I’ve been away from the Ballroom for a week as I’ve been trotting around on book tour, but I really hadn’t expected it to have changed as much as this. The spindly gilt chairs have been pushed to one side of the room, making way for old chests filled with dusty papers. A vast oak table is piled high with scrolls, parchments, and decaying chronicles.

Has Lady B taken up antiquarian scholarship in her spare time?

“Nothing of the kind!” snaps Lady B, making me wonder whether I spoke aloud, or if Lady B had taken up mind-reading among her other hobbies. I wouldn’t be surprised. “I shouldn’t wish to be thought a bluestocking. I am assembling my application for the DNC.”

I stare at her blankly.

“The Daughters of the Norman Conquest,” she elaborates. “In order to join, one must prove one’s Norman ancestry, as well as produce a ticket from the boat upon which one’s ancestor sailed with the Conqueror. Some of those boats,” she continues with asperity, “are becoming suspiciously crowded.”

“If it had gone the other way, do you think they would have called it the Daughters of the Saxon Resistance?” I wonder.

Lady B gives me one of those looks she saves for frivolous authoresses.

“Besides,” she says, as though I hadn’t spoken, “it’s past time Monty learned something of his family heritage. I was just telling—Monty? Where has that boy gone?”

Out the window, if the open shutter is any indication. I think I catch a glimpse of the heel of a well-polished Hessian boot, but I can’t be quite sure.

“Hmph,” says Lady B. “And after I took the time to read all sixty pages of the Chronicle of Sir Guillaume de Beaufeatheringstone aloud to him—in the original Norman French!”

There is the sound of a distinct groan from the vicinity of the window.

“That’s all quite interesting,” I say politely, “but don’t you think Monty would rather hear about his parents? Wasn’t there some sort of story about them?”

Lady B slams the chronicle shut. “Recent history is so uninteresting, don’t you agree?” she says, tight-lipped. “And, really, quite uninspired. There’s no chain mail, no jousting. Just assemblies and routs and—”

“The odd scandal?” I venture, watching Lady B closely. There’s some secret there, I just know it.

“Hmph,” sniffs Lady B, and plunks a heavy volume down in front of me, raising a cloud of dust. As I cough, she says, “If you are so interested in the past, Miss Willig, you might as well make yourself useful. I expect to see that entire chronicle transcribed—and footnoted!—by tonight’s ball.”

I risk a peek at it. This isn’t going to be fun. I haven’t seen handwriting that illegible since the last time I had to get a prescription from the doctor.

“But Monty’s parents….”

“BOTH these chronicles,” says Lady B, and drops another on top of the first. In the resulting dust cloud, she makes her exit.

The top of a man’s fashionable hat bobs briefly up above the sash of the window—and then disappears again.

Sighing, I settle down to transcribing the Chronicle of Sir Guillaume de Beaufeatheringstone, as recorded by his faithful scribe, Patsy—but I can’t help wondering, just what is it that Lady B doesn’t want us to find out? And how much does Monty know?

Maybe there’s really nothing to discover, but thanks to The Ashford Affair, which is all about a Big Family Secret and the ramifications thereof, I’ve had family mysteries on the brain recently.

Have you come across any surprising stories about your family?

It’s Thursday, of course, and I’m comfortably ensconced in Lady B’s library reading and avoiding doing the very thing an artist is supposed to do at the home of her patroness.

Lady B looks very put out. Immediately I catalogue all the things I’ve done that she might be upset about: the continued mess in my room, the fact that I never did bring my latest hero to visit…

“Have you seen Monty?”

I blink. Monty? Why on earth would she be looking for Monty in the library? I think back. I remember seeing Harold the other day. And I’m fairly certain I saw Monty’s valet creeping down the backstairs with one of the maids. But Monty?

Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him in at least several weeks. Perhaps, since Easter.

I shake my head slowly. Of course, now I am curious to know what the rapscallion has been doing. Surely if he’s been up to his usual sport of saving damsels who may or may not actually be in distress, we’d have heard something about it. Why, with the season in full swing, Lady B’s parlor has been nonstop filled with callers. Mostly mothers with their newly come out daughters…oh.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been around.

