Wordless Wednesday - 36

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

A Night at the Ballet, A Night at the Movies and a Tale of Three Mr. Darcy's

I've spent the last couple of nights in one of my favorite of all places - settled into my theatre seat to watch a show. On Valentine's Day my mom and I went to see the Atlantic Ballet Theatre perform The Phantom of the Opera at the Rebecca Cohn Autitorium in Halifax. This is a six-year-old company whose home city is Moncton, New Brunswick. In a very short time they've created a repertoire which includes six full-length ballets.

I've wanted to see them perform every time they've danced here in Halifax, but my wallet was always on a different schedule when they were here before. I was really sad to miss their prior performance of Phantom, so when my mom and I read that they'd returned with it, we got tickets right away.

This is a ballet version of the Gaston Leroux 1910 novel, set to music by Francis Poulenc. The choreography by Igor Dobrovolskiy was uneven, with the first act a little vague as to story compared with the second act - which rocked!


The best, most wonderful thing was my discovery of dancer Kostyantyn Voynov. Born in the Ukraine, he's settled in New Brunswick as a founding member of this young dance company. Yay for me! What an exciting find.














His technique is superb, his acting very passionate and his stage presence charismatic. Thank you, God, for Kostyantyn Voynov!

Photos by Marty Melanson





Tonight I met up with Brad after work and we caught The Spiderwick Chronicles. Brad and I both quite liked it. It follows the story of a boy trying to cope with his parents' separation, a move from the city to a small town, and the discovery of a Field Guide to magical beings which a malevolent creature will stop at nothing to wrestle from his grasp. I really enjoyed Freddie Highmore's performance. Here's a few capsule reviews -

Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times says: "What will cause nightmares for younger kids will delight older ones, since The Spiderwick Chronicles is a well-crafted family thriller that is truly scary and doesn't wimp out."

Ella Taylor of The Village Voice says: "The movie's richly autumnal look is by swift turns cozily naturalistic and terrifyingly baroque, and director Mark Waters (Freaky Friday, Mean Girls) sustains the balance between real and surreal with mischievous brio."


Peter Sobczynski of eFilmCritic says: "It offers a certain number of pleasures for those viewers who think that they have seen it all before, including some nice bits of humor here and there, a surprisingly serious undertone and a gleefully over-the-top finale that will no doubt delight kids and appall overly sensitive mothers all across the country."


And heading into the weekend, I'll be curled up on the couch watching multiple versions of Pride and Prejudice. The A&E version continues on Sunday with the incomparable Colin Firth.













I'll finally be able to see my adored Laurence Olivier's version of Mr. Darcy in the 1940 film. My former manager at work has an extensive collection of DVD's and loaned it to me.













Though it's lowest on my totem pole, I should take another look at the Matthew MacFadyen version of Darcy. He had some good longing and tension going on.














Who is the ultimate Darcy?

Colin Firth?
























Laurence Olivier?



























Or Matthew MacFadyen?

Thursday Thirteen - 42 - 13 Victorian Valentines

Happy Valentine's Day to you - hope your day is flirty and fun!



- 1
















Early example of a decorated paper valentine from Indiana University library

Text reads:

Why fear to answer yes?
This circling bond a charm,
Will give existing bliss;

Will plighted vows each bosom warm,
Doubt not dear maid; no guile with me,
But love unto eternity.




- 2











- 3
















Lace paper valentine, mid 19th century

Tis sweet to Love
And passing sweet
When Heart to Heart
In rapture meet



- 4



















- 5


















- 6


















-7












- 8
















- 9












- 10












- 11
















- 12
















- 13

Wordless Wednesday - 35

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

Review for Firebird by Mercedes Lackey

This is my second review for Kailana's Four-Legged Friends Reading Challenge.

I just finished Mercedes Lackey's Firebird, which I absolutely adored. She's a fantasy author I've often heard about but hadn't yet had the pleasure of discovering. Now I'm a big fan.

Kailana's challenge required books that featured animals as main characters, so I'd asked my husband to scour our immense hoard of books for a few that fit her criteria. My first book was The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman - you can read that review here.

Firebird features many animals whose language is understood by Ilya, the main character, once he sees the fabled Firebird in his father's cherry orchard. I knew I'd love this book when I turned the first pages to the dedication and found this:

"To Natalia Makarova
Always, for me, the Firebird"

In fact, I have to admit I suddenly got a bit teary as I realized I'd picked up a book written by a kindred spirit.


