To the untrained eye, it appears that Monty and a Vegas showgirl have escaped a large showgirl competition with Harold. But the truth is, we’re in Brazil, and the Vegas showgirl is either Brazilian or Australian of American. Whatever she is, she’s heavily tanned. And whitened. And tightened. And Montague Moylan-Hazwell is pretty well flummoxed by them. And even more flummoxed by the vehicle they’re attempting to foist upon him.

“Get on!” The feathered female is yelling, pushing him toward a very handsome, very un-Regency-era motorcycle.

“I beg your pardon,” Monty cries as Harold clings for dear life to his shoulder, “What is that…thing?”

The showgirl gives him a look–as though he’s grown a dozen heads. “It’s a motorcycle, you dummy! And if you don’t get on it and take a hike…you’re going to have to deal with…” She points down the dark alleyway to a group of silk-clad gentlemen coming up the street, a-la West Side Story but with more…well…Portuguese.

Monty doesn’t like the look of them. After all, over the last month, he’s met with extravagant dancers and George Lucas and volcano sacrificers…and he’s come to know what dangerous looks like. And in this case, danger is garbed in silk and dancing shoes. They’re snapping their fingers and moving in formation.

It’s a problem.

Only slightly less of a problem than the fact that Monty doesn’t know how to operate a motorcycle. In fact, he’s never even seen a motorcycle, due to the fact that he’s from the Regency. And…time is…well…usually not so bendy. The silk clad gangmembers are grand jette-ing closer and the showgirl realizes that it’s time to take matters into her own hands.

She leaps onto the bike and repeats, “Get on!”

“My lady!” Monty says, all propriety, “I cannot straddle that…thing…with you…it would be…incredibly disrespectful.”

She cuts him a look. “More or less disrespectful than The Fancy Feet Gang killing you?”

He considers the question briefly, then hops onto the motorcycle. “Less. But only slightly.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” she says, and takes off through the streets of Rio, ignoring the way Monty cries in surprise and clings to her for dear life.

“This thing goes faster than any horse I’ve ever ridden!” He yells into her ear.

She screams back at him, “That’s because it has the power of 123 horses!”

“What mad place is this? And what did those men want?”

She laughs and opens the throttle through Rio’s central market, dodging donkeys and bystanders, and nearly running them straight into a banana cart. “This is Rio, Montague…and those men want your treasure map.”

“I don’t have a–”

“Of course you do. It’s in your breast pocket.” She takes a particularly dangerous turn, leading them onto a dirt road headed up the cliffs on the outskirts of the city. Once they’ve righted themselves from the precarious tilt, Monty risks a look into his breast pocket.

“I had no idea…where did it come from?”

“Volcanoes, Amazons, Wookies, who cares! What’s important is that you keep it safe. It’s worth a fortune.”

“How did you know it existed? How do you know who I am?”

She checks the mirrors to be certain no one is behind them and pulls over to the side of the road, climbing off the motorcycle before turning back to Monty and clasping his face between her palms. “I know because you’re a legend. With all of us. The fated marzipan hatbox. It’s you.” She presses a long, lingering kiss to his lips, then pulls back and whispers, “At another time…in another world…”

Engines sound in the distance, coming fast and furious from the direction of the city. Monty pulls her to him, ready to take a second kiss. A third. More. He’s not choosy, and she’s wearing virtually nothing. She stays the movement. “We can’t. You have to save yourself…and the map, Monty.”

She points into the darkness, away from the city. “As fast as you can, down that road. Don’t stop until daylight and they shan’t catch you. I promise.”

“What of you?”

She smiles, her sequins shimmering in the moonlight. “I will survive.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he said softly.

“Harley,” she said. “Call me Harley.” The engines are coming closer now, and she kisses him–fierce and quick–once more. “Go. Now. And don’t forget me.”

As if that could happen. Monty turns to the bike and eases it into acceleration, pulling away as she calls out “Goodbye! Until next January!”

Whatever that means.

Uh…yeah. Time & space are a bit “bendy,” to quote Kate.

Full throttle, down the road. He takes the words to heart. Follows them to a tee–faster and faster, The Fancy Feet Gang closer and closer, desperate for his treasure map…

Until he goes right over a cliff and into thin air.

And lands, sans-motorcycle, in the middle of the Beaufetheringstone Ballroom.

“Good heavens! Montague!” Lady B approaches, extracting her lorgnettes to have a good long look at her nephew. “Wherever have you been? It looks as though you were chased through a holly bush!”

He brushes his fingers over the cut on his eye and the mottled bruises across his cheek. “I’ve been…Aunt Tropey…you wouldn’t believe it.”

Lady B raises a brow. “No. I don’t believe I would. Please go tidy yourself. People will arrive any moment. We’re to have a ball for Miss MacLean. She’s a new book out, and I’m told I am mentioned in it. I can’t very well have you scandalizing the guests.”

Monty smiles and begins to make his way to the ballroom door, wondering how it is that he’d experienced such remarkable things over the last month. Perhaps he dreamed them. Perhaps worse.

His hand drifts absently to the inside breast pocket of his coat, grazing the parchment there. What in– He extracts the paper. An old, creased map. With a large red X in the center.

Treasure.

His next adventure, no doubt.

**

Welcome back to The Ballroom, all! Monty is here–bruised as ever thanks to his insane motorcycle leap!

Tell us, what’s the one daredevil stunt you’d like to try? Bungee jumping? Motorcycle racing? Hang gliding? 

When we last left Monty and his loyal toucan, Harold, they were being summarily ejected from a spaceship on their way back to England from a galaxy far, far away—or, at least, Northern California.

