Poetry Train Monday - 20 - Gardener Story Excerpt

Now that I've got all of my WIP's transferred over from my creaky little turtle of an old computer, I'd like to share an excerpt from one of my historicals.

This story takes place in several locations. It starts off in 1840's England, then follows my two main characters across the sea to Van Dieman's Land (now Tasmania.) This scene takes place about a third of the way into the story.

Robbie Flynn is an under gardener on a country house estate in Cheltenham, England. He plans to serve his apprenticeship under well-respected gardeners until he can be the head gardener or even a landscape designer. His attempts to warn new laundrymaid Helen Slaunwhite about the son of their employer have fallen on deaf ears. I've modelled Robbie on Ewan McGregor.

Helen has recently escaped a harsh life of poverty in the slums. Her time as a laundrymaid feels more like a life of ease in comparison. The master's handsome son makes her feel special, and Robbie's warnings about him just make her dislike the gardener. I've modelled Helen on Kerri Russell.

We pick up the story as it takes a violent turn. Zachary, the master's son has seduced Helen in the conservatory. Robbie attempts to diffuse the situation, but it all goes horribly wrong. The two men fight.

Excerpt:


Chase bucked to free himself. Robbie saw a flash of steel and knew he couldn’t move to deflect it. Then he heard a smash and felt Chase go limp beneath him.

Hands too strong to be Helen’s wrenched Robbie off of Chase. A stout boot clipped him in the ribs.

“Mr. Chase, sir! Good God.”

Robbie fought to catch his breath. He was wet. Why was he wet? The hallboy took hold of Helen as Morrison saw to Chase.

“Don’t you touch her!” Robbie cried.

He struggled to his knees, only to get the butler’s Indian army walking stick across the face. He crumpled on the wet marble, head spinning, chin burning.

“Mind the glass,” Morrison cautioned as it crunched underfoot. “Let’s get him upright.” The crisp instructions of the former sergeant of the 13th Regiment inspired swift obedience even from the young master. He sat with help. More moans from the wanker.

“Don’t try to speak, sir. Your face is a bloody mess.”

Robbie got back to his knees and sat on his heels. No one moved to clobber him just yet. Now he could see what made such a wreck of Chase’s once-fine features. The glass fishbowl that once sat on the table lay in shards on the floor. The goldfish lay still amid a stretch of tiny pebbles and sodden water plants.

Helen stood as still as the little fish. The hallboy held her but she gave him no trouble. She had sealed her fate and Robbie's.

The gash oozed deeply across Chase’s forehead, leading down through his right brow. Robbie and Helen would be up before the Quarter Sessions in short order. The sessions over which retired Brigadier-General Chase, their master, presided. The young master's face was such a gruesome mess it actually made Robbie shudder to see it.

Morrison and the footman settled Chase on the very sofa where that bastard had wrought Helen’s ruination only an hour ago. As foul as that face was now and would be for the remainder of Chase’s days, Robbie knew it would never pay for the tears shed by all the maids whom that pratt had used in here. At least Robbie had given Helen justice of some sort.

Now they would both have to face the wrath of the brigadier-general, whose steps could be heard closing in on the conservatory. Robbie shut his eyes, bowed his head and took a deep breath.

He could do no more for Helen now. He could only face this ordeal with all the character he could muster. Perhaps that would give Helen the courage to do the same.

*

Helen kept her gaze on Robbie as she heard the master approaching. Her chest flushed with cold, fear stopping the breath in her lungs. Robbie still knelt in the wet from the fish bowl. She hoped there were no shards near him that he didn’t see.

Robbie raised his head as the master entered the room. The older Mr. Chase strode over to his son, tipped the younger man’s face forward and had a look at it. Mr. Morrison stepped close and the two men spoke quietly. Then both looked over at Robbie.

The butler motioned to the hallboy holding Helen. “Ask Mrs. Kamala to send for the doctor,” he ordered. The boy let Helen go and dashed off. Helen longed to join Robbie but knew she mustn’t move.

Young Mr. Chase moaned. He seemed in shock. His cut face must feel unbearable.

Just then Mr. Morrison and the master moved towards Robbie with practised ease. They’d served together in India. Their familiarity made them seem to move as one. Before Helen could blink, the butler yanked Robbie to his feet. Old Mr. Chase stood over Robbie by several inches, staring almost calmly into the gardener’s eyes.
Robbie met that gaze defiantly.

“Your handiwork, is it, Flynn?” the master asked in a strangely off-hand manner.

“Your son has wronged many, sir,” Robbie said.

The master looked back at his son. If only Mrs. Kamala would come, Helen thought. It couldn’t be good for the young master to bleed like that.

Old Mr. Chase turned back to Robbie. “Who is the judge of whom?” the master asked. He struck Robbie over and over, coldly and efficiently as Morrison held the gardener in place. Helen surged forward, then checked herself. Tears welled and words tripped over the sobs in her throat.

Finally Robbie hung in Morrison’s grasp. Yet he had barely cried out. The master turned then to look at Helen. That’s when Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette quietly entered the conservatory to see to young Mr. Chase.