For those who don't recognize the name, Natalia Makarova is a former Russian prima ballerina whom I had the privilege of seeing in performance when I first moved to Toronto in the late 80's and she guest starred with The National Ballet of Canada in Onegin. Here is a photo of Ms. Makarova taken by Dina Makarova (no relation.) And here's a clip of her when she danced in a 1981 performance of Swan Lake with The Royal Ballet in England.



Here is another dancer, Diana Vishneva, Principal Dancer of the Kirov Ballet, dancing the role of the Firebird. She also dances with the American Ballet Theatre.

Getting back to the book review - I was immediately predisposed to like it because of her dedication, and to my delight Ms. Lackey delivered. The story follows young Ilya Ivanovitch, one of a number of strapping sons of a medieval Russian boyar or nobleman. Living by the divide-and-conquer creed, his father Ivan pits his sons against one another rather than foster any family togetherness. Ilya wishes it were not so, but he is forced to live his days looking over his shoulder, constantly on guard against his brothers. They recognize that Ilya is the most clever of Ivan's heirs, and several times they gang up on him, leaving him to nurse his wounds in the company of several servants.

When a mysterious thief steals Ivan's prized cherries from his orchard, Ilya will not stop until he discovers who has outfoxed his wiley old father. Even as his brothers fail to stop the thief night after night, Ilya watches as the Firebird arrives in the orchard, singing her irresistable lullaby.

From that point on, Ilya discovers he can understand and converse with the household dogs, horses and anything else he meets with feathers or fur. I really enjoyed Ms. Lackey's characterizations of the different animals. She has a wonderful sense of what would take up the thoughts of four-legged characters.

Ilya then embarks on a journey which takes him far from his miserable homelife and into a more sinister palace ruled by a Kastchei, an evil magician. There he vows to save Tatiana, the most beautiful of the maidens held captive in the palace within the maze. Ilya must use all of his wits, the help offered by his animal friends, and most of all the magical feather of the Firebird to save himself from becoming another living statue in the Kastchei's garden of warriors.

I really loved this book, especially how it still wasn't resolved at only two pages from the end. I could not predict what was going to happen, when all of a sudden the most amazing ending unfolded. I can only hope to end my own books like she did.

Here's an excerpt - enjoy!

" 'I should have known you were too foolish to be true,' the Kastchei said, and the bored resignation in his voice did not hide the undertones of cold rage.

Ilya could not actually see the sorcerer; his wrists had been bound behind his back, and he had been forced into a kneeling position with his head down, staring at the inlaid floor of the Kastchei's throne room. Up above him on the dais, the Kastchei lounged, surrounded by the twelve maidens. That much Ilya had seen before the Kastchei's monsters threw him to the floor and one of them put his boot in the small of Ilya's back to keep him bent over.

'I should have guessed that it simply wasn't possible for anyone as monumentally stupid as you appeared, to be able to penetrate my maze, much less survive for an instant among my minions,' the Kastchei continued into the otherwise silent throne room. 'And now what am I going to do with you?'

Ilya did not reply; he merely licked blood off his split lip and remained silent. The less he said, the more he might learn - and at the moment, he would take anything that would give him a moment more of survival.

'Please.' Ilya recognized the voice of the Arab maid, soft and exotically accented. She sounded frantic, which was flattering, at least. 'For once, for the love of Allah, be merciful...'

Ilya wished he could see what was going on up on the dais, but he didn't dare raise his head. If he did, he'd be kissing the floor again. 'I do not care what Allah thinks of me, dear child,' the Kastchei replied, with a sardonic chuckle. 'And it would be far too risky to be merciful to this one. He's too clever. And, I suspect, too persistent. No matter what I did to him, short of death, he would find a way out of it.'

At this pronouncement, the other eleven joined the Arab maiden in pleading for his life, their voices mingling in a clamor of shrill intensity, Tatiana's voice ringing above the others. 'Has he not proved a worthier foe than all the rest?' she said in clear and ringing tones. 'Surely you cannot merely execute such a foe! Should he not be exalted above the others? Given a special place among your trophies?'

'Oh, a special fate, surely,' the Kastchei responded, his voice utterly cold and expressionless. 'One who had my own - fate - in his hands, oh, he surely deserves a special fate. And it is well for you, my beauties, that you could not be the source of his oh-so-accurate information.' By now that voice was so full of deadly promise that it sent ice down Ilya's spine. 'And I would like, very much, to know who told him what he knows. I intend to find it out before he dies.'

Silence fell again, and then he was gazing at a pair of shoes. Not boots before his eyes this time, but soft black slippers. The Kastchei grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head up so that he was looking into the sorcerer's eyes.

The eyes of someone with no soul, he thought."

- Mercedes Lackey, Firebird, 1996