“I haven’t seen him, but I shall definitely keep my eye out for him. He can’t have gone far with Harold and his valet still here. Has he done something to upset you?” Clearly he has, but now I’m fishing for gossip. Because after all, there is nothing like Regency gossip!

“Upset? Do I look upset?”

I’m not certain what I’m supposed to say to that so I hold my tongue and wait for her to continue.

“No, Miss Darby, I am not upset. I am furious!” She waves a stack of invitations around wildly. “Do you know that I have been beset with the most insipid of conversations for the last three weeks? I already had a list of prospective wives for Monty, but naturally, all of London wishes their pale, quiet, brainless daughter to marry the Beaufetheringstone heir. And if the daughters weren’t bad enough, I have to deal with their mothers, who seem to conveniently forget that in our youth I thought them just as brainless as their spawn.”

“Monty is quite a catch,” I offer tentatively.

“Yes, he is. Despite his irregular upbringing. However, I have a list and if he refuses to abide by my wishes and pursue these particular women, then I demand he at least be present during these interminable afternoon visits. He simply cannot go about London at all hour attracting the wrong sort of woman.”

Now I’m even more curious.

“Who do you think would be the right sort of woman?” I ask. I’d love a peek at her list. After all, after nearly two years at Lady B’s I’ve met half of London and certainly all manner of heroines.

“Someone intelligent. Vibrant yet restrained. Who will know how to curb his more physical tendencies. Lady Arabella Prescott comes to mind as a possibility. Her parents are both brilliant. Lord B always agrees with Lord Prescott in parliament and Lady Prescott is a fabulous wit. From the little I’ve seen of the young Prescott girl, I believe she has inherited her parents’ intelligence.”

I actually haven’t met Arabella yet, and I have a strange feeling this list might hold even more surprises. What about all of you? What qualities do you think Monty needs in his future wife? And do you think he’ll bend to Lady B’s will?

It’s about six months (in the 21st century; I won’t speak for Ballroom time) since Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell (pronounced Marzipan Hatbox) burst into The Ballroom. Aside from the fact that Monty is Lady B’s nephew, we know that he has eyes as green as the grass at the Beaufetheringstone country estate (wherever that may be) and rich, wavy brown hair, with hints of coffee and mahogany. He likes to rescue damsels in distress and does so with more enthusiasm than skill. As a result, none of us has yet seen his face unmarred by cuts and cruises. His constant companion is a toucan named Harold and, lastly, he is Lord B’s heir. Though we have theories about how this genealogical aberration comes about, Lady B has not yet deigned to share it with us.

We’ve all been attempting to get close to Monty (ask Katharine about the buttons on his breeches) and each of us has learned parts of his story. Over the next few weeks we will piece them together into a coherent narrative (don’t laugh), filling in the gaps with help from our readers.

Our story begins in India, where Monty was banished by his father the duke. We’ve heard a number of highly plausible reasons for his exile but I had a hard time pinning Monty down.

*By the way, he tells me that Lady G. only invited him to her room to show him her etchings and Nothing Untoward happened.

Whatever the reason for his departure, he spent a few years in India eating curry, studying the Mahabharata, Ashtadhyayi, and Kama Sutra, and rescuing damsels. Apart from the occasional encounter with thugs and assassins, he managed to pass the time quite happily. Until, one day, he was sitting under a banyan tree, sharing a hookah with Harold.

Harold: SQUAWK

Monty: I agree, old boy. Remarkably fine shisha. Have another toke.

Harold passes out.

Lady B: Montague! Pull yourself together.

Monty: What was that?

A vision of Lady B appears in a cloud of smoke.

Monty: Aunt Tropey! I didn’t know you were in India.

Lady B: You must come home, Montague, at once. Lord B needs you.

Monty: Right-O, Auntie T.

 

So Monty packed his bags, tucked Harold (who has no head for tobacco) under his arm, and booked passage on the next boat to England. Unfortunately he became confused at the dock and, instead of boarding an East Indiaman, he found himself on a leaky tub captained and crewed by some very shady characters. They were well out into the Pacific Ocean before he realized his mistake. (He had also forgotten that he was in Madras instead of Calcutta).

Monty: Stop! I must alight. I cannot head across the Pacific for Aunt Tropey needs me!

