Screams … shrieks … Lady B’s shrill cries of horror echo from the Ballroom.

This is terrible! They’ve got her!

Heaven help me, this is all my fault. That diabolical pair decided to strike while everyone else was away in Anaheim.

Shhh! Don’t let them hear you!

Admittedly I am not proud of myself at the moment, cowering behind this curtain instead of going to our dear Patroness’s aid.

A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek as I flatten myself back against the wall. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move a muscle, Ballroom friends. You mustn’t let them notice we are here.

What’s that? Me go and save her? Are you daft? I’m not going out there.

My kenpo skills are not that good. Where’s an Inferno Club gentleman spy when you need one? Or even a Knight brother?

Not a one in sight. Totally different genre, my arse. You’d think they’d have some gratitude–but never mind that. Maybe Lord B will come home soon and save his good lady wife. Or even that feckless Monte?

You: Gaelen, DO SOMETHING! They are torturing poor Lady B!

Me: Shh, I tell you! Get back here! What do you think you’re doing? (Grabbing you by the arm and pulling you safely back behind the curtain.) Don’t even think about going out there!

You: This is disgraceful. We are being cowards.

Me: No, we are merely being intelligent. Believe me, I love Lady B. as much as you do. But in this instance, prudence is the better part of valor.

You: How bad can these villains of your really be? Come on, they’re from a children’s novel. I think we can take them!

Me: Well, don’t blame me if you go out there and get turned into a sea anenome. I know what those are capable of – you don’t.

You: Who are they?

Me: The pair of heinous villains from The Lost Heir, that’s who!!! Now that the book is finally on sale (Kindle, Nook, and Trade Paperback), they’ve been loosed upon the world!

The tall, well-dressed gentleman with hair like a crusted helmet of Macassar oil and a look in his eyes as though some mad waltz is forever playing in his head, that’s Waldrick Everton, young Jake’s treacherous uncle.You know how dangerous Evil Uncles in Victorian stories can be.

Worse by far is the lady he’s got with him. That raven-haired beauty in the scarlet gown, well, don’t be fooled by her appearance. She’d like the world to think she’s a diva of the Royal Opera House, but in reality, that’s just her disguise, wrought by a powerful magic—and temporary.

If you could see her in her true form… :::shudder:::: Let’s hope you never have to. For that, my friend, is Fionnula Coralbroom, the sea-witch… A fugitive from justice! Banished to live on the land for trying to overthrow King Oceanus and the mermaid royal family. Beware. She may be a fish out of water, but she is still deadly. Those who cross the sea-witch rarely live to tell the tale.

In fact, they usually end up getting turned into unpleasant things… like sea anemones. Or newts.

What she may do to our dear Lady B, I can hardly fathom.

A dread peek past the curtain into the Ballroom reveals the alarming sight of Lady B. magically levitating several feet over the Ballroom floor, whimpering in fright and wearing a most unfortunate outfit…

Fionnula is holding her in midair by the magic of her wand while Waldrick plays the bully, an all-too-comfortable role for him, I’m afraid.

Waldrick: WHERE IS HE? The boy? We know you’ve seen him. We have it on good information the brat invaded your Ballroom weeks ago! Now, tell us what you know, or trust me, things will get much worse for you, my dear.

Fionnula: This one thinks she’s clever.

Lady B: No, please, no more! I can’t bear it!

Fionnula: Take that! …

 

 

 

With a wave of her petrified starfish wand, Fionnula causes another instant, magical change in Lady B’s apparel. Our poor hostess looks down at herself and shrieks. For once more she finds herself dressed in yet another of the ugliest costumes from Miranda Neville’s Regency Project Runway. This time, the hideous yellow one. It’s a dreadful sight.

Fionnula laughs heartily while poor Lady B squirms in despair, as if the sheer ugliness of those dresses is a torment in itself against her elegant skin.

“No, no, no! Make it stop! It’s too horrible!”

<Squawk! I’ll save you milady! Squawk—ack!>

 Lady B: “No, Albert, stay back!”

As the valiant parrot flaps across The Ballroom cawing madly to try to alert the servants of the grave sartorial danger Her Ladyship is in (to no avail, sadly, for the servants have all been transmogrified into silverware–a temporary condition, we hope) Fionnula turns and waves her wand at the angry bird.