How Helen would miss Bernadette. She’d been so kind. The maid stole a glance at Helen just then. Her eyes were shaded with the horror of it all.

Then the master was before Helen. She too looked up into his face as Robbie had done. What she saw was as unexpected as it was unnerving. There was shame in the master’s eyes.

“I trust you’d been warned about him,” he said plainly. Helen saw a string of faces in her mind’s eye – Bernadette, Lucy, Mrs. Tattersoll, Robbie. All had tried to warn her. She’d listened to none of them. Helen nodded, then hung her head.

“You will be out of here in the morning,” Mr. Chase said. Helen felt dizzy. But she nodded.

The master turned and Helen suddenly found her voice. “Please,sir,” she dared.

He stopped.

“What will happen to Robbie, sir?”

“He shall go to gaol to begin with. When the Quarter Sessions begin, we shall see.” Helen darted forward, grabbing at his jacket sleeve.

“Please, sir, you don’t understand!” The master shrugged her off. “It weren’t him, sir! Please, you mustn’t!”

“No Helen!” Robbie called out. Helen shook. But they must know.

“They were fightin’," she said in a rush. "And the young master pulled his pocketknife. He were goin’ to cut Robbie or - or stab him.”

“Sir, she’s just – she’s just trying to…” Robbie blurted out.

“Silence!” the master barked.

Young Mr. Chase protested Mrs. Kamala’s ministrations from the sofa. Helen couldn’t stop her tears. Old Mr. Chase strode back towards Robbie who tried to take a step back but could only press against the butler.

“Who cut my son?” the master demanded. Robbie opened his mouth but shut it again. “When my son recovers himself, he will tell me in his own words. Which of you cut him?”

Helen’s heart crushed inside her chest. Robbie meant to take the brunt of her wrongdoing on his own shoulders. Why? She’d only meant to stop the young master from hurting Robbie with that knife. Now look what she herself had wrought.

Blood mixed with water and coloured pebbles on the white marble floor. Mrs. Kamala and the maid worked swiftly to stop the bleeding, still waiting for the doctor to arrive. All because Helen wouldn’t listen. Her trembling grew worse, but she must get the words out somehow.

“It weren’t Robbie, sir,” she managed. Tears thickened her voice. The master turned. Helen’s gaze locked with Robbie’s.

He shook his head in disbelief. She thought she saw tears starting in those green eyes.

“The fishbowl – I …” she stammered, feeling the weight of it in her hands again. Feeling the water slop over the rim. She looked down and saw the wet splattered over her skirt.

The master took hold of her, dragging her across the floor to the sofa. Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette leaned out of the way, giving her a clear view of the slick red mess of Zachary Chase. Dazed blue eyes looked up at her. How she'd waited through the busy work hours for those eyes to look into hers. Now he seemed a hellish fiend.

“You have made him a monstrosity,” the master growled in her ear. Then he flung Helen to the hard floor. She slid in the wet.

The doctor entered the conservatory, followed moments later by the town constable who arrived with several other men. Helen twisted round and sought Robbie’s gaze once again. The master strode forward. As the way cleared she saw Robbie already looking at her.

His green eyes were charged with anguish. His gaze asked her ‘Why? Why?’ from across the room.

The constable closed in on Robbie. The other men reached for Helen, pulling her roughly to her feet and yanking her arms before her. Helen didn’t look away as Robbie received the same treatment as she. The constable put iron shackles on the gardener’s hands as Helen felt the weight upon her own.

Every last moment her gaze sought Robbie as if she were swept away in a torrent and his image was the last handhold between herself and oblivion.

The pull of his green-eyed gaze pierced through the tumult of their arrest. His gaze never left hers.

Too late, she knew he loved her.


Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Excerpt from Culloden novel

During the brainstorming session, I pulled this story out of hibernation. I started it in 1999! It's a quarter of the way into the story, but there was a lot still to work out.

I put it aside when my husband and I moved from Toronto to Yarmouth, a small fishing town in Nova Scotia. We moved in with my gram because she needed someone living in the same house. My mom couldn't stay in the house for more than an hour at a time because of her environmental illness.

I had quite a bit of culture shock to get past, as I discovered that a Big City urban gal like me doesn't write well in the quiet of a small town. Once we moved to Halifax, my writing got back into gear. But my Culloden story stayed parked until this past Sunday.

Now I can't stop thinking about it. So here's an excerpt.

This story takes place in the immediate aftermath of the battle of Culloden, where the English wiped out the highlanders and embarked on a campaign to crush the Scottish culture. (As we can see from our 21st century vantage point, they weren't terribly successful. Amen to that!)

Excerpt -

Scottish highlands near Drumossie Moor, April 1746


Emma walked to the cave entrance. She couldn't bear the sounds of the servants’ crying any longer.

Dawn beckoned with cool grey fingers. The sound of birdsong dashed any hopes of sleep.

The danger of patrols shimmered in the air like lightening storms. One group on horseback already charged up the hill past them. The entrance to their cave was only a narrow crevasse to squeeze through and not obvious to an Englishman. The mounted soldiers ran down every living creature they’d come across.