Captain (a desperado with exotic taste in jewelry and mascara): Hahaha! We’ll drop you at the next island. Maybe.

Our readers will choose Monty’s destination. Meanwhile, Monty discovered that he’d loaded the wrong trunk at the dock. When he opened the chest in his cabin, what do you think he discovered?

Lady B: What on earth is that racket?

I look up from where I’ve collapsed on the ground amidst a pile of luggage and tote bags.

Lady B: Ah, I see you have returned. It is about time.

She looks irate. With me. And I have no idea why. After all, I’ve only just come back from the Romance Writers of America conference.

She’s standing there, arms akimbo, and glaring.

I struggle to my feet so that at least she has me at less of a disadvantage. I take a stab at figuring out what is bothering her.

Sabrina: I promise, I don’t have any trips scheduled for at least a fortnight.

She doesn’t look appeased.

Lady B: While you’ve been off cavorting at soirees with half-garbed men, do you know what that Captain Martin of yours has done?

Sabrina: Captain Martin?

H.G.J. Martin? Hero of The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe, which, releases tonight, at midnight, like some sort of reverse Cinderella story?

Wanted:

A beautiful young woman—preferably one with no connections, who won’t ask too many questions—to spend two weeks in the North of England with an obstinate, aloof, and utterly handsome man.

Must love dogs, fixing up crumbling castles, and gorgeous and complicated war heroes who may or may not be hiding hearts of gold under their gruff exteriors.

Must not, under any circumstances, fall in love . . .

Simpering misses need not apply.

Lady B: Yes, Captain Martin! It was bad enough that when he visited my ballroom last, he was taciturn and ungracious, but now he has committed a travesty!

I cannot imagine what he could have done. After returning from his time helping the war effort as one of the Royal Engineers, the poor man has hidden himself away in his crumbling castle for nearly a year.

Sabrina: I am certain whatever has been done can be undone.

I look for my pencil. The one with the extra powerful eraser. After all, I am the writer. I am in charge, right? Except…I’m back in the ballroom now, and somehow these heroes always seem to confound us authoresses here.

Lady B: Undone? If he had only left it undone, all would be well. Have you seen the castle on our Yorkshire estate lately?

Sabrina: No…

Lady B: It looks of recent construction.

Sabrina: Naturally, after all I know Lord B and you take excellent care of your properties.

Lady B: That we do, but Lord B painstakingly designed this castle as a replica of the ruins of my great-great grandfather’s home. It is supposed to look not dissimilar to this:

Sabrina: Oh. That is a problem.

It’s sort of funny, too, but I don’t think I’ll be mentioning that to Lady B.

Lady B gives me that look.

Sabrina: I do apologize Lady B, but at least, in just a few hours, he will be loosed upon the rest of rest of the world.

Lady B: Lord B was quite put out. And you know how difficult it is when one’s husband is not content. I hope he doesn’t decide that authoresses are far too much trouble.

Uh oh. Time for serious damage control.

Sabrina: I certainly hope not! Especially as I am so excited about this story in particular. It incubated here at the Ballroom, starting with this very first post, Advice Desired Most Urgently, in which I read my cousin Mary’s desperate letter to you and asked everyone for advice. This novella would not exist without the input of your guests.

Lady B lets out a little sound halfway between a harrumph and a sigh. I have no idea how to interpret this.

Lady B: I certainly expect that you have brought a copy of this for me?

Here at least I can satisfy our hostess!

Sabrina: I have.

Lady B: Excellent.

So let me know, if you could build a folly to resemble anything, what would it be? A ruined castle like Lord B? A Greek temple, a space ship? In celebration, I am giving a copy of The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe to one commenter.

Today is a very big day, marking the first anniversary of our time here at Beaufetheringstone House, and I’m getting a little emotional, thinking back on this big, fancy year.

Remember this?

And so it is that I am standing at the center of the Ballroom with the authoresses, reminiscing.

Sarah: I mean, think of it! One full year with Lady B…and Albert!

<squawk!> lobster patties! <squawk!>

Kate (feeding him): It’s amazing how many of these things he can put away.

Sarah: One full rotation around the sun…here in Beaufetheringstone House!

Miranda: Uh-oh…she’s going to start pontificating.