Albert swoops and dodges left and right to escape the zigzagging flashes of lightning that fly from the sea-witch’s wand. But then, disaster!

Our noble parrot is suddenly enveloped in a blue bubble of strange magical energy, which paralyzes him in mid-flight. He floats in the blue bubble, unable to flap or fly or move or anything.

<What the Squawk?>

 Lady B (enraged now): You monster! Do what you must to me! But for the love of heaven, have pity on my parrot!

Waldrick: Oh, be still, you yammering hen. The parrot’s just fine. Tell us what you know and we will let you both go.

<Um, squawk?> Albert’s bubble is now floating gently along the ceiling. He’s worried.

Lady B: I am the daughter of a Duke, sir, and I shall tell you nothing.

Waldrick crunches into a fresh cucumber sandwich to which he has helped himself from the sideboard. Then he elegantly dabs his fingers on his monogrammed handkerchief.

Waldrick: Fionnula, my dear, we are obviously wasting our time with this silly woman. I am beginning to think Lady Beaufeatheringstone truly knows nothing. It must have been one of those dashed authoresses who let my nephew in here that day. We’ll have to hunt them down, one by one, and see if we can’t make them talk  I daresay Lady B. has too fine a sense of propriety ever to have knowingly admitted such a grubby little guest.

Fionnula: Perhaps.

Waldrick: Besides, I’ve grown bored of this game. Pardon, madam, you must known it pains me to inconvenience another member of the Quality like myself. Fionnula, let us be on our way. I am bored of this game. And you are almost overdue for the next dose of your, er, medicine.

Fionnula: Yes. Very well. But I’m leaving her up there so her horrid author friends will find her like this. Let it be a warning to them, that we will not be trifled with!

Waldrick (wearily  – for he says this a lot): Yes, dear.

As they head for the door, we flatten ourselves once more behind the curtains in dread of being seen. At any moment, they’ll be gone. Then we can rescue Lady B and Albert and without getting turned into newts.

Halfway to the door, Fionnula stops abruptly. “Oh, no.”

Waldrick: What’s wrong?

She looks at him in alarm.

Fionnula: It’s happening!

Waldrick: Not here?!

Fionnula, nodding with a panicked look: We’re too late! I didn’t time it well. Quickly, Waldrick! I need another one of those magic feathers!

Waldrick: But I didn’t bring any!

Fionnula: DIDN’T BRING ANY?

Waldrick: Please don’t do this to me in public. Can’t you  make it stop?

Fionnula: No! Do this to YOU? I’m the one the mermaids cursed, you thankless worm! Oh, noooo!!!

She falls to the ground writhing in pain. Her slender form suddenly bulges; satin rips as her walrus-like bulk splits her gown. Her raven tresses go wild and gray; her milky skin turns greenish and warty.

Fionnula: Waaaalllll-DRICK!!!!

Waldrick: Keep your voice down! I don’t want any of my Society friends to see the Earl of Griffon’s mistress looking like this! By Jove,  I’ll never be able to show my face at White’s again!

Fionnula: This is your fault, you idiot! How could you leave the house without them when you know that I need– Ahhhh!

Her browbeating of him turns to a shout of pain as eight squiggling tentacles flop about where her feet used to be.

Behind the curtain, you and I glance at each other in wide-eyed alarm and no small measure of disgust. There is no sign left of the diva’s beauty; she is now pure sea-hag and in no mood for argument.

Fionnula: Get out of my way. I need to reach the river.

Waldrick quickly gets the door for her: Be my guest!

Dragging herself by her arms, Fionnula crawls / wriggles with surprising speed across the slick Ballroom floor. She passed out through the French doors, which Waldrick holds open, onto the terrace, and pulls herself thusly out through the garden, flopping into the Thames with a splash. She disappears under the water and quickly swims away.

(Oh, I don’t think Lady B’s house is actually on the Thames, come to think of it, but then again, this house has many amazing features not usually seen.) In any case.

Waldrick straightens his cravat after she is gone. He glances around to make sure no one saw them, then he rushes out of Beaufetheringstone House without a backward glance.

You and I run to Lady B’s rescue, pulling her back down to the floor. You steady her and help her to a chair while I run to get the library ladder and set it under the chandelier, then climb up and pop the magic blue bubble in which Albert was trapped.

He flaps away to freedom and lands on his miserable mama’s shoulder.

Me: Er, are you all right, Lady B?

