A few days ago, I posted the first chapter of a possible group serial novel, hoping to inspire someone to add the next installment and possibly creating a viral work of internet fiction as whoever wants to adds to it.
As I suspected, loyal reader and commenter #1, Sheria, took up the challenge. My only modification to her most excellent work is in the illustration I originally supplied. I realized a previous Hy-Art conveyed the Widow Marston much better. She is hatless as befits attendance at a ball, her dress is rather more unambiguously black, and she rather looks to be in her 30s, albeit holding up very, very well.
If either one of her or one of my readers come up with a Chapter III, I suppose we'll have to start an entirely blog entirely, just for the novel! Of course, if it was really viral, it could spin off into several different parallel versions, and we could lay claim to a new internet art forml! In any event, if you write a Chapter III, leave the link here and on Sheria's blog.
Two months of preparations had preceded the Contesse's ball, "la danse des étoiles printanières." For nearly ten years, it had provided the start of the spring season of endless balls, intended to introduce the young women of society to young men, if they were lucky, and to gentlemen old enough to be their grandfathers, if they were not. No one used the cumbersome long title any more, and simply referred to it as "les étoiles," or the stars. It was the Contesse's jewel, her shining achievement that secured her place in the bosom of French Society, and as she stared at the woman swathed in black silk whose hand so delicately rested on the Baron's arm, she was not at all pleased.
As the pair crossed the room, moving towards her, the Contesse raised her delicate lace fan, a gift from an admirer, and languidly waved it across her slightly flushed cheeks.
"Good evening, Contesse. You look lovely, as always."
"Thank you, Baron. It's a pleasure to see you here."
The Contesse's words hung in the air, polite but yet somehow suggesting that the pleasure did not extend to the Baron's companion.
"May I present Mrs. Emma Marston, from America. Mrs. Marston, this is our hostess for the evening, the Contesse de Vermeil."
As the Baron made the introductions, both women acknowledged the other with a slight nod of their well coiffed heads.
The Contesse spoke first, "Welcome, Mrs. Emma Marston, I hope that you will enjoy our little party."
"I'm already having a delightful time, Contesse. The Baron is proving to be a most thoughtful host."
"Host?"
"Ah yes, I had planned to return home after my month at the Georges, but the Baron graciously invited me to continue to recuperate from my sorrow as his house guest for the summer. Do you know his summer place? It's just outside of the city and it is, how do you say it, magnifique? Your language is so beautiful."
Adjusting his ascot, the Baron coughed delicately and took Mrs. Marston by her arm. She lifted her heart shaped face to meet his gaze and for a moment he was lost in the dark pools of her eyes. She dropped her lashes and turned back to the Contesse.
"I feel a bit warm. You must tell me where you purchased such a lovely fan, Contesse. While in Paris, I must do as the Parisians do. Baron, could we go out on the veranda and walk in the cool night air? It was a pleasure, Contesse."
To all the watching eyes, the Contesse appeared unperturbed and her guests' disappointment was almost palpable. There had been no fireworks between the Contesse and the American widow, leaving the pursuit of sixteen-year-old Mademoiselle Adele St. Coeur by the Marquis de Tuilleries, 40 years her senior, the only entertainment of the evening.
Bidding her guests a momentary adieu, the Contesse retired to her private salon, closing the door behind her. From a darkened corner, a young man moved into her line of sight. He was tall and handsome, in a coltish sort of way, as if he might break into a canter at a moment's notice. The Contesse spoke quietly.
"How was your journey?"
"It was an excellent passage, Contesse, calm seas all the way from America."
"Good, now tell me all about your stepmother, the widow Marston."
I really liked the first picture but the saucy expression on "Emma's" face in this image is quite intriguing. Very nice. By the way, chapter III is over at Beth's journal, http://journals.aol.com/luvrte66/nutwoodjunction/entries/2008/07/29/mrs.-marstons-mystery/4053