To his own rough cottage

No one about at this late hour

Just as well be noon
All the sleep he was likely to get
Worked up as he was
Paused in the night air

Head back, look at the stars

What he needed was a smoke
Boulder ahead a little ways
Sit himself down, light up his pipe
Collect himself

Smoke rising gracefully into the night

Nice to sit here
Only man awake in all of Scotland
Just God and Guthrie Carmichael
Sitting together and having a smoke

Thoughts like bait in a swollen stream

Sooner or later, these thoughts
Would arrange themselves
An actual plea
For forgiveness

Movement in the distance

Turned slightly
Peered into the gloom
Unholy shiver pure fright
Ran through him head to foot

Liquid movement, gliding paleness

Took pipe from mouth
Slid off the rock
Quiet as the ghostie there
A spirit loose in these parts?

Could well be a brand new ghost

He might be scared witless
If he was the first to see it
Wouldn’t that be something?
Crept along, gained steadily

Could make out a dress, a white dress

He raced ahead
More noise with increased speed
Skin along his neck crawling
Dare not steal a look behind him

Might lose footing in the dark

It would be upon him
In all its ghastly menace
Leaped down a small rise
Close to turf, eyes level to ground

Perhaps he would give this ghostie its name

Figure’s approach inexorable
Guthrie’s winded breathing quieted
Its face
He had to be imagining

It couldn’t be

The ghost was his mistress
Lady Moncrieffe
Had the lady died in the night?
Remorse for the injury he gave her

Flared hotly in his chest

Impossible
She had mended from that wound
An accident?
He followed again, wondering

Heaviness of her movements

Manner fluid, dreamlike
Dreamlike
Guthrie stopped cold
That morning he’d followed her on horseback

The morning after the storm

No one had spoken of it
As if it hadn’t taken place at all
Eventually this path would take her
To the road where they’d first met up

She was sleepwalking. Had to be.

Increased his pace a little
Didn’t take long to catch up with her
Stomach lurched again
Her eyes were wide open

She took several trancelike steps

She slowed and stopped
“Ma’am.” Guthrie touched the edge of his tam
She crossed her arms in front of her
“I don’t think he’ll be coming, after all.”

And she turned to walk back along the path

Guthrie dashed smartly to overtake her
Slowed to a walk
She looked at him
Her gaze traveling through him

Smile flittered across her lips

Eased next to Guthrie
Slipped her hand between his arm and waistcoat
He crooked his elbow
Arm and arm with Lady Moncrieffe

Nearly dragging him along with single-mindedness

The long walk to Kinnoull an unsettling stroll
Her bosom pressed against his elbow
Her hip brushing his thigh
Was she awake or asleep?

How could he be so fortunate among men

Coming across her each time
She took these strange odysseys?
Perhaps this worked as a penance
For not putting an end to his poaching

Sooner

If the Good Lord meant to show him
What it meant to be a shepherd
Who was Guthrie Carmichael to argue?
He would see his wayward lamb home

No harm done

No one the wiser again if they were lucky
Outline of castle loomed
In faint light of approaching dawn
No word had passed between them

They reached a door he'd never seen before

Could see that it gaped there, still open
Why the turmoil swirling in his stomach?
He led her to the doorway
Opened it a little wider

And passed her through

Extending the arm she’d been clutching
Till she was over the threshhold
He watched her feet
Assuring that she didn’t trip

Then he looked up into her face

Before he knew whether he was up
Down or turned on his ear
There she was - planting her lips on his
Lady Moncrieffe stepped back

Eyes trained on him

In the most unnerving manner
Shining with languorous flame
Before he had a chance to stammer anything coherent
The corners of her lips curled

A provocative smile

“I’ll wait for you,” she purred
Beginning to walk inside
She turned her head to glance at him
Lips closing over invitations unspoken

Lashes dropped to hide desire in her eyes

Then she was gone, swallowed into the shadows
Guthrie stood there for a long while
Unable to move out of the doorway
The words she’d spoken

Commanded him against any will of his own

Like a man from the old tales, her spell cast on him
And nothing he could do to resist her
Come now, lad. She’s dreaming.
That invitation was not meant for her gamekeeper

For whom, then?