Unfortunately, the ship didn’t quite come to a complete stop before the pilot pressed the eject-o button. Monty found himself clinging to Harold’s legs as the toucan desperately flapped his stubby wings, squawking something about his plumage being meant for show, not for use.

Together, the hapless pair plummeted through the flimsy roof of a tent into—into a form of arena.

Monty turned to Harold. “Old chap,” he said hoarsely, “I don’t think we’re in England anymore.”

Still miffed at being used as a flotation device, Harold ruffled his feathers and turned his back on his master while Monty took a slow turn around the room, trying to figure out where the devil they might be.

Music, like no music Monty had ever heard, throbbed through the room. A gaudily decked pair pushed past him, moving in a strange sort of rhythm. They were dressed in the oddest sorts of costumes, all feathers and sparkles and a rather alarming quantity of face paint. They were all lunging and swinging their hips and waving their arms about in a rather intense way.

If this was dancing, it certainly wasn’t the quadrille.

And why were they all wearing numbers on their backs? Was it in case they forgot their own names?

Monty looked about for someone who might be able to tell him what was going on, but everyone appeared to be jabbering away in a language foreign to his ears.

“Hallo?” he called. “Bonjour? Salve? Χαῖρε!”

He even contorted his body into an Egyptian hieroglyph, but no one seemed to speak Ancient Pictogram either.

Wait! Someone was glaring in his direction, muttering something about “illegal dance steps”. The words didn’t make any sense, but, by Gad, at least the chap spoke English—of a sort.

Turning his back on Monty, the man went back to his low-voiced argument with the female beside him. Both man and woman had the blondest hair Monty had ever seen, browned skins, and alarmingly white teeth.

The female was rather fetching, for all that, at least what he could see under the rather violently applied face paint, which appeared to include some sparkly bits on her cheekbones that flashed when she moved. They were flashing quite a bit at the moment. (As was her bosom, although Monty found it incumbent upon him as a gentleman to pretend to ignore that.) As Monty approached, the lady wrenched her arm from that of the gentleman beside her, sending a shimmer of sparkles drifting to the floor.

“For the last time,” she hissed, “I will not perform the Bogo Pogo!”

What was this Bogo Pogo? Clearly, a carnal contortion of the most depraved and deviant sort.

The anguish on her fair—if overly made-up—face tore at the cockles of Monty’s tender heart. None of his affair, and all that, but still, one couldn’t stand by and watch men in strangely shiny knee breeches molesting innocent young women.

Leaning forward, Monty tapped her on her bared shoulder. “Madame,” he said, in a low voice, “if I might be of any assistance, my sword–”

Where was his sword? Blast! He must have lost it somewhere on that peculiar, rudderless ship. Instead, he seemed to have an odd stick thingy with a button that emitted, when pressed, a strong, red light. Not much use that.

“My toucan and I stand at your assistance,” Monty amended quickly. He essayed a bow. “Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell, at your service.”

“Who is this tosser?” demanded the man, with a sneer that might have been rather more villainous if his eye-black weren’t starting to run.

“I, sir,” said Monty loftily—but was rudely interrupted by a woman, garbed in a sober suit of black with no sparkles to be seen, who waved a sort of board with a clip on it in the air in Monty’s general direction in a rather menacing way.

“You must be Contestant #32. You’re late! Come with me at once!”

With Harold clinging to his shoulder, once again, Monty found himself being hauled away to part or parts unknown.

Over his shoulder, he cried, “Fear not, fair lady! I shall return.”

He only hoped it was a promise he might keep….

Monty was summarily marched off to a chamber of torture. He knew that it was so for there were round lanterns (how did they get the candles to stay that way?) suspended all around a large mirror. The lanterns shed a harsh light upon a series of arcane implements, undoubtedly the brainchild of the Inquisition, set out on a table in ominous array.

“I shall reveal nothing,” Monty declared bravely.

The woman cast him a jaded look. “Trust me,” she said. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

She tossed him a pair of curiously spangled breeches and a shirt so slippery it slid right through Monty’s hands.

“Put these on.” She seemed rather determined, so Monty put them on, although the breeches had rather bizarre fastenings and the shirt appeared not to fasten at all.

The woman in black—obviously a High Inquisitor of some sort— fixed him with a particularly piercing stare through her strange, tilted spectacles. “Where’s your partner?”

Monty grabbed Harold by the feather. They went down together or not at all. “This is my partner.”

The woman gave him a strange look. “Right. Whatever. You’re on the floor in five.” She gestured another woman forward, a woman wearing a long, white coat. What acolyte was this? “Andrea? Take over.”

Monty found himself being pressed into that oddly shaped chair in front of the table with the bulbous lights and the array of small implements of torture. Monty gathered the shreds of his courage. He might be wearing a shirt that bared his chest to the naval (rather a good thing he hadn’t neglected his calisthenics during his sojourn in India), but he was still British, blast it all, and he would not be broken. Rule Britannia and all that.

“Whatever it is,” he declared boldly, “I shall tell you nothing.”

“Honey,” said Andrea, pushing him back in the chair. “You wouldn’t believe the things people tell me.” She unscrewed one of the ominous jars and began—painting Monty’s lips with rouge?

Hmm. Not an altogether unbecoming color….

“I’ve heard it all,” Andrea said wearily. Monty flinched as she brandished a dark wand in his face. Was the torture about to begin? “Hold still. I’m just doing your eyes. Hey, has anyone told you that you have great eyelashes?”

“Well, Aunt Tropey does say I have the family lashes,” Monty said modestly. He considered for a moment. “Unfortunately, she seems to want them back.”

Somewhere, a bell sounded, and a voice rolled out from above, booming something in that strange, foreign language.

