To celebrate my male MC’s birthday (and that of his real life historical counterpart) here’s a glimpse of his first meeting with my protagonist Clara, in the Bodleian Library as she’s working on a defective invention in my first draft of my WIP The Peculiar Life Of Clara Russell:
‘ “If you do not behave, I will not hesitate to throw you into the Thames.”
The words leave my mouth before I realise, spoken with all the frustrated authority of a parent scolding a wayward child. Except the child in question is a delicate brass-and-wood contraption, no larger than a music box, with wires and gears wound so tightly that even I am not entirely sure I remember how they fit together.
It sits on the table in front of me, gleaming under the dim library lamps, its inner workings sprawled open like an unfortunate autopsy. The Echo Recorder—my Echo Recorder—is supposed to capture and replay sound, it’s a device that, in theory, could preserve voices and conversations as easily as a pianist records a melody in a music box. Instead, for the third time this week, it lets out a wretched, ear-piercing shriek— pain reaches my ears and I scramble to switch the mechanism to neutral.
And then—
“Good Heavens, is it supposed to make that noise?”
I twist around sharply, startled.
A man stands behind me, flinching slightly, though his expression is caught between alarm and curiosity.
My first impression is blue—from the deep and vivid colour of his well-tailored frock coat, to the piercing light blue of his round eyes. It’s an arresting colour - the kind of blue that stands out even in the dim lighting of the library. My second thought is that he’s young, perhaps my age or a little older.
I take him in with a swift glance. No facial hair, no signs of arrogance yet, but that coat is expensive, and the way he holds himself—upright, practiced, careful—tells me he’s someone important. He probably waltzed in here expecting deference, expecting me to fetch them books and then scuttle out of the way.
“That is hardly a helpful remark.” I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow at him.
He gives me a vaguely sheepish look in return. “I don’t mean to intrude. But I must confess, I really wasn’t expecting…” He gestures vaguely to the strange brass and wood device on the table between us, and then raises his hands to his ears. “…that. When I stepped in here today.”
I sigh, running a hand over my forehead, “Neither was I, if I’m honest.”
His lips twitch as if he wants to smile, but he suppresses it. There’s something… oddly self-conscious about him, like he’s aware of how he takes up space. Not in the usual way men do— with swagger, overconfidence—but instead he is careful. Measured - as if he’d spent his life believing he was nothing but an obstacle.
“I see.” He hesitates, “although, I do believe libraries are usually quite strict about loud, unholy noises.”
“Well, I’ll send my sincerest apologies to the bookshelves,” I reply as I continue to fiddle with the device before me “And, I suppose, to you. I didn’t realise anyone was standing behind me.”
He waves a hand as if to dismiss the apology, then steps towards the table. It’s then that I notice his cane—it’s plain dark wood but extremely well-crafted, and under his grip, the handle is pure gold, shaped perhaps like the head of a mallard. He leans on it just enough that I realise instantly that it is not just an accessory. He looks uncomfortable, in the way I do when I encounter sudden loud noises – and not those caused by a defective invention.
There’s something familiar about him, and not just from the colour of his eyes being like the sky on a clear day, but his sharp but overall delicateness of his features, are certainly familiar, in a way I just can’t place.
His eyes drop to the table, to the scattered mechanical parts and the open brass device in front of me and I am suddenly even more wary of him. It’s not a foreign feeling; I have spent too much time in this library not to know what comes next when it comes to people of his clearly aristocratic raising. Either he is going to sneer, ask why I—a woman—am tinkering with something clearly beyond my comprehension. Or worse, he will offer some patronising remark about how impressive it is that I’ve gotten this far.
“I am rather curious—what exactly is it?"
Well, that is new.
“Why do you want to know?”’
The 8th of March is International Women’s Day, so in celebration of that I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to do a post on some of the women in my work in progress, The Peculiar Life Of Clara Russell, complete with face claim (because I find writing easier when I have an actor in mind whilst writing).