Sarah: I am not.

Miranda: Really? A full rotation around the sun? You talk like this normally?

Sarah, realizing she does not, in fact, talk like this normally: I’m just saying that it’s an impressive achievement.

Tessa: It has been a good year. she pauses, considering her glass. This Ratafia is a good year as well.

Gaelen: Or spiked with a good year.

Tessa, considering: Could be that.

Sarah: There! A whole year of spiked Ratafia! You see? A year with spiked ratafia and…she casts about, looking for more to reminisce about. Spies Sabrina’s potted fern. Conversations with potted ferns! And heroines in cupboards!

Tessa warms to the game: And Regency Project Runway!

Miranda: And ships through the wall!

Sabrina: And Court, Consummate, Cut Direct!

Sarah, remembering the great Fassbender/Firth conundrum: Oh, my. Yes.

Kate: We’re losing MacLean.

Miranda: It happens when Michael Fassbender comes up.

Gaelen: And let’s not forget the addition of two new authoresses!

Kate and Lauren beam.

Sabrina: Oh! And nameless heroes!

Lauren: And don’t forget Sabrina’s George, trapped in a castle somewhere with a matchmaking mother!

Katharine: And Ballroom Brawls!

Lady B stops as she hurries past: “Dear me, Miss Ashe. Did you say ballroom brawls?”

Katharine: I did, my lady. You see, it’s our first anniversary here…and we were reminiscing–thinking about all the lovely times we’ve had thanks to yours and Lord B’s generosity…do you recall, for example, the time when Albert topped your first Christmas Tree?

<squawk!> Angel! <squawk!>

Lady B pauses, eyes dreamy: “That was quite lovely.”

Sarah: We owe you a great debt of gratitude, my lady, for your kindness over the year. I hope you don’t mind if we presume to stay for another?

Lady B’s dreamy gaze goes away: “You’re welcome to stay as long as there are balls, dear gel, on a single condition.”

The authoresses exchange glances, realizing that the rest of the room has gone uncharacteristically silent.

<squawk!>Uh-oh!<squawk!>

Gaelen leans in to Lady B: Condition, my lady?

“You may not…” Lady B gives each of the authoresses a long, stern look, “Write about what is about to happen.”

The sentence is punctuated by the echo of the massive ballroom doors opening on one end of the room. Eight sets of eyes go wide as saucers and we turn, en masse, to see what is coming.

Or rather, who.

“Having a ball are you, Aunt Tropey?”

.

Miranda turns her head to meet the rest of the authors and mouths, “Aunt Tropey?”

Sarah, aside, “I bet she loves that name.”

Sabrina: Oh My. Look at him.

Tessa: He looks like he’s a member of Fight Club.

<squawk!> Don’t talk about Monty! <squawk!>

Kate: Monty?

It appears parrots can look guilty.

Tessa: Spill it, bird.

<squawk!>Private information is private! <squawk!>

Gaelen: I’m going to see what I can get from some of the…she waves a hand. Locals.

<SQUAWK!>

Lauren: Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like Albert.

Tessa: What is that?!

Sarah: I think it’s a…

<SQUAWK!>

Lady B: MONTAGUE. WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT THING?!

.

Monty: I thought you’d like it, Aunt T.

Lauren mouths: Aunt T?

But we have no time to process the strangeness of the moment, as it is interrupted by a cacophony of squawking and a flurry of feathers–black and green, and Lady B is shrieking, and Katharine is attempting to capture Albert and a great black bird has taken up residence on Lady B’s head, making it very difficult for her to look stern, even though the Baroness is more furious than we’ve ever seen her. Even more furious than Sarah has ever made her.

Sarah: That’s a toucan.

Monty, sauntering toward Lady B: Indeed it is. Clever girl. What’s your name?

Sarah blinks. Has trouble finding her words: Uh…Sarah.

He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth: And Uh…Sarah, How do you know about toucans?

Sarah: Breakfast cereal.

His brows raise: What now?

Sarah: Never mind.

Monty: Another time, maybe you can explain? Privately?

Sarah: Oh, my. Yes.

Miranda: You’re married.

Sarah: I don’t have to be.

Monty grins.