Funny, Monty had always imagined the voice of the Lord speaking English and sounding rather like the Pater in one of his more moralizing moods.

“Darn it,” said Andrea. “This’ll have to do. Break a leg!”

And before he could ask her why she wanted him to commit indignities upon his own person—was it a means of avoiding conscription in the army of a foreign power?—she had pushed him out into a form of pen, a bejeweled, bedazzled, and decidedly grumpy Harold perched on his wrist. Harold appeared to be wearing a form of spangled pettiocoat.

“Don’t ask,” he squawked.

But before Monty could ask anything at all, he felt yet another urgent tug on his arm. It was the fair-haired lady, her headdress in disarray, her spangled bosom heaving.

“The competition’s been fixed,” she said. “They’re about to blow the whistle. Come with me!”

And she pulled him through a door into—

Where do Monty and Harold find themselves now?

I must confess to being a little disappointed that we didn’t get to see Monty tango—I rather suspect he’d look pretty dashing with a rose between his teeth, don’t you?

Do you watch those ballroom dance shows? Or do you have another guilty viewing pleasure?

There are very few perfect books I’ve ever read and perfect movies I’ve ever watched. I spent much of my college years wandering bookstores (back when there were more of them to wander) looking for the story that would perfectly capture everything I was feeling. The closest to that that I found was in Ani DiFranco’s music and in Carole Maso’s prose.

However, as a voracious reader, as it seems most of our Ballroom denizens are, there were a myriad stories that were almost perfect. And then there were hundreds more that were flawed but had moments that spoke to me deeply. Some of that last category are what have influenced me most as a writer.

For example, this exchange from The Interpreter. Warning: this following excerpt and the clip come from the end of the film so if you don’t want anything spoiled, don’t read below!

In any event, there is something about Penn’s last line in this section that just gets me every time.

Kidman: You have to get out of here.

Penn: l can’t do that. So put the gun down.

Kidman: l can’t.
Penn: – Yes, you can. Put it down.

Kidman: l can’t! l can’t… l can’t. Just go.

Penn: This is how it’s done. This is how you put a gun down.

Watch it below for the context. This is a horrible version of the clip, but it is the only one I can find.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzAP-LpUebE

Another example is from the PBS television show Sherlock. It took me a while to get into this show and if I hadn’t already run through all the episodes of Flashpoint and Bones available on Netflix, I probably would not have watched it. If you haven’t planned to watch this show, but do intend to, there is a spoiler ahead.

So while I didn’t love this show, I did get into it and it did have some good writing and a few very funny lines. However, there was one section that actually brought me to tears and if you are a fan of the show, you likely already know which!

When John says, “One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead,” he’s getting at that universal feeling of raging against fate, at wanting to turn back time and change the present. As a writer, that angst is one of the emotions that is often important evoke at some point in a story so that the resolution can be that much more powerful.

And one last influence is Gossip Girl. In this case, the “line” I love is all of season 1 and 2. The part that I recommend ignoring is everything after!

What about everyone else? Do you have a favorite scene from a book or movie that is otherwise forgettable or deeply flawed?

When we last left our intrepid travelers, Monty’s vision of a woman begging for his assistance and Harold’s precipitous discovery of a bag of California gold nuggets had begun them on their newest leg of their quest.

Bodhi’s spare surfboard under him, Monty paddled his way out to the trading vessel that sat on the horizon.  A sack of gold nuggets later, he was comfortably ensconced in a berth as they made their way to their destination.  And promptly fell asleep.

Paddling was strenuous work.

That night he dreamed of the woman again.

“Help me, Montague Moylan-Hazwell, you’re my only hope.”

Monty awoke with a start.  “My dream,” he mused.  “It was so odd.  And the beautiful woman… had such a strange hairstyle…”

But Harold was all in a flutter in his cage.  It only took Monty twenty or so minutes to figure out why.  The ship had stopped moving.

quite the view

“Where are we?”  Monty cried, coming up on deck.

“Our destination,” a deck hand informed him, as he was loading crates of apples onto the dock.  Or at least, Monty assumed they were apples, given the apple painted on the side.

“We cannot be in Madrid already!” Monty cried, taking in the lush landscape, the tall buildings, the… bright orange bridge in the distance.

These look like tasty apples

“Not Madrid,” the deck hand wheezed at him.  “Marin.  County,” the deckhand clarified, before yelling to his coworker –  “This lot goes to Cupertino!”

“Cappucino?” Monty asked Harold, who was still trying to figure out how to shrug his non-existent Toucan shoulders.  “If we are not in Spain, we are definitely not in Italy.  Come on Harold,” he said as he walked down the dock. “We need to find a new ship.”

They walked and walked, a distance immeasurable, until appearing like an oasis in the proverbial desert, they came across a sign:

“Skywalker Ranch,” Monty mused.  “Well, I have no idea what a ‘ranch’ might be, but I have hopes that ‘skywalker’ refers to a travel service of some kind.”  He flagged down the first person he could find, a bearded gentleman, his shirt plaid.  Perhaps he was Scottish.

“Hi,” said the bearded one.  “Can I help you?”

Vulnerable and tough. And wearing pastries on her head.

“Indeed!” cried Monty.  “I have been visited by an apparition, of a woman with a hair bundled about her ears asking for my help.  One can only assume she requires either rescuing, or assistance arranging her hair into a more manageable style.”

“Sounds familiar…” the bearded man mused.

“It does?” Monty exclaimed happily.  “Then perhaps you can help me find her.   As a man of honor I must rescue this poor woman –”

“Actually, she’s a princess.”

“ – this poor princess from her trials.  Or hairstyle.”