Her Ladyship: Of course I’m not all right! I have guests arriving in half an hour and LOOK at what I’m wearing! Oh, lud! The trouble these authoresses get me into. (Huffing) I’ve got to go change.

You: I think she’s going to be all right.

Me: I hope so. In the meantime, you might all enjoy these pictures of our author friends gallivanting in Anaheim.

And while these lovely ladies are not villainesses of any kind, we all have a dark side (mua-ha-ha)…

If you were a famous book, tv, or movie villain or villainness, who would you be and why? 

For myself, I think I’d go with the witch played by Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus.

 PHOTOS FROM THE BALLROOM MEET-UP AT RWA IN ANAHEIM … Oooh, ahhh, everybody looks so beautiful!!! Lady B. definitely approves. Vouchers for all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m in a hurry because Lord B is taking me to the opera. No, I will not tell you which box we’ll be in. I don’t wish the vulgarly curious to be staring at us during a performance of Mr. Beethoven’s Don Giovanni. What’s that? Miranda says Don Giovanni is by Mr. Mozart. Really, who cares? Isn’t not as though one goes to the opera for the music.

I’m here to announce the finalists of the Project Runway parlor game.

Two ladies garnered the most praise, by a very long way. Lady J and Lady F. I agree that both ensembles are attractive and tasteful yet have that certain je ne sais quoi that would please Lord Manly. Miranda thinks Lady J, though elegant, might be more comfortable wearing a brazier. I cannot imagine why a lady would wish to wear an iron basket of burning coals so I shall ignore her. I often find ignoring Miss Neville is the wiser course.

Since we need a “top 3″ Lady D joins the other ladies…

<squawk> my feathers <squawk>

Yes, Albert darling. But don’t worry. Lady D can leave the runway. She isn’t the winner

Now, for the bottom three. This was difficult. Four ladies received equal votes so I had to make the determination, as is my right as Supreme Empress of The Ballroom.

Lady K: An ensemble suitable for the late French Queen Marie Antoinette if she had no taste and retained her head.

Lady G: While I appreciate the splash – no the deluge – of color, ladders should be outdoors and made of wood. The sapphires are wasted. Also I prefer my coal scuttles made of metal and not on my head.

Lady H: Take a double dose of laudanum, my dear. You’ll feel much better and so will we.

After taking advice from the divine Mrs. Timothea Gunne, who now has a permanent invitation to all my balls, I pronounce Lady J the winner. off you go with Lord Manly, my dear, and try to keep that gown on until you are married.

I don’t enjoy this bit at all. It is my sad duty to send one of the ladies home without supper.

<squawk> not me <squawk>

Lady K, please leave The Ballroom. Au revoir. I hope to see you one day milking cows in Green Park.

I enter The Ballroom this evening and immediately I scent trouble. Lady B is looking bored. Lady B bored is not a pretty thing. She doesn’t react to tedium like a normal person. She doesn’t settle on the sofa with a good romance novel. Neither does she order champagne and oysters. Does she go shoe shopping? Nothing so sane and normal. I wish she’d pick a fight with Lord B so they could have make-up–

Lady B. I can hear you, Miss Neville!

Miranda: –make-up handshake, Lady B. [Aside] I wonder if Lord B is suffering a twinge of the gout and that’s why she’s down in the dumps.

Lady B: Harrumph. There isn’t the least need for vulgar speculation as to the cause of my mood. It’s quite simple. In a word: March.

Miranda: Not my favorite time of year, either, though it was quite nice in Florida last week.

Lady B: Where? Never mind. The point is the weather is foul, the Season hasn’t started, that nice Leam and wicked Bourne have been swept off to be married and the two Minervas won’t arrive until the end of the month.

Miranda: Also Colin and Blake.

Lady B: You’re not helping. Amuse me.

Minerva: It’s only a week or two before the new authoresses arrive.

 

Lady B: Miss Neville! Do you have no idea how to keep a secret?

Minerva: Oops. Sorry. I have something planned for tonight. Do you remember Regency Project Runway?

Lady B: The fashion parlor game! I enjoyed that.

Miranda: This time we have set a particular challenge. Ladies: you may come in now.

Twelve young ladies enter the room. Each one is dressed to kill. Or something.

Lady B: Good gracious.

