As a writer, I've run into the need to do more research before James can go on with his new career as a solider. It's a good time to work on Daphne's character and challenges. In Chapter's 14 and 15 James will begin his new life as a soldier, despite his brother calling him crazy.
Chapter 12
Geneva, Switzerland
When I find a book I need for my research, I select
Kindle, rather than wait for postal services to deliver a hard cover. When
ordering things to my French address, I suspect the French post considers the
address a suggestion. And where we go back and forth between countries, we are
never sure when or where a book will be delivered, possibly leaving the
information in another country. This is not a problem for most writers.
The pandemic has increased challenges both for
travel and normal movement. Simple things like going to the English Library in
Geneva is difficult with limited hours or no hours. When it is open, only six
people are allowed in at a time. The good news, on the path to the back
entrance are boxes of books for sale. They don’t have anything for my research,
but it’s great for my fun reading.
YouTube offerings are packed with information and
gives me sources while I wait for books or responses from different historians
I’ve contacted. For example, when I get to the soldiers firing, I learned that
the guns, when rapidly fired, became hot to the touch. It adds to the
authenticity. Ranger Jim’s and Chris the Redcoat’s videos are full of
information.
There are days I write a sentence and realize I
need to verify a fact. If I were worried about daily word count, this would be
depressing. Too often, I notice something that I need to follow up on. And then
another, and another. Sometimes this is productive in terms of advancing the
story … other times? Not so much.
I don’t have the worry about authenticity with
Daphne. I know Boston, its idiosyncrasies and the region. I know Lexington.
Certain things stand out about Daphne. She loves
history. She didn’t mind being single, but she is strongly attracted to Gareth.
When Gareth is offered the post in Boston, it pushes her into a decision she
might not have made otherwise.
My major problem with Daphne’s story is how to
tie it into the historical part. It is at this point that I envy writers who think
everything out in advance. My mind does not work that way.
We are back in Geneva. Because of the pandemic, restaurants
are closed except for take-out. A good friend comes by. We buy take out sushi
and eat at her house.
In France, pre-pandemic, I could leave the house
at eight for a loaf of bread (the bakeries are all in five-minute walking
distance) and not get back until lunch or after because I run into this friend
or that. In Geneva I almost never run into anyone I know.
Unlike France where we can only be out for 30
minutes and we have to fill out an attestation showing why we are out and when
we left our house, in Switzerland we do not have to follow these procedures. Whether
in Switzerland or France, the pandemic has been good for writing. Social
gatherings are non-existent, which encourages creative time.
Daphne’s character and adjustment to being a non-working wife in a new city may be a good start.
In Chapters 14 and 15 we'll be back with James, his brother's reaction and his march to his future base where he'll be for training.
Chapter
13
Boston,
Massachusetts
May
Although
she had dated off and on, no one had interested her enough to want to marry
them or even live with them.
Her
parents had set a high bar of what a happy couple should be. So many of her
parents’ friends had broken up whether living together or waiting for the
divorce settlement. Her mother’s shoulders were often damp as the wives poured
out their problems to her.
Many
of her own friends, whose weddings she attended, were divorced or unhappy.
Daphne
had heard of women’s biological time clocks going off, but she had never heard
of a spinster time clock. If her casual dating had been irregular, her almost
serious dating history was scantier. A medical student at Edinburgh University
was really looking for someone to make his life easier as he worked his way
through the training – that lasted seven months before she realized his
motives.
As
a serious student, she hadn’t gone in for getting pissed at the pubs on
weekends. Hangovers caused her to lose a day where she could be doing something
more interesting than feeling lousy. Parties left her depressed when she didn’t
have a date. They left her depressed when she had a boring date.
Gareth
had been different. She was intrigued by him from the very first and not just
for his good looks. Perhaps because he’d already lived in several countries, he
was different from the men who had only lived in Scotland. His interests went
far beyond the sports fanatics like Hamish, Duncan and Peter had been.
He
treated her as if he’d found a treasure. She liked being a treasure rather than
an afterthought between sporting matches.
Six
months was not much time to get to know a person with whom one considered
spending the rest of their life. On week three, he said he thought they should
make their arrangement permanent. He used the word “permanent” not will you
marry me. He had told her upfront that he was in line for a transfer to God
knows where. They would talk about posts they knew were vacant with a “What if
it’s …” and followed by discussions of what it would be like to live in …”
When
the Boston post came through, they rushed to city hall. She never wanted a big
wedding or even a small one. A pub lunch known where its chef was renowned
followed – just the two of them.