Her poor husband, that’s who.
He reached into the darkness of Kinnoull
His fingers groped for the doorhandle
As if reaching into a hive

Crawling with bees

Carefully, he pulled the door shut
He would post himself on watch not too far away
Keep his eye out
In case she wandered again

He’d light up his pipe, finish his smoke

There’d be no sleep
Not for him
Not after that look
Into his ladyship’s eyes

- Julia Smith, 2009


Annette says Left me wondering what will happen between them.

Sweet Talking Guy says I think there must be something in the Look!

Anthony North recalls early writing he ripped up - All the stories & characters have reappeared, but it's amazing how we change over time.

Through the Opera Glasses - 7 - Five No-Fail Inspirations When I Write

This past weekend I had three days off, and all to myself. It's not often I get such a luxury. And what did I do with those three days?

I wrote 4000 words of my English-gardener-transported-to-Van-Diemen's-Land story.

Since I 'cast' all of my characters, once I've got them settled in my mind, writing about the English gardener means having Ewan McGregor on the brain. I often turn to a file of photos I've got on my computer featuring my inspiration actors. Most of the time they're still shots from different films they've been in, with the actor caught up in an emotion that's central to the major scenes from my own story.

And watching scenes from the films themselves really helps. I 'download' the way the actor moves, the way he speaks - and my own character just takes off inside my mind.

Here's a little peek into my inspiration for the five stories I've got on the go. Not all at once, of course. They take turns.

















The first character who came to me was Guthrie Carmichael, a Scottish gamekeeper on an earl's estate in the 1820's. Once I felt I knew him well enough, I cast him as English actor Sean Bean.

My character has similar coloring to Sean Bean, but Guthrie has gray eyes instead of Sean Bean's blue ones. And I don't let the actor's English nationality get in the way of my character's Scottish background.

Here's a backstory poem I wrote from Guthrie's point of view. It really gets to the heart of his motivation:

Gold That Burns



The second character who came to me is Robbie Flynn, the English gardener in 1840's Cheltenham. I cast him as Scottish actor Ewan McGregor.

You see how I don't let the actor's nationality affect the way the character comes to me... English-actor-inspires-Scottish-gamekeeper, Scottish-actor-inspires-English-gardener.

In a bizarre bit of trivia, the estate where Guthrie the Sean-Bean-gamekeeper is employed is set near Crieff in Scotland. This was worked out before the gardener story came to me, before I started looking up info about Ewan McGregor. And yet Crieff is where Ewan McGregor hails from.

Here's a backstory poem from Robbie's point of view:

For Helen He Would Do It


The next character that came along was Jock MacKeigan, a highland clansman fighting the English in 1746. I cast Scottish actor Robert Carlyle for this character. First match of actor nationality to character background!

A very recent poem posted for last week's Poetry Train gives a glimpse into Jock's tough, fearless fighter:

Take One More With Him



















A magnificent character who came to me is the Dark Ages vampire, Peredur. By the time Peredur came to me, I already knew he would be 'played' by Gerard Butler. Peredur is Welsh, but Scottish Gerry will do fine. Just fine.

Although I didn't specify that this poem was from Peredur's point of view, I think I can share this secret with you now:

The Red Joy At Last


Last but emphatically not least is my latest arrival, Scorpius, chamberlain of Lady Elinor's keep. He appeared to me in the guise of English actor Richard Armitage. Scorpius is a paranormal/fantasy character, so Richard's English background is a total plus.


Here is Scorpius' backstory poem:

How Can I Ache For What I Never Had

Who are your favorite inspirations?