“Well, if I recall correctly,” the bearded man rubbed his jaw, “We shot the rescue scenes in England.”

“England!  What ho, Harold, we shall be home before we know it – and rescue a princess on our way!”

“Halfway around the world!” Harold squawked, adding a well-practiced shoulder shrug.

“Good point, Harold.” Monty nodded.  “Sir, do you know of a way we could get to England with good speed?”

“Well, I could take you,” the bearded man replied.  “I do have this.”

With a flourish he whipped the dust cloth off the large structure that had suddenly appeared behind him.

“That?”  Monty asked.  “What is that?  Is it… er, new?”

“Actually, it’s from a long time ago…”

“It looks like a death trap.”

“Hey – she made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!” the bearded man replied, affronted.  “She’ll get you where you need to go.  Nothing can stand in our way!”

“Alright…” Monty hedged.  “But alas, we have nothing to pay you with.  I gave my only bag of California gold nuggets to a feckless ship captain who told me we were going to Madrid.”

“No he didn’t,” seemed to be what came out of Harold’s beak on a cough.

“No worries,” the bearded man replied.  “The adventure will be payment enough.  Well, that and the merchandising rights.  Climb aboard!”

Monty and Harold climbed in and took their seats – and if the ship didn’t have sails or a rudder, no one saw fit to comment.  Before they knew it, the vessel was shuddering, and then sprinting, and then lurching to a stop!

“What ho!” Monty cried. “Are we there already?”

“Sorry guys,” the bearded man’s voice floated through the air, projected by some kind of voice amplification device, “This ship is wanted in several galaxies, but I thought we were safe on own planet.  Alas, there’s trouble up ahead.  I’ll have to drop you here.”

“Drop us where?”

Okay, the space-time continuum is a little bendy, so it should come as no surprise that Monty quasi-ended up in a space opera.  What’s your favorite space/sci-fi movie?  And what makes it so awesome?

When last we left them, Monty and Perdita were soaring high into the air to escape a volcanic explosion.

Unfortunately, they lost consciousness due to the high altitude.

The next thing Monty knew, he was sprawled face-down on a sandy beach, waves lapping at his ankles.  His skin was crusted with fine golden sand, and his cracked lips tasted of salt.  A curious hermit crab tickled his ear, and he slapped it away.

Where was he?

What a shame all my clothes were destroyed in the volcanic explosion.

“Perdita?”

No answer.

He stood.  No sign of her sweet face.  He cupped his hands around his mouth.  “PERDITA!!!”

Still no answer.

“Oh, no.  No.  I’ve lost her.”

Harold landed next to him, squawking something that sounded like, “That’s irony for you.”

He might have lost Perdita, but he wasn’t alone.  A throng of young men and women came dashing toward him, all dressed–if one could call this ‘dressed’–in red.  They soon surrounded him.

Imagine them in slow-mo, if you will.

“Oh my gosh.  Mister, are you all right?”

“We saw you wash up on the shore.”

“Do you need mouth-to-mouth?”

The scarlet-clad Samaritans offered him water and some sort of nutritious ration bar.  They lent him clothing of faded cotton fabric, dyed with indigo–worn and frayed at the knees, yet serviceable.  After the Amazons, he was overwhelmed by such warm hospitality.

“What magical land have I reached now?  Everyone is so good-looking here.” He looked down at his naked, perfectly bronzed and toned chest. “I am better looking here.”

He even caught Harold preening over his reflection.

“Where am I?” he asked.

One of the blonde ladies giggled fetchingly.  “California, of course.”

“California,” he whispered.  He was closer to Aunt Tropey, but still half a world away.  And who could tell what had happened to his poor Perdita.  “I must leave this place at once.  Do any of you fair maidens know how I might find a seaworthy craft?”

“You’d better ask Bodhi.  He knows everything.”

The red-clad maidens indicated a man with an unshaven jaw and blonde, shaggy hair.  He sat cross-legged on the beach, applying wax to a long, mysterious board.

“Is that some sort of sea craft?” Monty asked, drawing near.  “Does it float?”

“Yeah, it floats.  It’s a surfboard, dude.”

He had to get back on the sea one way or another.  Looking around, Monty didn’t see any other potential vessels.  It was this or nothing.  “Will you teach me to use it?”

“Rock and roll.”

Monty wasn’t sure he liked the sound of rocking or rolling, but he followed Bodhi into the waves.

Monty and Bodhi, one with the sea

Bodhi showed him how to paddle and stand up on the board–but no matter how vigorously Monty paddled, the waves threw him back against the shore, again and again.

“I don’t understand it.  What am I doing wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, dude.”

“But I cannot escape this bay.”

“Why would you want to escape it?” Bodhi flashed a smile, his teeth dazzling white in his tanned face. “Look around you, man. This is paradise.”

“You don’t understand. I’m on a journey. I have duties, obligations. I must get back to England and–”

“Whoa, whoa.” Bodhi held up his hands. “Time to buck that uptight English establishment.  The journey is the destination. That’s surfing, bro. It’s all about the rush. The ride.”

Puzzled, Monty followed him back out into the water. He had to admit, his own efforts weren’t working, so perhaps it was time to try Bodhi’s advice. When a perfect wave came rolling toward him, he stopped trying to escape the bay. He turned, paddled, stood up on his board–and enjoyed the ride.

As he emerged from the waves, the surge of raw, primal energy pounding through his veins was more intoxicating than opium.  “That..was…”

“Pretty radical, huh?” Bodhi said.

“Magnificent.”  He lifted his arms and shouted into the sea and the roar of salty wind. “I AM A GOLDEN GOD!”

