2006 - 2009
In 2006 I began writing A Gentleman of Sorts, an historical novel set in northern England, 1815, then titled A Franklin’s Tale. I was able to bring all of the lessons learnt from my past experiences with writing novels to AGOS. I had a rough plan. I had sketched the main characters, themes and the plot before setting out. Nothing turned out exactly as I had devised but if you were to hold up the original sketch beside the finished product you’d see a family resemblance. The speed with which I wrote surprised me, as did the inordinate amount of enjoyment I got from writing it. It was exciting to watch something complex come together and see the pieces fit so snugly, too.
A Gentleman of Sorts
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Stuart Baxter sat in the family’s breakfast room quite alone. He was assured by the evidence before him that he was not mistaken in his timing. Before him a table was set for five and to his left was a buffet laden with the fare he normally found at breakfast in his father’s house. Disregarding the absence of his family, all was as it should be. The morning sun shone through the windows, steam rose from his cup of tea and on his plate lay a still warm slice of Mrs Howard’s fresh made cake which he had cut for himself in the expectation that he would soon be joined by his family. He now watched helplessly as the yellow square of butter he had added melted into the cake. It was his usual practice to eat his cake mid-melt, as it were, liking both the solid and the liquid forms of butter equally.
Saddened by this unforseen disaster he stood up and went to the window to examine the morning. He was somewhat buoyed by what he saw. A bank of heavy clouds hung in the west. He hoped they would prove to be storm clouds. He had been distressed on his arrival at Edgecombe to see the devastation wrought upon his mother’s garden by the abnormally dry weather. He had found empty garden beds and sickly trees. The lawn too had lost its rich tones. Though his mother had warned him not to, he had walked down to the pond, the playground of his youth, to find it drained of all its water. Most distressing.
Edgecombe had never seen such dry weather, but now, in the west there was a promise of change.
Mr Baxter heard the particular sound of his mother in the hall,
‘Mother, have you seen what approaches in the west?’
Mrs Baxter entered the breakfast room and joined her son at the window.
‘What a morning I have had!’ she said, only glancing out the window momentarily. ‘Your sister has it in her head to run over to the Dunstan’s. I asked if she might postpone for a week so that we might write and prepare but she rejects this outright. She must go today. She is already packed. She woke poor Daisy in the middle of the night to help her. When I quibbled, she screamed - Have Clive bring round the carriage immediately!’
‘Helen will do as she pleases, mother. Why you persist in stepping in the way! One might as well forbid these storm clouds passage over Edgecombe as forbid Helen anything.’
‘What was that? Oh! Oh! My dear boy, why didn’t you say! Rain! We’ll have rain!’
‘I believe so, though by the dark hue I expect we might regret our ardent prayers for rain as rain turns steadily to flood,’ he said, happily exaggerating his concerns for the fun of unduly exciting his mother.
‘Do not say it!’
‘Why, look yourself. Have you seen such clouds? I have not. Today we shall experience a deluge mother.’
‘Helen cannot go today!’
‘I’m afraid you might have difficulty in preventing her. There goes Clive now with the carriage.’
Mrs Baxter exited the room.
Mr Baxter thought he might enjoy his breakfast now as the rite had been consecrated by his mother’s presence, brief though it had been. He took up another plate and hastened to the buffet. Lifting the silver cover he was delighted to find the cake showed all the signs of being still warm.
Mr Baxter was just finishing his cake when Mr Hanson entered the room.
‘Good lord!’ said Mr Baxter, examining the features of his friend and amazed at the change a day’s walking had wrought upon them.
‘Good morning, Stuart.’
‘What the devil happened to you?’
‘I have not slept.’
‘That alone does not explain the change. Have you not a looking glass in your chamber?’
Mr Hanson grew acutely self-conscious. He raised his hand to his face.
‘Oh, you exaggerate, Stuart.’
‘I do not, take a look at yourself,’ he answered, holding aloft a silver platter for Mr Hanson to look into. Mr Hanson bent down and was indeed surprised by what he saw. His face was gaunt and his eyes red. Dark shadows which he had only ever witnessed on the faces of the dying, crowded his eyes.
‘You see!’ said Mr Baxter. ‘What ever happened?’
‘I was lost on the moor, Stuart. With no food. I wandered round and round all night ‘til I caught a glimpse of the factory lights of Hatten on the horizon. I arrived here at dawn.’
‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Mr Baxter, pouring out a cup of tea for his friend.