Poetry Train Monday - 53 - An Excerpt From My Gamekeeper Story

Here's another excerpt, this one from my Scottish gamekeeper story. This excerpt precedes the one I posted previously:



Scottish gamekeeper excerpt 2

This story is set in Scotland in the early 1820's. Lady Jocelyne Moncrieffe hides from her dangerous nephew in the highlands. Guthrie Carmichael, her gamekeeper, takes her to stay with his family, only to discover his sister - who raised her brothers from the age of twelve - is gravely ill. I've modelled Jocelyne after Neve Campbell, while Guthrie is modelled after Sean Bean.


Excerpt


In this murky gloom, Jean’s pale wasting body sent his thoughts back to the cell on the far side of town, to that day twenty-seven years past, when he’d run from his father’s bony grasp.

Guthrie’s stomach lurched and his chest suddenly hollowed, filled by a sickening weight that pressed on him.

His father had asked for them, for his children, for he’d known he hadn’t much time left. And as it turned out, he’d lasted only another four days.

Jean had taken them to the prison, had carried three-year-old Guthrie past the gargoyle faces hovering over the entrance and had pulled him, unwilling, through the dark passages, following the warden with his great jangling keys that had opened their father’s cell door.

The other boys were quiet and compliant, somehow sensing the serious nature of this visit. They followed Jean to the prison without any trouble, had filed past the monstrous stone faces without a shiver or complaint. It was only Guthrie who’d pulled back on Jean’s hand, afraid to go in, afraid of the stone walls and the timbered doors four inches thick. It had been Jean’s father as well, hadn’t it, dying there, and perhaps she too had been afraid to go in. Had wished for a hand to hold that wasn’t Guthrie’s tiny resisting one.


Jean tried to go to Father, struggling to rise on his filthy cot. But Guthrie clung to her, his arms and legs clamping around her body in a desperate grip. He wailed piteously, the pitch of it rising as she attempted to go near Father again.

Motioning Alastair to approach in her stead, Jean stood impatiently with the others, hiking Guthrie’s weight up when he began to sag down her undeveloped hips. And Guthrie, afraid of being set down, clamped on all the tighter, choking her neck in his desperation.

In the dim light through the rusted grating over the window, Guthrie saw Craig’s little face staring over at Father. Eyes round as boiled eggs and little fingers pulling absently at his lips.

Behind him, Guthrie heard low whispering as Alastair spoke with Father. Guthrie didn’t like Father's wheezy breath, the coughing. He didn't want to speak to this father. He wanted his old father, the laughing father. He longed to be scooped up and tossed into the air by strong hands, embraced by arms alive and filled with love. But all Guthrie felt in that dark cell was clutching, fearful desperation.

Father’s tone deepened, thickened. Not only babies cried, but men could, as well. Guthrie went very still from the shock of it, laying his cheek against Jean’s shoulder, relaxing his grip on her. She’d rocked him back and forth, turning to urge Lewis to go to Father next, and then Taggart.

Sniffles permeated the cell. Father spoke to each boy, his voice trembling. Craig grabbed onto Jean’s skirts, and Guthrie tensed once more as Jean reached down to take Craig by the shoulder, to nudge him gently forward. Guthrie whimpered as she took a step towards the cot.

“Hush now!” she hissed in his ear. Guthrie stilled abruptly. He pressed his face into Jean’s neck. Craig cried quietly at Father’s soft words.

Jean began to kneel, bringing Guthrie down to where Father could touch him. Guthrie didn’t remember much of what happened then.

Now in Jean’s room, he felt that same horror building in his chest, overflowing his gut. It never failed him with these memories. Perhaps his distress showed on his face, for wasn’t Lady Moncrieffe awake now, peering at him through the dark, her eyes glinting with concern?

Jerking her head to look at Jean, his mistress rose from her chair and attended to his sister. A few cursory checks and it was clear that Jean was sleeping undisturbed by any bad turn.

Rising, she asked, “Have you come to sit with her awhile?”

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Only locked his gaze on hers.

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?”