Lady B: MONTAGUE. DO NOT INCITE THE AUTHORS. AND REMOVE THIS THING FROM MY HEAD.

<SQUAWK!> COMFY COIFFE! <SQUAWK>

Monty (turns to Lady B): He likes you, Aunt.

.

Lady B: Well, I do not like him. Where is my Albert?

<squawk!>Intruder Alert!<squawk!>

Albert flies to Kate’s shoulder. She feeds him again.

Monty: “Ah. Is that a lobster patty?” He flashes a grin in Kate’s direction, his swollen eye and split lip somehow making him more attractive than un. “Harold loves them. Do you mind tossing him one or two?”

Kate begins to do as she’s told. But, thankfully, freezes mid-toss.”You want me to toss lobster patties at Lady B’s head?”

Tessa opens a new bottle of Ratafia.

Lady B: No one is feeding anyone or anything, Miss Noble.

Kate shakes her head. “Of course not, Lady B.”

<squawk!> Starvation! <squawk!>

Lady B corrects herself: Except Albert. You may feed Albert.

Kate: Of course, Lady B.

Gaelen returns. Leans in to Lauren and Sabrina. “Rumor has it Monty is–”

Lady B, we are reminded, has excellent hearing: “You needn’t be so secretive about it, Miss Foley. Very soon, it shall be all over London that my nephew has returned…the younger son of my brother, the Duke, Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell (pronounced Marzipan Hatbox). I’m simply not sure why he felt it necessary to come here. With a monstrous bird.” She reaches up and plucks the toucan from her head, handing him indecorously to his owner.

.

Monty takes the bird and tucks him under his arm: I thought you’d like him, Aunt. I mean, birds of a feather and all that, no?

.

Lady B, down her nose: No. And what happened to your face?

.

Monty: You should see the other fellow.

.

Lady B: I would rather not.

.

Monty: You left out the most important part of your introduction, Aunt.

He passes a rakish, bruised smile over the collection of authoresses and we–we, who deal with rakes and roués for a living–are all somewhat drawn to this strange, bruised, toucaned (toucanoed?) man. Sabrina leans in, and I’m fairly certain–yes…she’s smelling him.

Sabrina: Sandalwood and…

Miranda pops up from behind his shoulder: Man.

We sigh. En masse.

He looks to Sabrina and Miranda: Thank you for noticing, lovelies.

They stutter and stammer and blush.

Lady B, sternly: Monty!

.

Monty, to Lady B: Well, aunt…tell them the rest. The fantastic, coincidental rest!

.

Lady B looks like she might cast up her accounts. “I’m still hoping it isn’t true.”

.

Monty: I’m sure Lord B is, too, but, for fun, why not tell these lovely ladies, (He smiles a bruised battered smile at Lauren, who sighs.) Who else I am?

.

Lady B: Only because of that horrible accident.

.

Monty: I’ve always said one should be very careful around marmosets. Come on, Aunt…I came back from India for you! For this! Because you asked!

.

Lady B: I did no such thing. And I’d be willing to wager you came back from India because you ran out of money. Or you angered a maharaja.

.

Monty, grinning at Gaelen: But his daughter wasn’t at all angry.

Gaelen–even Gaelen!!–sighs.

Monty turns back to Lady B: Go on, Aunt. Tell them.

Lady B stiffens, putting on her very best British Keep Calm and Carry On face. She looks to each of us, and we know, without question, that everything about the Ballroom is about to be thrown into chaos.

Lady B: Authoresses…this is Lord Beaufetheringstone’s heir.

Happy Anniversary, indeed.

–

!!!

We’re all speechless! Lord B has an heir! And he’s related to Lady B? What on earth?! And he’s covered in bruises! And he owns a TOUCAN. What on earth?!?!

Ask your questions about Monty in comments, and we’ll see if we can get Lady B to open up and tell us more!

I arrive early for today’s ball because I’m not sure what’s happening.  Also, I need inspiration. I find Lady B at her desk with paper, a paintbrush, and paints. Albert, naturally, sits at her shoulder. He is looking at her work in some distress.

Good day, Lady B. What are you doing?

Lady B: Hush, Miranda. I’m emblazoning.

That sounds noisy, and quite possibly painful. Lady B rolls her eyes and ignores me, as she so often does.