‘Yes, your concern for my welfare was evident on my return. Your father’s house was shrouded in unconcern.’
‘You are the most capable man I know! I slept soundly in the knowledge that I should meet you at breakfast in the morning. And it is as I predicted.’
‘Am I to be sustained by this unshakable belief in my capacities? It looks much like indifference.’
‘Me? Indifferent? Dear, dear, Hanson, how you misunderstand me!’
‘Enough!’ said Mr Hanson, smiling, and sitting, ‘The least you can do, friend, is fill this plate for me.’
‘As it is your dying wish,’ said Mr Baxter, rising, ‘I shall.’
Mr Hanson was mid-way through his breakfast, listening to the amiable chatter of his friend, when Lady Susan appeared. Both men stood, they exchanged pleasantries with Lady Susan and she, in turn, waved them down, asking them to be seated.
‘It is extraordinary,’ said Mr Baxter, still standing, ‘Do you not think so, Mr Hanson?’
‘What is, Stuart?’ asked Mr Hanson, looking at Lady Susan, forgetting for the moment his own drastic alteration in his surprise at the change in her.
‘Yes, what is it you mean?’ asked Lady Susan, blushing.
‘I would not have thought it possible that a person might undergo such a change in their person overnight if I had not recently witnessed the change in Hanson but...’
‘Stuart!’ cried Mr Hanson.
‘But I see such changes are possible, and in both directions. For the worse, as in poor Mr Hanson’s case, and for the better, as in your case, Lady Susan. I feel lucky indeed. I have never been present at the very moment a young woman presents herself to the world in the full bloom of her beauty. That is, until now.’
Lady Susan’s confusion was unbounded. She was not unused to Mr Baxter’s liberty of expression but she was unused to it in the presence of Mr Hanson. And she could not but suspect that a confidence had been shared between the men concerning her candlelight vigil. She was ashamed.
‘Oh, Stuart! Please,’ she stammered, and before she could utter another word, tears sprang from her eyes and she was forced to dash out of the room.
‘Well done, Baxter. Capital!’ said Mr Hanson, with heavy sarcasm.
Mr Baxter stared at him in disbelief.
‘Well?’ said Mr Hanson.
‘Well, what?’
‘Go to her. You must apologise immediately.’
‘Please, Hanson, sir,’ said Mr Baxter, heading towards the door, ‘You’ve such a talent for such things, what is it I am to apologise for, exactly?’
Mr Hanson threw his napkin at Mr Baxter who ducked under it before escaping any further attack by skipping out the door.
A Gentleman of Sorts
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Stuart Baxter sat in the family’s breakfast room quite alone. He was assured by the evidence before him that he was not mistaken in his timing. Before him a table was set for five and to his left was a buffet laden with the fare he normally found at breakfast in his father’s house. Disregarding the absence of his family, all was as it should be. The morning sun shone through the windows, steam rose from his cup of tea and on his plate lay a still warm slice of Mrs Howard’s fresh made cake which he had cut for himself in the expectation that he would soon be joined by his family. He now watched helplessly as the yellow square of butter he had added melted into the cake. It was his usual practice to eat his cake mid-melt, as it were, liking both the solid and the liquid forms of butter equally.
Saddened by this unforseen disaster he stood up and went to the window to examine the morning. He was somewhat buoyed by what he saw. A bank of heavy clouds hung in the west. He hoped they would prove to be storm clouds. He had been distressed on his arrival at Edgecombe to see the devastation wrought upon his mother’s garden by the abnormally dry weather. He had found empty garden beds and sickly trees. The lawn too had lost its rich tones. Though his mother had warned him not to, he had walked down to the pond, the playground of his youth, to find it drained of all its water. Most distressing.
Edgecombe had never seen such dry weather, but now, in the west there was a promise of change.
Mr Baxter heard the particular sound of his mother in the hall,
‘Mother, have you seen what approaches in the west?’
Mrs Baxter entered the breakfast room and joined her son at the window.
‘What a morning I have had!’ she said, only glancing out the window momentarily. ‘Your sister has it in her head to run over to the Dunstan’s. I asked if she might postpone for a week so that we might write and prepare but she rejects this outright. She must go today. She is already packed. She woke poor Daisy in the middle of the night to help her. When I quibbled, she screamed - Have Clive bring round the carriage immediately!’
‘Helen will do as she pleases, mother. Why you persist in stepping in the way! One might as well forbid these storm clouds passage over Edgecombe as forbid Helen anything.’