For some reason he couldn’t understand, that question, her voice, the expression in her eyes - a furious yearning rolled like a wave through his body, and Guthrie blinked at the tears burning his eyes and choking his throat.

Footsteps crept into the room behind him and Lady Moncrieffe glanced over his shoulder.

“D’ye need some sleep, then, or is Guthrie taking the watch?” Craig asked softly.

“I believe he was intending to give me some rest, but he looks much more tired than I am,” Lady Moncrieffe spoke up.

“I’ll take the next watch with her,” Craig said, heading past the others for the chair.

Before he really knew how it happened, Guthrie stood outside the door of the worn-out house, Lady Moncrieffe closing it behind them. He stared at her, watching her pull one of Jean’s threadbare shawls tighter about her shoulders.

“You looked as though you could use some air,” she said. A slender but determined arm slipped through his. She led him forward, their path easy to find in the grey dawn.

Where was she taking them? he wondered. She didn’t know the area at all.

Not far, it seemed. She stopped at a shelf of black basalt rock creeping up beside the path. When he continued to stand, as if bewildered, she all but pushed him down so that he sat on the ledge.

Her giggling roused him from his stupor.

“Was I this lively when I was the sleepwalker?” she asked, smiling.

He smiled back, though his stomach churned like rapids foaming over rocks. He remembered another doorway, a grander door than his sister’s. A door much like the one that kept the Inverness prison locked tight against the daylight.

His lady had turned in that doorway. Had kissed him and said, “I’ll be waiting.”

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?” she asked again, her voice tinged with longing.

He looked at her, his heart beating at the sight of her. The faint grey light cast a bluish tint to her skin.

“Ye really don’t recall it, then? What ye did when I found ye wandering around in the night?”

He watched her recoil, as if his very words were noxious.

“No.” Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pressed together, as if she feared words that had already been spoken and too late to change them.

“I ought to tell ye, then. Should have done, before...” But he lost his way, in her brown eyes so filled with dread.

Her fingers closed around his arm. “Don’t feel that...you...oh...” Her voice trailed off and she turned her head, staring at the rock ledge and waiting for the blow to land. Guthrie felt her nearness, as if those inches didn't separate them. And suddenly they didn’t.

He pressed her against his body, covering her lips with his mouth.

All the moments of his life led to this one. Guthrie's senses screamed back to life with the taste of her. Opening his eyes, he found Lady Moncrieffe returning his gaze with naked fear. He released her.


“That’s something ye wouldna remember.” His words tumbled into the morning only to hang there, idiotic and humiliating to them both. Guthrie sat, staring at his feet. Wishing he’d never got up from his bed, had not lit the candle, not entered Jean’s room to find Lady Moncrieffe watching over his sister.

But angels could be swift with righteous anger. This one swung her slender arm with all the force of her injured pride. Her hand struck his face with a loud crack. Guthrie’s cheek flared with pain.

“You forget yourself, sir!”

“No. But I wish I could.”

“What was the meaning of that? Tell me plainly!”

“Ye said ye didna remember what ye did or said when I found ye sleepwalking. So I just showed ye.”

His mistress trembled with outrage. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes darkened with anger.

“When I brought ye back to Kinnoull,” he went on, “the second time - ye never woke. And we walked back, the whole way. Ye spoke with me and I answered ye. Ye took me by the arm and walked with me, up to the castle door. As if we were sweet on each other. And then ye turned, and ye did to me what I just did to ye.”

His mistress looked at him in raw dismay. Guthrie dropped his gaze, unwilling to see her at such a loss.

“What more is there?” Her voice thickened with shame.

Without raising his head, he replied, “Ye said to me, ‘I’ll be waiting.’ And then ye went into the castle. And I stood there, wondering if ye meant fer me to follow.”

He peered at her, but she could not meet that look. She shut her eyes against the sight of him.