The
day they’d returned from their honeymoon in the Seychelles where they’d
alternated diving, swimming and making love, the movers came to Gareth’s London
flat. Because Daphne had very little she wanted to keep, she prevailed on her
parents for a small section of their attic to use as storage.
After
the gray of Edinburgh, the early May Boston sun was like being on a different
planet. She’d said as much to Stephanie, Gareth’s secretary when she was
waiting for her husband to take her to lunch.
He
had wanted her to join him at a soup and sandwich place he’d found in the
Square and a quick duck after into the Harvard Coop for a book he’d ordered
which had arrived. “You can take it home,” he’d said that morning when he
invited her to lunch, adding she “So I won’t have to.
“Wait
until February when dirty, slushy snow piles up and they’re predicting another
Nor’Easter.” Stephanie was straightening her desk. Gareth had complained to
Daphne that his secretary’s was always a mess.
“Nor’Easter?”
“A
big miserable snowstorm. However, you’ll love the autumn. Notice I said autumn
not fall. I’m learning to talk Brit.” Stephanie winked. “How are you doing
settling in?”
Although
she had tried to keep herself amused by scouring Boston for its history, she
missed her work which she’d considered an archaeological dig for past
information.
She
did not have the right to work in the United States unless some company or
educational institution wanted to hire her and be willing to go through the
work of fighting contrary visas: work and diplomatic. The chance of that
happening was remote.
Her
father had warned her that a history major was not a good career choice.
Engineering, computer science, accounting … those were things he’d suggested.
In a pounds and penny sense, she knew he was right, but in a quality-of-life
decision, she had risked it and had loved her studies. She needed another fluke
to work as a historian like when she was hired to becoming an archivist for
Edinburgh Tweed, Ltd.
It
had flashed through her mind that she could use this Boston time to work on a
doctorate. The city boasted of 44 or 45 universities, she could never remember
which. Not all offered a Ph.D. and even fewer in history. When she saw the cost
of Harvard, she could not justify the expenditure. Boston University had an
interesting program, but tuition ran about $60,000. Even at the state
university she would not consider her a local student qualifying for lower
fees, but they didn’t have a Ph.D. program.
Gareth
also reminded her, that although her official duties were small, there would
still be a tea, some formal ceremony or an event that her presence would be a
benefit to him and the U.K. And what if it would be at the same time when she
was under pressure to produce an important paper or take an exam? “No, no,” he
said, “it wouldn’t work at all.”
She
knew her husband considered his career more important than anything she might
do now or in the future, just like her father believed ferreting out historical
facts, stories and events was of minor importance.
She
didn’t argue with the exception of saying, “Historians and others like me
should document your kind’s cock-up so it isn’t repeated.” She delivered her
pronouncement with a smile. From the beginning of their relationship, she had
hidden any criticism of Gareth in a joke or with so much sweetness any barb was
buried.
Her
mother had been talented at shooting verbal arrows in a manner that the person
hit didn’t feel the emotional wound for several hours, and even then, they were
never sure.
It
was a handy skill to have if used wisely, her mother had cautioned. Daphne only
did it when she felt it was necessary to maintain her position. Not wanting to
be totally subservient to her husband was when she brought out a velvet arrow.
Never
mind that Gareth kept talking about starting a family. Only after their
marriage ceremony did he reveal that he didn’t think mothers should work.
Remarks like that made her wonder if she had said yes too quickly. In the time prior to their marriage, they’d never
discussed children. Now she called herself stupid for not bringing it up.
If
Daphne had given any thought of herself as a future wife and as part of a
couple it would have been to have a marriage more like her parents’
relationship, that of good friends, who thoroughly enjoyed each other.
Gareth
was someone whose company she enjoyed. They both loved the theater, ballet and
good food. He noticed little things like she did such as a flower peeking up
through a crack in the sidewalk. It was that crack and that flower that made
her say yes when he told her they should make it permanent because he soon
would be in God knows where and she would be back in Edinburgh. It would
realistically mean the end of their relationship.
Daphne
described herself as person who likes people but not too much. She was always
happier in a serious discussion with one person, although she could mingle with
the best of them when she had too. And she would have to in her role as consul
general’s wife.