Thomas urged them to stay put, for a few days at least. He rotated a watch between himself, Davey and Murray. What if Emma were to wake, only to find a soldier with his knife poised to slit her throat? No wonder Maisie and Poppy huddled together in tears.

Emma's tired, burning gaze swept the forest but nothing moved. Perhaps she could join Murray for awhile. He might welcome the company. Squeezing through the opening and wondering how Thomas had managed it, Emma stayed close to the cave entrance and checked again for signs of danger.


Birdsong made all of yesterday’s upset seem so unreal. Would she be out here shivering in the cold April frost if it had not happened? Emma curled her hands up into her sleeves, the thin wool of her day frock so terribly ineffective. If only Thomas had allowed a fire to be built.

Emma moved quickly past the clearing in front of the cave entrance. She saw Murray’s body spring to life, facing her though staying to the trees.

“It’s me. Emma,” she whispered, the morning so still she felt as if she were shouting.

Murray’s body relaxed. “You’re not relieving me on the watch, surely?” Murray teased her as he always did. How she longed for everything to be normal again.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

“Come stand with me, then.”

She joined him next to the pine. Murray put his arm around her shoulders. He was her younger brother but taller than she was by a head.

“When do you think we can go back?” she asked, knowing she sounded like a child.

“I doubt there’s much to return to.”

“Thank God Thomas got word to us in time,” she said.

“Yes. Thank God.” There was something to Murray’s tone. Emma turned to see the bitter look on his face.

“It was our victory." Murray shook his head as though still unwilling to believe the loss. "Everyone said we would take the day."

“The fighting couldn’t have been far, then?”

“Drummossie Moor.”

“Drummossie Moor! That’s only - ”

“Emma, what do you think I’m telling you? The fighting should have been across the river on higher ground, but the English... Thomas was in town to keep an eye on things and when it went wrong he was nearly killed trying to get back to us.”

There was silence between them, a tense silence. Emma was suddenly very tired of fathers and brothers deciding what was best for her to know.

“Have you seen anyone?” she asked, knowing Murray would never speak first. “Since you’ve come out here?”

“Not a soul.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to go back in there just now.”

“Stay with me, then,” Murray said.

How she longed for everything to be the way it was. Even before this latest battle. When her father, the chieftain of the MacBeans was at home and the clan solid among the hills. She stole a glance back at Murray, who smiled through a yawn.

This did feel better. Though her head reeled with weariness, she liked the living scent of the trees. The musty air of the cave was like a crypt.

Her answering yawn set the wood awash in bleariness. The carpet of pine needles suddenly slid underfoot and she went down heavily, surprised to slide down a slight incline.

There was a groan as she landed squarely on a grimy heap of plaid. A plaid that covered the body of a man.

She squealed, scrambling to regain her feet.

An eye stared back in alarm, revealing a battered face. The man lunged forward like a snake, grabbing her wrists and rolling her onto her stomach.

She grunted as one strong hand forced her face into the ground and the other crushed her wrist against the root of the tree. A sharp knee jammed into her back, forcing the air from her lungs.

He cried out in pain and abruptly released her. Falling heavily beside Emma, he writhed awkwardly as Murray gave one final kick for good measure.

“Emma! Are you hurt?” Murray asked.

She pushed herself to a sitting position. “No, Murray,” she said, rising. “Just took my breath from me.”

She wouldn’t admit to the way her heart continued to pound, nor the way her hands shook as she brushed pine needles out of her hair. She stole a glance over at the stranger lying next to her.

Murray bent to see to him, then knelt, listening at the man’s chest. Her brother’s gaze sought hers. “He’s alive. Thank God.” Murray sat back on his heels.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, her reasoning slow from fatigue and fright.

“He wears the colors of the Scots Royal. That’s your Douglas’s regiment. From the looks of him, the Royals fared badly.”

Emma knelt at the stranger’s side. To look at him now, it was a wonder he’d had the strength to pounce on her like a great mountain cat. But she could still feel the force of him pinning her to the ground.

He lay curled on his side, his dark hair falling over his face, eyes closed. Mud and bruises hid much of the rest of him. His arms and legs wore nasty looking slashes. Blood soaked his plaid and jacket at the shoulder and under his left arm.


Murray’s words sank slowly into her consciousness. Her Douglas. An officer of the Scots Royal. Her Douglas had fought alongside this man. Had led him onto the battlefield.

Where was Douglas now? Was he laying somewhere with no one to help him?

Tears rose to her eyes. Emma reached forward and pushed the hair from the stranger’s brow with tender fingers. The man’s right eye fluttered open. The left one was swollen horribly.

Emma stared back. Such a dark eye it was, brimming with spirit though his body was all but useless to him now. Emma had never seen anyone burn with such ferocity. She began trembling.

It wasn’t the shock of it - not the soldiers, not her family’s flight, not her sleepless hours in the cave, nor the fright from this wounded clansman’s desperate retaliation - none of it had started this quivering.

She trembled because of the way he looked at her.