<squawk>

Lady B: Lord B’s birthday is coming up and I’ve decided to paint the Beaufetheringstone coat-of-arms for him.

I look over her shoulder and gulp. Er… I daresay it has been some time since you practiced the art of painting in watercolors.

Lady B: If I had ever learned, I should have been a great proficient. But it turns out not to be as easy as it looks.

Perhaps I can help. I have some rudimentary skill in Photoshopping, which is what we call watercolor painting these days.

Lady B. Thank you, Miranda. Let us start with an escutcheon. I need hardly add that the Beaufetheringstone escutcheon has never been blotted.

Fortunately, I also have some rudimentary knowledge of heraldry, so I know she means a shield.

Lady B. Next we need the coronet, to indicate the family rank in the peerage. Lord B, of course, is a mere baron.

Here you are. I think it looks very nice. The bobbles are cute.

Lady B: My father, the duke, has strawberry leaves on his. So much prettier.

 

 

 

 

 

I know the family crest sits on top of the coronet, often an heraldic animal. Which is Lord B’s?

Lady B. I’m surprised you have to ask. A proper popinjay, of course.

I thought a popinjay was a shallow, vain, or conceited person.

Albert flaps his wings and erupts into a flurry of squawks.

Lady B. Miss Neville, your impertinence is exceeded only by your ignorance. The popinjay is the heraldic representation of a parrot.

That’s wonderful, Lady B. [madly searches heraldic clip art]. Here we are. What color?

Lady B. In heraldry the word “proper” denotes the correct color. In the case of a popinjay that is vert, beaked gules, just like darling Albert.

I remember now that heraldry has special words for the colors. Vert is green, straight from the French. Got that. But gules?

Lady B. sighs. Everyone knows gules is red.

All right, then. Green parrot, red beak.

<squawk> ugly popinjay <squawk>

Albert doesn’t like my clip art. Albert, why don’t you hop on top of the coronet instead? What do you think, Lady B?

Lady B. Albert looks very handsome up there,  but he is crushing Lord B’s coronet. Also, I doubt he will stay. I fear the ugly popinjay that you “photoshopped” will have to suffice.

Albert leaves the room in a huff.

A coat-of-arms generally includes a motto, very often in Latin or French. What is Lord B’s, I wonder.

Lady B. Although the family has since dwelt in well-deserved obscurity (until Lord B had the sense to marry me, that is),  Sir Roland de Beaufetheringtone fought at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. The dynasty nearly came to a premature end when Sir Roland was knocked off his horse and lay at the mercy of a French knight. Luckily, he had charged into battle with his loyal parrot perched on the end of his lance. The valiant bird pecked out the Frenchman’s eye and thus Sir Roland was saved. The Black Prince himself commended the courage of the parrot. Henceforth he was known as Albertus Magnus and Sir Roland adopted the motto “Semper Psittacus.” [gropes for her handkerchief]. Excuse me, Miss Neville. This tale never fails to draw a tear.

Wow. That’s … incredible. Thank you for the touching story, Lady B. I’m glad to know more about the family. I don’t even know who Lord B’s heir is? Is there a second or third cousin, perhaps?

Lady B: That is not your affair.

[aside] I thought it was a matter of public record, but I appear to have struck a nerve here. I’d better get on with the coat-of-arms.

If I remember rightly, a blazon is the verbal description of the shield. Lady B! Tell me the Beaufetheringstone blazon so that I can emblazon it.

 

Lady B: Gules, a winged man rampant sable.

Gules means the background is red. Winged man sounds like an angel. Like this?

Lady B. I said Rampant! Erect!

Oh my God. Surely she doesn’t mean that?

Lady B: Standing up! And, the man needs to be more manly. Also sable, which means black.

Aha! I have the very thing. And just for fun I’ll throw in a peacock blue – sorry, azure – background. How about this?

Lady B: Very good, Miranda. He has excellent legs. Lord B. will be delighted.

There’s one thing missing from the Beaufetheringstone arms. Well two, actually: supporters. In the royal arms, that’s the lion and the unicorn on either side of the shield. What – or whom – would you recommend as supporters for Lord and Lady B’s coat-of-arms?  We definitely do not need to stick to heraldic rules!