Today
she and Gareth would be formally greeted by the mayor of Boston at a tea at
City Hall. It was also a cover to promote trade between Massachusetts and the
U.K.
Rather
than use their driver, they walked to Boston City Hall, a top-heavy white
cement building in a sea of red brick with white stairs looking like waves.
Their
Comm Ave. flat was close enough. As she and Garth strolled through the Boston
Gardens that were in full blossom she said, “Those flowers are wicked pretty.”
“What?”
“I’m
learning to speak Bostonian.”
“And
with a Scottish accent.” He was laughing.
They
passed the swan boats lined up waiting for passengers and then the statues of a
mother duck followed by her ducklings wearing tiny Celtics shirts. “Those
aren’t just any ducks. I think there’s some kid’s book about those ducks.” She
pronounced aren’t as anht.
“Stop
with the imitation Bostonian,” Gareth said. “You need to be circumspect with
what you say.” She nodded, noting his directive was delivered with a growl.
“Also, when you talk with other consulate spouses, be on the lookout for being
pumped. Several will be there. It would be much worse if we were in Washington,
but you never know.”
For
a moment she resented his warning (wahning in Bostonian), but then she realized
her knowledge of the diplomatic world was from novels. This was Gareth’s
career.
He
was right with his warning. There were at least 30 people there, half from the
local consulates, but Daphne couldn’t tell which were spouses and which were
the CGs. The rest were businessmen wanting to make connections into the
European Union through whichever national door they could force their way. The
CGs were only slightly more subtle in pushing their countries’ merits.
She
went from cluster to cluster of people introducing herself, as Gareth had
directed.
The
word Brexit was never uttered in her hearing, but she was sure it was there in
somewhere. They were odd man out against the EU. Daphne knew that Gareth would
be upset as he battled Brexit fallout if she gave her opinion which was Brexit
was stupid.
As
a Scot, who wanted independence; she was angry that one of the reasons people
had been encouraged to vote to stay in the United Kingdom was that they could
remain in the EU. Then England had pulled them out of the EU. She knew better
than to discuss a second Scottish referendum on independence knowing he would
never agree.
She
excused herself and walked to the linen-covered long table with tiny
sandwiches, tea and coffee. A white-coated woman of no more than 25 handed her
a cuppa, only she didn’t say cuppa.
“The
tiny cakes are better than the sandwiches.” There was only a slight inflection,
too slight for Daphne to identify from the voice that had come up behind her.
Daphne
came close to spilling her tea as she turned.
“Florence
Dubois.” She gave it the French pronunciation of Flow-Rence Dew Bwa, with all
syllables having the same weight.
Daphne
introduced herself.
“Yves,
that is my husband, the French Consel General over by the fake tree, told me
that Gareth had a wife. I was hoping you would be here.”
Gareth
appeared at her elbow. “Love, there’s someone you have to meet. May I borrow my
wife?”
“Bien sûr. It was a pleasure. I hope we
meet soon again.” Florence’s accent now dripped French inflection.
As
they talked to the overweight businessmen, Daphne used her newly mastered
facial expression claiming interest while half listening in case she was
expected to add something. Gareth had briefed her on what to say if this or if
that. She wondered if in Elizabethan times, the court couriers did the same
with their wives and mistresses.
Three
cups of tea created a desire to find the ladies. The woman pouring the tea told
her where it was.
How
much longer before we can escape she wondered. She flushed and left the
cubicle. She took a moment to smooth her hair in the mirror over the sink.
The
ladies room door opened and Florence Dubois breezed in. “Wonderful. I thought I
saw you head for the relief room. Let’s exchange phone numbers.” The French
accent had ebbed again as she took out her phone to enter Daphne’s number.
“I
left my phone at home, but mine is 555-7734,” Daphne said.
“617?”
Daphne
nodded. For half a second, she had thought of reversing digits because Gareth
might not like her becoming friends with this woman. However, there was
something that drew her to her.
“Are
the rumors right that you are a historian?” Florence asked.
“Yes
and no. I was. Now I’m just an accompanying wife. I’ve a diploma in history and
I did do research from the 1700s for a private company.” Was she telling too
much?
“Fabulous,
you are in the same situation I’m in. Only I’m an artist out of work but
playing a dutiful wife. Ciao,” and she was gone leaving the ladies room door
swinging.