Miranda: Welcome models. Having no notion how to make the best of your looks, you languish among the wallflowers until one night Lord Dick Manly, the most devastating man in London, invites you to waltz. You have long admired his flashing dark eyes, hair a little too long for fashion, perfect tailoring worn with an insouciance that fails to disguise his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He whirls you around the room, holding you just a little bit too close so you can tell he is interested.

Lady B: How?

Miranda: By his delicious smile. What else? Later you follow him onto the terrace, hoping to experience your first kiss with a master of the art. Alas, you discover him locked in the embrace of the Duchess of Lethbridge who is displaying bits of flesh that have no business showing in a ball gown.

 Lady B: How fascinating. I know the Duchess, of course. She causes a scandal everywhere she goes. I always invite her to my balls.

Miranda: Her behavior at the Vanderlin House ball is responsible for a certain ARRANGED MARRIAGE you will hear about soon.

Lady B: What happens next?

Miranda: Determined to show Lord Dick Manly what he is missing, you undertake an extreme makeover. The challenge for our models tonight was to create an ensemble that will bring a notorious rake to his knees. Twelve young ladies, with the assistance only of their abigails, have been given twenty-four hours to come up with a look. We  provided a mentor, Mrs. Timothea Gunne, who offered pointers in how to achieve the “wow factor” that will guarantee them a lifetime of kisses. And more.

So, commenters. All twelve ensembles are available on a single page here. Tell us what you think. Does the look meet the challenge? Is it spoiled by poor styling? We are looking for a top three and a bottom three and as much snark as you can bring to the party. Don’t hold back!  On Wednesday we will present the finalists. And Lady B (aka Lady Nina Klum-Kors) will send someone home and announce the engagement of the winner.

 

[Huge thanks to Candice Hern for once again combing her collection of original Regency prints for fabulous outfits. To learn more about Candice and her terrific books please visit her website]

 

Since I am the guest judge on Project Runway I have to send someone home. Dear me, how sad.  Unlike the Patronesses of a certain establishment that shall remain nameless, I like to welcome all to my Ballroom. It gives me no pleasure to send an unfortunate young lady home without any supper.

<squawk> I’ll give her a lobster patty <squawk>

Darling Albert, always so kind. First the happy news. None of these costumes are, to put it kindly, in the height of good taste,  but there is one that garnered several qualified plaudits. I liked it myself, though I recommend the young lady add peacock gloves,  trim a foot or two off her feather …

<squawk>

The young lady, Albert, not you. …trim her feather and acquire a fichu. On second thoughts that might be a pity. Dressed as she is she will be much in demand among the Bachelors in The Ballroom.  Without more ado, I grant Lady K an invitation to the next ball.

[Lady K blushes, curtsies, and leaves for the supper room on the arm of a handsome but tortured duke]

Now for the Bottom Three. Ladies A, C, and H. Please come to the runway. Oh, dear me, what a tragic waste of ingenuity and cloth has gone into these ensembles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lady A. Your garment is more suitable for a Church Synod than a ballroom and a young lady does not wish to appear bearded unless she is an attraction at a fair.

Lady C. Your hat looks like a coal scuttle and the yellow finger marks on your bosom just won’t do.

Lady H. When selecting trimmings at the haberdasher’s there’s no need to purchase the entire contents of the shop. Leave some for the other ladies.

And now to announce the …. what’s that Miranda? [Miranda whispers]. Miranda tells me the costume with the most votes for the Auf  is Lady A. [Miranda whispers again]. She also tells me that by Project Runway tradition the audience never agrees with result, but gains a good deal of pleasure excoriating the judges on the Twitter and around something called a water cooler. I trust no one will have the ill breeding to excoriate me, but I always like to observe local custom. Therefore…Lady H,  Please leave the runway.

Albert, your German is excellent. You say it.
<squawk> Auf Wiedersehn <squawk>

Lady B: Who is hosting the ball today? Let me consult my diary. Hmm. Miss Neville. If she doesn’t arrive in five minutes I shall send a footman round to Lady Sarah MacLean for an emergency appearance. She is never late.

<squawk> No lobster patties for Miranda <squawk>

[Miranda rushes in, sticking pins into her hair]. I’m here, I’m here. So sorry Lady B. I’ve been busy with revisions.

Lady B: The other ladies manage to perform their hostess duties and finish their books. Look at Lady Sarah. She has four books to write but she’s always on time. I have a mind to give her all your dates. I suppose you’ve been wasting time reading indecent novels again.