“And I wished that ye did mean fer me to follow," he said. "But I knew ye were dreaming. That ye thought I were someone else - yer husband, I figured. In yer dream, ye were trying to meet up with someone. That’s who I figured it were. Who else would ye be kissin’?”

“Not my lover, surely!”

Guthrie’s heart squeezed painfully. “I told ye - I knew ye didna mean me. But it didna stop me from standing there in an empty doorway, wondering what it would be like if ye had meant me.”

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 37 - Gold That Burns

At the request of Susan, here is a bit of backstory for Guthrie Carmichael, the Scottish gamekeeper from my excerpt posted last week.




















Gold That Burns


At my birth, my father bid his love goodbye
She slipped away, my sister clutching to her breast
Five boys - poor Jean a wee thing and all
No girls to wash and peel and mend
Five boys too young to work. Too young
To stop the men with fists who took him off

I pulled upon her hand yet on we trudged
She knew our father's cough would never heal
The damp, the rot, the gaol's stone walls
Took on the spectre of his hollowed gaze
My sister raised us all with his firm hand
With mother's gentle kiss, and so we thrived

While Jean seemed yet a girl, so slight, so worn
No suitor, only brothers grown and safe, in service all
Though it would hurt her to the quick to know
Her dearest Guthrie poached from the estate
Putting guineas by to sail from these cruel shores
Determined that I be the man my father dare not dream

Risking stone gaol and iron door with every snare
Am I seeking life and fortune with my plan?
Or do I run from father's dying grasp, gaining no ground
Seeing only Jean's trusting gaze each time I
Lift the false shelf to hide the gold that burns


Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 36 - Excerpt From My Scottish Gamekeeper Story

In honor of Valentine's Day this week, my offering for the Poetry Train is an excerpt from the very first manuscript I wrote. I figured some romantic tension might be just the thing.


To introduce you to the characters, this is the story of Guthrie Carmichael, a gamekeeper on a Scottish castle estate in 1822. Because I cast all my characters, which makes it easier for me to write them, Guthrie looks like English actor Sean Bean, whom you may know from the Richard Sharpe series or as Boromir from The Lord of the Rings films.




Guthrie is employed by Jocelyne, Lady Moncrieffe who recently lost her husband the earl and is trying to sort out who legally inherits the earldom. Jocelyne looks like actress Neve Campbell from Party of Five and Scream.

Jocelyne's nephew has arrived and seems rather eager to take over the reins, but a new development suddenly puts her life in danger. She flees to Guthrie's modest highland home until another innocent's life hangs in the balance. As we pick up the story, the two of them stay at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth as they travel south to stop her nephew.

Jocelyne lived with the family of her servant in the highlands, and now Guthrie must pretend to be her cousin and act the gentleman to stay with the Knoxworths. Accompanying them is Guthrie's best friend Ronald Lundy, the coachman back at the castle, the one who sent word that they must return. Lundy poses as Guthrie's servant, which makes for awkwardness between the two friends.


Excerpt from my Scottish Gamekeeper Story


Lundy woke him in time to dress for dinner. Guthrie shaved at the mirrored wash stand in his room, then freshened up before climbing into his fancy new rigging.

He reddened in discomfort that his friend should shine his shoes even as he plunged his limbs into this foreign territory. There were fawn-colored trousers, a white linen shirt with tiny pearl buttons that took an age to do up. Then a striped satin waistcoat, gold and tan, and a chocolate brown cravat. Lundy struggled to tie it at his friend’s throat amidst more snickering. Overtop of all this, a burgundy evening jacket ending smartly at the waist in front, and sporting medium-length tails behind.

Then Lundy fussed over his hair like a maid. Splashing hair tonic onto his palms, Lundy ran his hands through Guthrie’s wayward hair, smoothing it down, parting it to the side with a comb, and arranged it till he was bang up.

“How do they get it to go all in curls?” Lundy muttered.

Launched off to the dining hall, Lundy gave him instructions on how to address the servants in the event that he should get lost.