*****
That evening, after a meal of eggs
on toast, Daphne curled up on the couch reading a Spenser novel. She tried to match descriptions of the city that
she’d already discovered with descriptions in the book.
A
cup of tea sat on the coffee table. An afghan her grandmother had made for her
as a university graduation present covered her lap. It was one of the few
things she had shipped.
The
New England weather was living up to the alleged Mark Twain quote, “If you
don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” On the walk back from City Hall, the
temperature had dropped fifteen degrees.
When
she arrived home and before settling down with her book, she’d researched the
saying attributed to Twain and found there was some question of where and when
it was said. She mentioned it to Gareth before he had disappeared into the room
he used as his office to go over his endless papers.
A
few minutes after disappearing, Gareth came out of the office. “The consulate
construction engineer e-mailed me.”
“And
...”
“They
say they’ve discovered many major structural problems in the house where we are
supposed to live. More than previously thought.”
“And
…”
“Optimistically
it means it won’t be ready before Christmas, if then.”
“That’s
fine with me.” She turned the tip of the page in the book to mark her spot in
case this was going to evolve into a lengthy conversation.
“You’re
such a good sport.” As Gareth hugged her, she didn’t confess how happy she was
in their temporary flat. It was convenient to everything the city had to offer.
Even
if they would be moved by the staff, Daphne liked staying in the same place.
She’d had the same rooms two of her three years at uni. While job hunting,
she’d been in a bedsit for three months. Once she’d found a basement studio
when she started at Tweed, she stayed put, even when her salary allowed her to
look for a one-bedroom or a share.
She
liked her alone time too much. She also liked the familiarity with her
Edinburgh neighborhood. There was the dog next door that she gave treats to.
His barks, when she passed, had been replaced with sorrowful starving eyes if
she didn’t give him anything. She hadn’t believed his hunger act for a minute,
considering his chubby body and shiny fur.
Her
landlord and landlady, who rented her the studio, lived upstairs on the next
two floors. Her landlady sometimes played show tunes on her piano and the music
drifted downstairs. Daphne would open her door to listen.
They’d
become friends more or less. Sometimes, the landlady would invite her for a
cuppa or even a meal. Daphne reciprocated using the tiny courtyard behind her
studio.
In
Boston, she had not had a chance to meet any of the other residents in this
multi-story brick building that had once been a private mansion like almost
every other building along Comm Ave. Only one flat was on each floor. Gareth
had cautioned her not to get too friendly with anyone. They wouldn’t be there
that long. “Americans can be very friendly when you’re in front of them, but
when you leave, they never keep contact.”
Daphne
had heard that before.
“Besides,
we have to be so circumspect.”
“I
won’t run naked through the halls,” Daphne said. She kept her tone soft and had
kissed him on the cheek.”
“That’s
good to know,” he’d replied and went back into his office. “If you want to run
around naked for me later, that would be fine.”
Rather
than reopen the book, Daphne wondered what to do tomorrow. The post came with
staff, so Daphne was relieved of many of the mundane chores of wifedom. With
Gareth snowed under with work, it left her with time on her hands for the first
time in her adult life. When she’d suggested they didn’t need as much help,
Gareth reminded her that they were providing jobs. Her solution was to send the
cook and cleaner home early most days.
As
for the driver, that had to be cleared through the consul’s office in advance.
Since the T could take her most places or she could walk, she had yet to ask
for Max. Gareth would have Max bring him home at night if it were late. Taking
the T to and from work was often faster than sitting in Boston traffic.
*****
The day after the do at City Hall,
she stayed in bed to finish Even So by Lauren B. Davis, a Canadian
writer she’d just found. She wasn’t worried about running out of reading
matter. From her last trip to the Boston Public Library (BPL in Bostonian) four
books remained to be read: another mystery, a book on the American Revolution,
a chick lit and a thriller. The BPL was only a few blocks walk.
She
wondered what to do to fill her day.
As
much as she loved reading, she didn’t want to spend what looked like a
beautiful day gazing out the window. Gareth had pulled the curtains to let in
the sunshine. By nature, she wasn’t a shopper. She’d done the Freedom Trail
tracing the progress of the early settlers and the some of the events in the
American Revolution.
More
than once, she’d spent the afternoon in the BPL researching the history of the
city. She’d wandered down to the National Park Service where Ranger Bill
directed her to the part that Boston had played a part in women’s suffrage.