Miranda: No, really, I haven’t. I’ve been working hard. [Lady B raises an eyebrow] All right, I admit it. I was catching up with Project Runway on television.

Lady B: Television? Project Runway? Pray, explain yourself.

Miranda: Err… [considers, and discards, the notion of explaining television to Lady B] Project Runway is a competition for fashion designers.

Lady B: Do you mean seamstresses?

Miranda: I suppose so, though many of them are men.

Lady B: Male seamstresses! How very novel. What form does this competition take?

Miranda: Each week, the seamstresses have to make a look – er create an ensemble – according to certain rules. For example, they might have to design a bathing costume, or a uniform for an airline stewardess.

Lady B: What’s that?

Miranda: [Muttters] This is harder than I thought. [to Lady B] A sort of female footman.

Lady B: Female servants could wear livery, but they wouldn’t be able to show their legs.

Miranda: You’d be surprised.

Lady B: And do these seamstresses have access to the best silk warehouses?

Miranda: When they are lucky they get to go to Mood, an excellent establishment. But sometimes they have to make the clothing out of very odd materials, such as they might find at a greengrocer or a stationer’s, or, most recently, a shop for pet supplies.

<squawk>

It’s all right Albert. They weren’t allowed to touch the animals.

Lady B:  How are these gowns displayed?

Miranda: The designers fit them on models – very beautiful girls.

Lady B: You shock me, Miranda. Since many of these “designers” are men, it sounds most improper.

Miranda: It’s all right, Lady B. The majority of them are not interested in women that way, if you know what I mean.

Lady B: I do. My cousin’s sister-in-law’s niece married William Beckford, but we don’t talk about it.

Miranda: Besides, most of the models are much taller than the male designers, well over six feet tall.

Lady B: Good heavens! Giantesses. It must take a good deal of cloth to cover them.

Miranda: No, they are all very thin.

Lady B:  Emaciated giantesses. Poor dears, we must invite them here and feed them some supper.
<squawk> Not the lobster patties <squawk>

Miranda: Once the designers have completed their looks, the models display them in front of the judges. The best gown is named the winner. The one deemed the worst dressed is sent home.

Lady B: Sounds like rather like Almack’s. Who are these judges?

Miranda: You’ve got something there, Lady B. The judge bear a distinct resemblance to the Patronesses. Fraulein Heidi Klum could be Princess Esterhazy. Señora Nina Garcia has much in common with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and Mr. Michael Kors is a dead wringer for Lady Jersey, if she were male and had a suntan.

Lady B: Almack’s! No wonder the poor dears are starving! There’s never anything worth eating there.

Miranda: [Aside] Almack’s refreshments, the Regency equivalent of Diet Coke and cigarettes.

Lady B: Do the seamstresses have any assistants? It’s quite difficult to make a gown in one day.

Miranda: They do it alone, but they have advice from Mr. Tim Gunn, who’s a bit like Mr. Brummell, only much nicer.

Lady B: Miranda! You’re blushing.

Miranda: I must confess, Lady B, I have quite the tendre for Mr. Gunn. Unfortunately he isn’t interested in ladies, either.

Lady B: It all sounds very interesting. I’d like to be a judge myself.

Miranda: They have a guest judge every week. Sometimes an established seamstress, sometimes an actress, and sometimes a socialite … er a member of the ton.

Lady B: Splendid. Arrange it for me Miranda. I wish to be a judge on Project Runway. And darling Albert shall help me. He has exquisite taste and always knows what goes best with my peacock gloves.

G. Walking Dress, 1816

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Regency Project Runway. Candice Hern (check out her wonderful traditional Regencies, now reissued as ebooks), whose website is a fabulous resource for Regency history and artifacts, was kind enough to scan some particular outrageous examples from her collection of fashion plates. For non PR watchers, the judges on the show usually chose a top three and a bottom three. If you can pick a worthy winner from this lot, good luck. I invite you to nominate the three worst, and your candidate for being Aufed (For the uninitiated, a reference to Heidi Klum’s traditional Auf Wiedersehn to the loser). Scathing comments, another Project Runway tradition, are encouraged. (Also, I’m dying to hear who you think is going to win this year’s competition. Anya? Anthony? Oliver?)

Lady B, with the help of our commenters, will deliver the Auf  on Wednesday.