Dinner was nearly enjoyable. He knew by now to encourage the duchess to begin a story as a means of buying time, so he’d not be at risk of exposing his own inadequacies of manner. He remembered to lag behind everyone else, never to be the first to reach for a utensil or a glass, so he could copy their movements without showing too much of a delay about it.

He took pains to ignore the meal itself - no matter how mysterious the dish was, whether or not he could identify the substance as meat, fish or fowl. All of it hid beneath equally curious sauces and jellies. He transformed any shock that came over his face into an unexpected delight at the talents of their cook. And though he’d rather have washed everything down with a great jar of ale, the wine was an acceptable alternative.


It seemed no time at all before Lady Moncrieffe had slipped her arm through his, and they were bidding their goodnights to the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth. Turning from the dining hall, they strolled down the corridor and headed up the staircase, under the playful gaze of the cherubim tumbling from the gallery ceiling.

“Indeed, Mr. Carmichael,” his mistress said. “I’ve never seen the duchess so taken with anyone, aside from the duke himself, that is.”

Guthrie chuckled, embarrassed.

“You’re doing a remarkable turn,” she continued. “Even I’m beginning to think we’re related.”

“Lundy must have known best, after all,” said Guthrie.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “Never underestimate a man from Moray.”

Guthrie looked at her. She walked beside him, sparkling in colored gemstones at her throat, her wrist, within the loops of her dark hair. She’d flashed him such a smile, those lips sliding back down to hide her teeth. Those lips -

He took a deep breath.

“Ye slept well last night, then?” he stammered.

They were nearing her door. “Yes, thank you. I knew that I would.”

She stopped, and they lingered, their arms still entwined.

“Ye looked so peaceful,” he whispered. “I couldna think what might drive ye from that peace.”

Her gaze took him in. Those brown eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, till there was nothing but her eyes, nothing but himself looking into them.

“Ye’ve got a maid to see to ye?” His voice was throaty with the need of her.

“I’m to ring for her - ”

“Don’t.” He lurched forward, jerked the doorhandle and pushed wide the door. With a sure hand, he grasped her forearm, tugging her into the room with him.

“Secure that,” he said, nodding his head toward the door even as he strode across the room for the one that led into his own.

His mistress, startled into silence, walked to the door and locked it. Guthrie swiftly made his way through the connecting doors and burst in on Lundy, who sat lounging by the fire. Before Lundy could open his mouth, Guthrie said, “I’m with her ladyship. Got everything ye need?”

Lundy raised a dish of clean-picked bones with one hand, hidden till now by his chair. His other hand nursed a steaming cup of tea.

Guthrie grinned and nodded. His friend raised the tea cup in salute, settling back in the chair. Turning, Guthrie looked at the door that led to his mistress.

What was he doing? He should tell Lundy.

Lundy would talk him out of it. ‘Ye daft ignoramus,’ he’d say. ‘Those sparkish clothes aren’t yers and don’t be gettin’ used to them. Ye’re lucky for a position at Kinnoull. Even if the new laird’s a murderin’ bastard...’

Guthrie stood at the threshold of his lady’s chamber. He spied her, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent, her hands in her lap.

No.

But his hand pushed open the door. She turned to look at him, her face a confusion of relief and uncertainty. Guthrie crossed the floor to stand before his mistress – until the scent of her, the warmth of her pushed him to his knees. He sank willingly to the floor before he lost himself to the force of her.

“Mr. Carmichael,” she said, alarmed.


“Ye have no maid to help ye. So I shall do it.” His fingers wrapped around the heel of one slipper, easing it from her foot. Her breath drew sharply. The other slipper, gone. He held those silky feet in his hands, that gossamer feel of the stockings as he slid his palms along her calves, along the pale whiteness of her thighs beneath those rustling skirts. She trembled.

The tips of his fingers found the garters holding them in place. With a mere tug, they gave in to him. He slid the silk loose, her skin even softer. She made sounds that stirred him with furious intention.

