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trennels2014-02-06 06:08 pm
lilliburlero.livejournal.com) wrote in trennels2014-02-06 06:08 pm
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Fans of Peter's Room
I'm just about to write a post-canon Merricks' Twelfth Night party (2 years on from that in Peter's Room.), and I'm making some POV decisions. From whose viewpoint would you like to see the party, and why? Peter's been packed off to Selby's for the Christmas hols, sorry, I had to limit the cast a bit. The only definite decision so far is a staff POV (probably Mrs Bertie 'helping out', as she's much better characterised than Nellie). I can't promise everything will make it into the finished fic, but I'll try and write a ficbit for everything suggested.
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I was thinking about Doris POV as dressmaker to the gentry. I hope they bloody pay her extra.
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Rose had tried everything to get out of it, and in the end, Daddy had got quite cross. The green velvet dress was gorgeous, and the patent leather pumps, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t grateful—part of her wished Chas could come along too, he would soak up quite a bit of attention with his antics, but he was too young, it would be just as shy-making to have him cavorting about. She felt too young herself. Kay had said there would be quite a few people her own age there, and she would surely know some of them, but the thought of that was much more terrifying than grown-ups. What if they were Verity Lidgett and Gail Farrant, intrepid girls who seemed afraid of nothing, not of cricket balls flying at their faces or horses or noisy, dirty boys on bicycles, and scorned Rose for her anxieties in that regard? She knew too that Patrick Merrick hunted with hawks, hideous assemblages of wicked eyes and claws, like the dinosaurs in Chas’s encyclopaedia, but worse, because all over feathery. Hawks didn’t live inside, like dogs—would there be dogs?
‘Good evening, Mr Dodd. Good evening, Rose.’ She didn’t recognise the tall young man at first who bent to offer his large, bony hand—but it was Patrick. He looked completely grown-up (which was reassuring) and very handsome in dinner jacket and hair-oil (which was not). ‘I say, you haven’t been to the house, have you? May I show Rose around—I think she might like to see our armoury and chapel—’
A chapel! Of course, the Merricks were Catholics: Rose thought that was utterly romantic and thrilling of them. She tried to cast Patrick in the role of Alan Breck, but it wouldn’t really go; his accent was very English indeed, and a jabot of rusty lace wouldn’t suit his sinewy neck with its prominent adam’s apple, but he probably was gleg at the jumping. His legs were very long; when he stood straight to speak to Daddy, all she could see of him was his shirtfront, a row of little jet buttons.
‘Hadn’t we better get to supper?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Dodd, there’s ages yet—half the guests aren’t here.’
‘Daddy, may I? Please?’
‘I don’t know that it’s a terribly good idea for you to go off alone where we mightn’t be able to—’
Patrick went rather red and a lock of dark hair escaped onto his brow. He said in quite a scratchy, thin voice, the sort of voice, Rose thought, that books meant when they said strangled, ‘All right, perhaps another time. People are gathering just through there—yes, on the right, in the drawing room.’
Patrick hurried away, greeting other guests. It wasn’t fair, Rose thought; tears threatened. Daddy always ruined things. But he was at least a known quantity. She clutched his hand, scuttling to keep pace with his angry steps.
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