“See?” Bodhi chuckled.  “That’s the rush, man.  You were born to surf.”

Later that evening, after a rousing game of touch football with his scantily clad rescuers and a dinner of crabs and oysters roasted over a bonfire, Monty considered. Maybe Bodhi was right, and the journey was the destination. He liked California. Sun, sand, surf.  Maidens in scraps of red slowly jogging to his rescue.  The rush.

Perhaps this was paradise.

But then that night, he had a dream…

When he woke the next morning, his decision was made.

“I must go at once. I am needed. As a man of honor, I cannot hide from my duty.”

“Vaya con Dios, Monty.” Bodhi clapped him on the shoulder before dashing into the surf to chase another wave.

Monty scanned the beach. A trading vessel appeared on the horizon. He jumped up and down, drawing the merchant sailors’ attention.

“Now,” he mused, “if only I had something valuable to interest them, so I could pay my passage around Cape Horn and back to the Atlantic.”

“Squawk! Blow me down!”

Monty turned to view the bird’s discovery. “Harold, my feathered friend. You’re brilliant!”

Tessa here:  Okay, I’ll admit – despite living in Southern California, I am not tanned, and I have never surfed. Is there anything your local area is known for, that people travel thousands of miles to visit/do, and yet you’ve never tried?

Congratulations to the winner of two Emma Locke books….

Janice Hougland

Janice, look for my email soon. And everyone, thanks so much for joining us!

For today’s Saturday Salon, I have the pleasure of welcoming dear friend and exciting debut historical author, Emma Locke!

Emma Locke is a writer and engineer living in the Pacific Northwest, where she loves hiking with her dog, hot yoga and riding out the annual 330 days of rain. Hiking and yoga give her time to plot, the lack of sun makes for perfect writing weather, and as for her day job, the dichotomy seems to work: her analytic side ensures her passionate, satisfying love stories don’t mulch under her bed, and her author side forces her to keep writing more.

Emma says: Thank you so much for inviting me to share a little bit about the inspiration for my new Naughty Girls series, Tessa! The Naughty Girls is a six-book series that initially came to me as a high concept a few years ago, when my girlfriends and I were single and dating. I decided to write a variant of Sex and the City in London, with heroines who are a bit more mature than the usual Regency debutante, and far more experienced. These “naughty girls” are able to access parts of London that are usually off-limits in the traditional historical romance, which set me on a quest to understand the seamier side of the Regency. Where did my heroines live? What did they do with their free time? Where were they received (and where were they shunned)?

I read all sorts of research books, mostly about bawdy houses, madams, and courtesans, and then just before Christmas, Isobel Carr sent out a tweet about her shiny new primary source. In 140 characters, Isobel convinced me that THE EPICURE’S ALMANACK, Eating and Drinking in Regency London ed. by Janet Freeman needed to go directly onto my Christmas list. Lo and behold, my brother put it under the tree. Thanks, bro!

Cover of The Epicure’s Almanack

THE

EPICURE’S ALMANACK,

OR

Calendar of Good Living.

 

This book is designed to direct a man with a delicate stomach and a full purse, or any man with a keen strong stomach and a lean purse, where he may dine well, and to the best advantage, in London.

The ALMANACK is chiefly a restaurant guide, with hundreds of pages dedicated to commentary about different places to eat in London. I can’t stress how cool this is. Whether you need a restaurant name, or a fun fact, or the price of a meal, it’s in here.

Goose and Gridiron

The Goose and Gridiron, London House Yard, St. Paul’s Church Yard, is kept by Mr. Alleyn. Here, if there is not always a goose ready for a gridiron, there is a gridiron ready for a goose, or for any other bird or beast of prey which the guests order to be dressed on it. Here are also joints of all sorts, hot from one o’clock until five. At this house most of the western short stage coaches for Hammersmith, Turnham Green, Parson’s Green, Fulham, Putney, and Richmond, that go into the city, take up and set down their passengers.

Did diners tip in the Regency? According to Freeman, the answer is yes. (I haven’t read the entire book yet, but she says it’s in here.) Are you curious whether a certain restaurant still exists? There is a list of “Survivors” in the back tables. Would you like to know more about vendors of industrial kitchen equipment? Who doesn’t??

There is a section about local marketplaces, their wares and relative quality, and a chapter that lists common ingredients and when they are freshest during the year. (In June, “Buck venison is now introduced at polite tables, and continues in season until the end of September. The price of a prime haunch is from three to five guineas.”) There is a glossary of drinks (no, cosmos are not listed), the names and main ingredients of prepared dishes, and a glossary of other random terms. (I will definitely be using “body snatcher” in THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION.)

Tessa says: I must have this book, Emma!  So glad you told us about it.  Wow, buck venison was a pricey dish. Three to five guineas was no small amount then.  And I love the idea of being able to visit a restaurant or pub that was in existence two hundred years ago!  A Regency London Zagat’s guide–so cool.

You’ve reminded me of my personal favorite resource for day-to-day details, THE LADY’S STRATEGEM, A Repository of 1820s Directions for the Toilet, Mantua-Making, Stay-Making, Millinery & Etiquette, ed. by Frances Grimble.  It has everything a young lady of the era needed to know — from how to sew her own gloves and stays, to ideas for parlor games and dinner conversation, to recipes for skin tonics and hair preparations.  Though some of the cosmetics recipes involve such worrisome ingredients as arsenic (in a depilatory) and egg whites (applied to the hair, and not washed out)! *shudder*

It occurs to me that if you put these two books together, you have the makings of a great early 19th century first date.  A well-coiffed couple, a fine dinner out, and sparkling conversation.

THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION is the second novel in Emma’s The Naughty Girls series, and it will be released later this month.  Today, one lucky commenter will win the chance to read both an advanced, electronic copy of THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION and an electronic edition of THE TROUBLE WITH BEING WICKED!

Today’s post has me thinking not only about the past, but peering into the future 200 years from now… What artifacts or practices from our present-day culinary and cosmetic life will fascinate and amuse 23rd-Century dwellers?  My money is on flat irons and Hot Pockets. What do you think?

Monty and Harold, together with the feisty and scantily-clad Anisha, floating on a huge trunk, have reached the island of the Amazons. As half a dozen of the magnificent sun-bronzed creatures escort them into their town, Anisha whispers fiercely. “Do not tell them my name or I’ll slit your from throat to gizzard.”

Always joking, that Anisha, Monty thinks, but his attention is distracted. Having been properly brought up, he tries not to stare at the magnificence before him. But one part of his brain is trying to imagine what their new acquaintances would look like with both breasts bared.

“We will take you to She Who Must Be Obeyed,” an Amazon explains.

“Is Aunt Tropey here?” Monty asks. “How jolly!”

“Silence! Men should be seen and not heard.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The trio are taken into a magnificent audience chamber constructed from intricately woven gilt palm leaves. A beautiful woman subjects Monty to a thorough examination from head to toe.

Wish I looked better, he thinks, remembering that he isn’t allowed to speak.

“He’ll do,” the lady says dismissively. “Pity his face is messed up but the maids will see to that. The rest is good enough and he has decent legs.

Just like Aunt Tropey, but with fewer clothes.

“Take him away.” She seems to be in a very bad temper and Monty summons his courage to bear whatever indignities should follow.

Six young women subject him to brutal torture: a full body massage followed by a perfumed bath. Perdita, the youngest, prettiest maid with the softest hands applies a salve to his face and when he looks in a mirror he finds all his bruises magically healed.

“Uh, I say,” he whispers. “I can’t go out dressed like this. Where are my breeches?”

Monty displays his assets

Perdita giggles. “You look very fine. The queen candidates will be pleased.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are the next king of the island. The old queen resigns today.”

“No wonder she’s grumpy.”

“You will chose your consort and the next queen.”

“King, by Jove! How splendid.”

Perdita looks a little sad. I do believe she likes me. And I like her. I don’t suppose she’s a candidate.

He is left in an antechamber where he is reunited with Harold and the biggest bird he has ever seen.

<SQUAWK>

“What ho, Harold. Introduce me to your friend.”

<Hilowokamtago>

“Delighted to meet you, Hilo…. Whatever. What kind of a bird are you.”

“I am a roc,” the creature replies.

“You’re as big as an island. Mind if I call you Rocky? You speak English like a Londoner.”

“‘Ere, ‘ave a fig.” Rocky flaps his wings at a dish of fruit, the rush of air knocking Monty to the floor and Harold to the ceiling. “Sorry ‘bout that. I don’t know me own strength. I’d better warn you …”

But before Rocky can say more, the Amazon guards appear and lead Monty to the audience chamber where he is placed on a throne next to the bad-tempered beauty.

“Bring in the candidates!”

Three even more beautiful women appear, absolutely stark naked.

“Take this,” orders the soon-to-be-former queen, her peerless feature marred by an angry frown. She hands him a heavy golden ring engraved with runes in an ancient script. “This is the ring of power, know as The Preshus. Present it to your choice.”

The bachelorettes – er contenders -  begin to dance and Monty’s eyes are out on stalks.

“Shouldn’t I interview them?” he asks. “Ask them about world peace and their favorite cricket teams? I’ve always heard compatibility is important between spouses.”

“It matters little since you’ll only be wed for a year. My husband died last night.”

“I say, I am sorry. No wonder you seem out of sorts.”

The queen shrugs. “He lacked inventiveness. I’ll be happy enough taking one of the drones to my bed but I shall miss being She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Mont gives an involuntary flex of his muscles, forgetting that they can be seen by all. “I’ll endeavor to please my bride better, just as soon as I get back from a quick trip to England. My Aunt Lady Beaufetheringstone needs me, you know.”

“You’re not going anywhere. You will be king for the year of your wife’s rule, then you will be sacrificed to the volcano. Time’s up. Name the next queen.”

Monty looks wildly around the chamber. He sees Anisha among the gathered Amazons.

“Can’t do it,” he says with a burst of inspiration. “I’m already betrothed. To Anisha.”

A collective gasp arises from crowd.

“Seize her!” cries the queen. “Rahul will pay us in gold and slave men for her return.”

“Idiot!” cries Anisha. “I told you not to say my name.”

“You didn’t mean that about the gizzard, did you?”

Anisha is dragged from the chamber, screaming curses and threats.

“Choose!” screams the queen.

“I choose Perdita.” If he has to be wed for a year and then die, it might as well be to a nice girl not a Fury. “I want her or nobody.”

“This man is unworthy. Seize them both and take them to the volcano.”

A few hours later, Monty and Perdita, bound back-to-back, are suspended over the smoking crater. A candle flame licks the rope that holds them. Strand by twisted strand is consumed by fire until only a single thread keeps them from the fire pit.

“I’m sorry, Perdita. I meant it for the best.”

“It’s all right, Monty. I love you and I wouldn’t want to live without you.”

“Better to die together, than live apart.”

He gropes for her hand and the Ring of Power, the Preshus, which was clutched in his fist, falls into the inferno. A terrifying roar like the wrath of an entire Pantheon of Gods emerges from beneath.

“Now I’ve done it.”

The last thread of rope cracks ….

“Farewell, Perdita!”