However,
her research was scattered, but then again there was no future purpose for what
she found. Daphne hadn’t been scattered most of her life but almost overly
organized, knowing what she would be doing and how she was doing it. It wasn’t
that she was inflexible. She could juggle the new when it seeped into the old,
but quickly she would incorporate it into her schedule with as much order as
possible.
Probably
she had been able to do that because she had had deadlines. Now during the week
there might be one of two things to be done. This lady of leisure thing sucked,
to use an American phrase.
What
she needed was a project: she didn’t know what. At times she felt like she was
standing in front of a giant buffet. There was more food on display than she
could eat in a hundred years.
More
than once the idea of writing a book came to her. Maybe getting it published
without any credentials other than a master’s degree might be slim. In a moment
of fantasy, she imagined herself on the BBC, the next Mary Beard or Suzannah
Lipscomb.
Before
that could happen, she needed a topic. Even before that she needed a cup of tea
and the blueberry muffin she’d bought yesterday.
Daphne
sat on the living room couch, her feet on the coffee table and hoping it wasn’t
an expensive antique, just an ordinary one. The teacup was on a coaster to
protect the wood.
Her
laptop was on her knees. She was messaging with Victoria, her best friend and
fellow student at Edinburgh University.
Their
friendship was cemented because neither were party animals, although a good fun
night out every fortnight or more was not ignored.
Victoria
was finishing her doctorate. Her goal was to find a university position where
she could teach and research. Regularly she moaned to Daphne about her fights
with her reader who disliked her emphasis on women’s lives influencing their
husbands, all courtiers in Queen Elizabeth’s court. She would bemoan the lack
of letters and documents and claimed jealousy that Daphne had all that she
needed in the Tweed company’s archives.
Daphne:
Oh Vic, I’m still at sixes and
sevens.
Vic: You
need to focus.
Daphne: I
wish you were with me when I did the Freedom Trail. I wonder what would have
happened if the colonists had lost. Now that would make a book.
Vic: So write it.
Daphne: Easier said than done.
Vic: This from the woman who spit
out papers faster than any student in the history of our program.
They
went on to discuss Victoria’s new boyfriend, another doctoral student. She
wasn’t sure he was a keeper. She wasn’t sure he wasn’t.
Their
conversation had to end. Victoria needed to go meet her advisor, but they
promised to talk again before the weekend.
Daphne
wet her fingertip to pick up the remaining muffin crumbs from her plate.
All
her life she had had projects, going back to school reports where teachers had
complimented on the depth that she went to. Her thoroughness had served her
well at uni.
Sometimes
documents were limited. Her thesis was on Eleanor of Aquitaine. She had visited
everywhere Eleanor had lived during summer holidays, every route the queen had
taken in her travels on the continent. She visited the sites where King Henry
had imprisoned his wife. She did not have the funds to trace the Crusade
Eleanor went on through the Holy Land, but she had stood at the woman’s tomb in
France and felt like she’d had a personal introduction: “Eleanor meet Daphne,
Daphne meet Eleanor.” Eleanor’s son Richard the Lionhearted rested near his
mother. King Henry II wasn’t far away. Daphne gave them a hello too.
If
Tweed was a far cry from the study of a woman who was unlike any other in her
time or many times, the ease of the information at Tweed was a pleasure.
The
telephone rang.
“Madame
Andrews, please.”
“This
is Daphne Andrews.”
“Florence
Dubois, the wife of the French Consul General. She pronounced it again as Flaw
Rence Due Bwa with a rolled R and equal weight on the syllables. “We met
yesterday afternoon at the mayor’s reception.”
“I
remember.”
“I
wish we had more time to talk. I was wondering if you would like to have
breakfast with me. I can show you a side of the area that you might not see.”
“That
sounds interesting.”
“I
know your degree in history and mine in graphic arts are very different, but we
might have more in common than many of the consular wives.
They
arranged to do it Wednesday with Florence picking her up, saying it was faster
to drive than take the T. And where we are going has parking. Imagine?”
In
bed that night as Daphne read a book and Gareth a report, she mentioned she had
agreed to have breakfast with Florence Dubois next Wednesday.
Gareth
didn’t share her excitement at a chance to do something with someone
interesting. He didn’t even look up from his report. “Just be careful.”
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