‘What was that? Oh! Oh! My dear boy, why didn’t you say! Rain! We’ll have rain!’
‘I believe so, though by the dark hue I expect we might regret our ardent prayers for rain as rain turns steadily to flood,’ he said, happily exaggerating his concerns for the fun of unduly exciting his mother.
‘Do not say it!’
‘Why, look yourself. Have you seen such clouds? I have not. Today we shall experience a deluge mother.’
‘Helen cannot go today!’
‘I’m afraid you might have difficulty in preventing her. There goes Clive now with the carriage.’
Mrs Baxter exited the room.
Mr Baxter thought he might enjoy his breakfast now as the rite had been consecrated by his mother’s presence, brief though it had been. He took up another plate and hastened to the buffet. Lifting the silver cover he was delighted to find the cake showed all the signs of being still warm.
Mr Baxter was just finishing his cake when Mr Hanson entered the room.
‘Good lord!’ said Mr Baxter, examining the features of his friend and amazed at the change a day’s walking had wrought upon them.
‘Good morning, Stuart.’
‘What the devil happened to you?’
‘I have not slept.’
‘That alone does not explain the change. Have you not a looking glass in your chamber?’
Mr Hanson grew acutely self-conscious. He raised his hand to his face.
‘Oh, you exaggerate, Stuart.’
‘I do not, take a look at yourself,’ he answered, holding aloft a silver platter for Mr Hanson to look into. Mr Hanson bent down and was indeed surprised by what he saw. His face was gaunt and his eyes red. Dark shadows which he had only ever witnessed on the faces of the dying, crowded his eyes.
‘You see!’ said Mr Baxter. ‘What ever happened?’
‘I was lost on the moor, Stuart. With no food. I wandered round and round all night ‘til I caught a glimpse of the factory lights of Hatten on the horizon. I arrived here at dawn.’
‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Mr Baxter, pouring out a cup of tea for his friend.
‘Yes, your concern for my welfare was evident on my return. Your father’s house was shrouded in unconcern.’
‘You are the most capable man I know! I slept soundly in the knowledge that I should meet you at breakfast in the morning. And it is as I predicted.’
‘Am I to be sustained by this unshakable belief in my capacities? It looks much like indifference.’
‘Me? Indifferent? Dear, dear, Hanson, how you misunderstand me!’
‘Enough!’ said Mr Hanson, smiling, and sitting, ‘The least you can do, friend, is fill this plate for me.’
‘As it is your dying wish,’ said Mr Baxter, rising, ‘I shall.’
Mr Hanson was mid-way through his breakfast, listening to the amiable chatter of his friend, when Lady Susan appeared. Both men stood, they exchanged pleasantries with Lady Susan and she, in turn, waved them down, asking them to be seated.
‘It is extraordinary,’ said Mr Baxter, still standing, ‘Do you not think so, Mr Hanson?’
‘What is, Stuart?’ asked Mr Hanson, looking at Lady Susan, forgetting for the moment his own drastic alteration in his surprise at the change in her.
‘Yes, what is it you mean?’ asked Lady Susan, blushing.
‘I would not have thought it possible that a person might undergo such a change in their person overnight if I had not recently witnessed the change in Hanson but...’
‘Stuart!’ cried Mr Hanson.
‘But I see such changes are possible, and in both directions. For the worse, as in poor Mr Hanson’s case, and for the better, as in your case, Lady Susan. I feel lucky indeed. I have never been present at the very moment a young woman presents herself to the world in the full bloom of her beauty. That is, until now.’
Lady Susan’s confusion was unbounded. She was not unused to Mr Baxter’s liberty of expression but she was unused to it in the presence of Mr Hanson. And she could not but suspect that a confidence had been shared between the men concerning her candlelight vigil. She was ashamed.
‘Oh, Stuart! Please,’ she stammered, and before she could utter another word, tears sprang from her eyes and she was forced to dash out of the room.
‘Well done, Baxter. Capital!’ said Mr Hanson, with heavy sarcasm.
Mr Baxter stared at him in disbelief.
‘Well?’ said Mr Hanson.
‘Well, what?’
‘Go to her. You must apologise immediately.’
‘Please, Hanson, sir,’ said Mr Baxter, heading towards the door, ‘You’ve such a talent for such things, what is it I am to apologise for, exactly?’
Mr Hanson threw his napkin at Mr Baxter who ducked under it before escaping any further attack by skipping out the door.