A whoosh of air cuts through the din. Monty, Perdita and Harold escape on Rocky’s back as the island of the Amazons is engulfed in lava and ash.

“Oh dear! What will become of Anisha?” Monty wonders as the roc’s giant wings bear them safely out to sea.

Who is better suited to be Monty’s bride? The fiery Anisha or the gentle Perdita. What will Lady B. think? And what will Albert make of Rocky?

We last left our intrepid hero, Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell, attempting to return to England at the will of his Aunt “Tropey”, otherwise known as Lady B. However, a series of unfortunate mishaps delivered him, his toucan, Harold, and his trunk to a small, disreputable ship, populated by gentlemen who look surprisingly attractive for all their lack of vitamin C and personal hygiene.

After discovering that the ship was headed to the Pacific and far away from where his duty called, Monty managed to get the disreputable captain to agree to drop his unexpected passengers off at the next island for a generous fee, and to lend him a cabin for the interim.

Harold squawked quietly once they were “safely” within the borrowed cabin.

“Yes, I know, Harold,” Monty said, surveying the filthy room and finally deciding to sit on his relatively cleaner trunk. “He’s more likely to kill us for everything in my purse than accept a handful of gold.”

Harold hopped up onto the massive trunk as well and then started pecking at one of the brass fixtures. Monty started to brush him away, because after all, that trunk had cost quite a pretty penny back in London and, considering the currently precarious relationship with his father the duke, it was best not to count his guineas before they…well, perhaps not hatched but—

He bent down and studied the brass. Then he jumped up, startling Harold, whose feathers ruffled in indignation, and took a step back to survey the trunk. What had looked like his trunk in the confusion of his dock, and to be honest, the confusion of the lingering shisha, was on closer inspection, clearly not his! Gone were the finely tooled designs that he had specially commissioned, and gone was the intricate detail of the metalwork.

He shot a despairing look at Harold, who shrugged his feathers as if to say, what do you think I was trying to tell you. Unless by some lucky twist of fate, his trunk ended up on the correct boat to London, he now had to accept that all the books and carefully selected gifts for his relatives and friends, were lost forever.

His utensils and toiletries. His clothing and bedsheets. And of course, Harold’s special delicacies.

A disaster.

At least he possessed his purse and his knife and an increasingly lucid head. And the gold pin on his cravat was useful for picking the unfamiliar lock.

The trunk lid creaked open (which his well-oiled and expensive trunk would never have done!).

<< Squawk! >> Harold’s alarm mirrored Monty’s own and he sprang into action. While he knew very well that he was not the sharpest of the Moylan-Hazwell clan, to say nothing of the Beaufetheringstone side of the family, when called upon to help a female in distress, he was in his element.

And this female was most certainly in distress. Her wrists and feet bound in rope. Her long black tresses obscuring her face. And her very fine, diaphanous, muslin chemise obscuring little else. The sound of her breath filled the space but she made no other sound. Was she even conscious?

He reached down to pull her out of the trunk. How long had she been in there and who had put her in there in the first place? Her hair fell back and above the rag that had been stuffed into her mouth, her brown eyes flashed with intense gratitude.

He quickly untied her hands.

And then found the point of his knife pressed against his throat as she pulled the cotton rag from her mouth.

“Who are you? Where is Rahul?”

Monty sighed and then winced as the knife pricked his throat. He needed to remember to make certain next time that the woman he saved knew he was her rescuer before untying her. After all, the very definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

“Listen, I don’t know who this Rahul fellow is, but I’m Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell—”

“I love marchpane.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you love hats as well,” Monty returned, feeling rather surly. He’d heard all the jokes a million times before. “But what matters at the moment is that I am not the one who locked you in that trunk. So would you please return my knife to me and we can discover who did?”

She studied him a moment more, and then the cabin door slammed open behind him and a gust of balmy ocean wind swept in.

“Ho, what do we have here?”

<< Squawk! >>

Monty didn’t need Harold’s warning to know that real danger was afoot. He could tell from the lusty leer in the Captain’s eyes. And in his first mate, and whoever other sailors were in the gathering crowd as the shout of “Woman!” travelled across the ship.

“Smuggling women aboard, eh?”

“You’re the captain of this creaking pile of rotted wood?” The woman demanded incredulously and Monty winced. It was only a short step and a few choice words and exchanges from that inflammatory remark to—

A right hook across his jaw. His head slammed back and then he gathered himself and, fists clenched, attacked back. Hardly a fair fight, one man against an entire crew, but he could hardly leave this woman defenseless to their mercy.

The captain, his arm bleeding staggered backwards and Monty spared a glance to see that the woman was wielding his knife with voluptuous glee. Not entirely defenseless then. And Harold, too, was contributing to the melee. The bird could always be counted on in a pinch.

Somehow he stumbled with the mass of unwashed sailors, out of the cabin and onto the deck. Even as he fought he surveyed the expanse, seeking weapons. He maneuvered the one brawny man currently attached to his back over to the mast and slammed him back against the wood. Then rolled the barrel to his right forward to take down another two of his opponents. In astonishment he noted that the sailors were now fighting each other, most likely unaware of how the brawl began and simply eager for the violence.

“Fire!”

Monty’s head jerked up and then down again. But after he fell backward from the impact of a wooden broom handle against his forehead, he focused back on the immediate danger.

“Fire!”

The shout came again and then was echoed. As suddenly as it began the brawl ended as all free men save Monty scrambled to the reserves of water.

From his position flat on his back on the deck he saw that the fire had spread fast and now threatened to fully engulf the ship. Where was Harold?