He looked up past the tumble of her petticoats, her evening frock cascading every which way. Her eyes closed, her mouth open in a suspended oh. When he stopped, her lashes fluttered open. Her gaze travelled drunkenly downwards, till she found him looking at her. A surge of power coursed through him.

She was his. Whatever he desired, she would give it to him.

“Milady,” he said, “when we get ourselves back to the castle, whatever happens with it, wherever ye may end up, I shall serve ye. Not because ye’re my mistress. Because I love ye.”

She looked at him as though he’d struck her. Every nerve in his body prickled with that admission. He loved her. It was simple.

The great, divine comedy of it made him want to roar - with laughter, with sobbing, with rage that it should be so. He would risk everything, every ridiculous dream of a life where he would be his own man. He would be nothing if he was asked to trade his lady for that.

“God help me,” he said. “But I must have ye.” And he bent his head, touching his lips to the inside of her knee, his forehead brushing the tousled creamy satin of her gown.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, squeezing rough handfulls of it. Suddenly she tugged at him, so he was forced to look at her.

“You shall not have me.” Her brown eyes were blazing, daring him to contest her.

“I must.” He brought his hands up to cover hers, pulling them free, turning the palms so that he buried his face in her grasp.

“You don’t want me,” she persisted, her breathing growing heavier.

“I do want ye,” he said, pressing her palms to his lips, grasping her wrists and pulling her face closer to his.

Lady Moncrieffe’s expression darkened, her anger swift, so that she yanked her arms free of him. “You can’t even see me, for this!” She held the glittering bracelet poised between them like an accusation.

Guthrie grabbed at her arm and held her fast. He could see that it was a little too tight, that she bit back a comment. He unfastened the clasp and freed the bracelet from her wrist.

He let her go, meeting her gaze as she gasped at his rude treatment. Dropping the bracelet on one of the stockings beside him on the carpet, he rose to his feet. He circled around the bed, climbing upon it to kneel behind her and unclasp the necklace in silence. Grasping her shoulders, he leaned forward, tossing the string of jewels past her legs, to land next to the bracelet on the silky nest.

His lips nuzzled her ear as he whispered, “I am yer servant, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I shall help ye to undress. I’m yer servant, because I love ye. I shall undress ye, to love ye. Ye’re my lady.”

Burying his face into the curve of her neck, Guthrie’s heartbeat quickened as he heard her sigh. He set to work on the colored strands of jewels entwined in her hair. As the tresses loosened, a dizzying aroma of spices wafted from the coils and braids that his fingers set free. Bending his head to plunge his face into the soft thickness of her dark hair, he groaned his pleasure as she whispered, “Guthrie.”

He slid off the bed to kneel once more before his love. For a breathless moment he stayed immobile at her feet, looking up at an image so beautiful it threatened to choke him. He swallowed against it as his hands moved of their own accord. He took hold of her foot and kissed it, rubbing his face along the curve of her instep.
His hands skimmed the elegance of her legs, his lips brushing the contours of her knee. Her hands lunged for his hair once more, holding him in place.

Guthrie slipped his hands around to her bottom, and the shock released him from her grip. He rose, swept her legs up with one arm and eased her onto the bed. Her gaze locked with his, full of the anchoring steadiness which saved him so many months ago in the Tower Room.

Her features were gravely serious.

“You are truly mine, then?” she said, her voice thick with desire.

Guthrie swallowed. “Aye,” he said.


She seemed to take in his features like a map reader, the ridge of his eyebrows telling her one thing, the slope of his cheeks another. When she was done surveying him, she looked deeply into his eyes.

“I have never had anything of my own before,” she said. Her voice was awed and delighted at once.

Guthrie didn’t know what to say to that.

He pulled her close to him, burying his face in those dark tangles. And when she sought out his lips, her kisses were the reprieve he sought. For he had never given himself to anyone before, and he didn’t know whether he would regret it when he put his feet back on the duke’s floor and made his way back to his room in the morning.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008