The ship creaked. The masts were aflame, the cabin from which he’d come engulfed. Sailors were now jumping overboard and the captain ordered the dinghy over. He needed to get himself up off of the ground because he could not, would not, die here in the middle of nowhere when he was needed back in England. If only he had not agreed to give his opinion on Lady G’s etchings.

An explosion rocked the ship and the acrid smell of gunpowder released the air.

<< Squawk! >> As if his injuries were trifling, Monty jumped to his feet and bounded across the deck to snatch Harold before the burning wood fell down. His friend was injured as well but it was no moment to take stock. Escape was needed. He scanned the length of the ship for the woman but a wall of flame obscured his view. And then it didn’t matter anymore because the ship was cracking, listing…sinking.

* * *

At the gentle touch on his forehead, Monty cracked one swollen eye open. A waterfall of shimmering black met his view and he stared at it, confused.

“I pulled you from the water.”

He had heard that husky female voice only briefly before but relief flooded him. She had survived. A quiet squawk and the familiar peck of Harold’s beak at his ear comforted him more.

“Where are…?” He trailed off, wincing as he tried to sit up only to have her gently push him back down.

“It’s better not to move. This trunk isn’t particularly stable and I’d rather stay as dry as possible.”

“What’s your name?” He managed, despite his split lip.

It was just as well that he no longer had the mirror in his own trunk as he likely looked a fright. The woman, however, was now garbed in a slightly more substantial nightrail and looked as if she had suffered no ill effects from the entire fiasco.

“Anisha, and before you ask and give yourself more pain, I’ll tell you. Rahul is my fiancé, but there are many who did not want an alliance between our families.”

“Land,” she cried suddenly, interrupting her story.

Monty started to sit up abruptly and the trunk bobbed wildly. He settled back down but peered at her through his puffy, squinted eyes. She was looking through a spyglass. He wondered at the spyglass for a long moment.

“There are people, women, on the beach, but like no women I’ve ever seen before. With bows and arrows and one breast bare to the sun.”

Monty had never heard a woman say the word breast so matter-of-factly before and for a moment that occupied the entirety of his thoughts.

“Amazons,” he said suddenly, remembering his Greek sculpture and his Shakespeare.

“Not true Amazons,” Anisha corrected him. “After all, Herodotus surely didn’t travel this far east.”

If he was surprised she knew of Herodotus, it was not nearly as important as strategizing what was to come. If these women were indeed Amazons, then surely they would not be welcoming to an errant male. Had he escaped one calamity only to enter another?

While we wait to discover what happens next, I must ask the Ballroom, will we leave Anisha on this Amazon-inhabited island, or, will Monty encounter her again at some point in the future?

Considering all we authoresses are products of the 21^st century, certain things about early 19^th century life seem a little… well, odd to us.  Disregarding the lack of toothpaste, tampons and the right to vote, there are many subtle differences.  One of the odder things, at least in my estimation, is the notion of a Patroness, in and of itself.

portrait of Madame de Stael by Margerite Gerard

Nowadays, yes of course there are patrons of the arts.  Lovely, usually rich people who donate time and money to organizations for the curation of old work and the development of new.  But in the 19^th century and before, artists, authors, musicians, didn’t fill out a bunch of paperwork for a grant to practice their craft — instead, they relied on the far less formalized kindness of socialites who took a liking to them and their work.

Hester Thrale by Joshua Reynolds

Often times, the artists would live in residence at the patron/patroness’s estate.  (FYI, we do have rooms at Lady B’s for when we visit from the current century, each designed to fit our individual taste.  Mine has a large blue police call box in it, which disappears randomly at times, but I digress.)  There have been women like Lady B throughout history.  Hester Thrale, a gently-born lady who married a moneyed brewer (and then later an Italian music master, because awesome), was one such a patron and writer herself, who was a close friend of Dr. Samuel Johnson – he had his own room at her house Streatham Park, where he often worked.  And Germaine de Staël was an author who hosted one of the most famous salons during the French revolution, defying Napoleon and influencing thought and taste for over 25 years at the Chateau du Coppet in Switzerland.  But my absolute favorite real life Lady B is Isabella Stewart Gardner.

Now, she may have been from the later 1800s (*gasp*) and she may have been American (*GASP*) but Mrs. Gardner for me personified the free spirit and intense passion for the arts and culture that I know Lady B has.

Mrs Gardner, by Anders Zorn — another of her artists.

A member of the Boston elite during the Gilded Age, Mrs. Gardner was born into wealth and married into wealth.  But her life was not without tragedy.  Her only son died before the age of three, and when that happened, she and her husband took to travelling and collecting for solace.  (Note: much like Lady B, she had nephews that she adopted as her heirs.)  But Mrs. Gardner likes collecting artists as much as she did their art.  Her home in Back Bay was often filled with up and coming painters of the day, like John Singer Sargent and James MacNeill Whistler.  Not to mention authors like Henry James.  She would even take artists with her on trips to Europe, Venice being her favorite place.  (Remind me to ask Lady B to take me to Venice.)

Eventually, her collection of art grew so big, she built a museum to house and display it all.  The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston is a gorgeous three-storied covered garden courtyard structure that has a massive collection of European art, and works from her era from her friends.  If you’re in the area, I highly recommend a visit.  (also, fun fact: it was the scene of a pretty massive art heist in 1990.  Yes, art heist.  Those things are real. Therefore, The Thomas Crown Affair could plausibly happen. I don’t know how to parlay this into me meeting Pierce Brosnan but it will happen.)

In any case, if you ever wondered about the provenance of Lady B’s general awesomeness, know this: we didn’t just make it up.  It’s written in history.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Musuem is worth seeking out — but what’s your favorite little known museum?