Lexington-Chapters 3 and 4

 

 

Chapter 3

Boston, Massachusetts

April

  

“I THINK IT’S bloody hypocritical.” Daphne Andrews looked in the closet for her jacket. She’d only lived in the apartment for the 48 hours. Between movers and staff, everything they had brought from London had been put somewhere, location yet to be determined.

They hadn’t been installed at the British Consulate General’s home, where they should be living. A fire, two weeks before they had arrived for the assignment, had made the place inhabitable. Repairs were estimated to take at least three months. If American workmen were like British, Daphne wasn't counting on their time estimate.

The Consulate had scurried around to find this Commonwealth Avenue, four-bedroom flat in a brick building located in the neighborhood Bostonians called Back Bay. In the 1600s it had been underwater or, so she had been told at the briefing for her and her husband.

The flat, like the official residence, had come furnished with everything imaginable, including four pizza cutters. Who needed four pizza cutters?

The flat covered the second floor of the building. Each room was larger than her basement studio in Edinburgh where she’d lived before marrying Gareth two months ago. While waiting for their transfer, she’d moved to London. The little she’d seen of Boston, she thought she’d enjoy their time there.

This apartment was four times larger than Gareth’s London flat in a modern building with square, uninteresting rooms. These rooms had character with high ceilings, moldings and bay windows bathing the rooms in light. A fireplace with a marble mantlepiece might take the chill off the room on a cool April evening. Whoever readied the apartment for them had prepared logs and kindling for a fire. All they needed was a match from the box to the right of the basket containing more logs.

Looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows she saw three- and four-story brick apartment buildings from converted mansions. The trees on the center grass strip dividing the street had not begun to unfurl. Why should they? It was still bloody cold for April.

Boston reminded her a bit of some sections of Edinburgh, which she missed. If Gareth hadn’t been appointed Consulate General after the last one dropped dead of a heart attack, they might still be there waiting for his next overseas assignment, and they would have continued with their commuting relationship rather than marry. Training from London to Edinburgh or vice versa on weekends had been the norm in their nine-month relationship.

He thought he would be assigned to some African country or even the boondocks in the United States. Daphne knew if she married a diplomat she would need to get used to many different places and cultures. Moving periodically to God-knows-where would be the norm in her marriage. Part of her was thrilled at the challenge and adventure; part of her worried she would miss the rich cultural life offered by places like London or Edinburgh. For the first assignment as a couple, she wasn’t worried about finding culture in Massachusetts. Boston had theaters, museums and 43 universities.

Some of her friends thought it was fabulous, adventurous, amazing. Others wondered how she would be able to create a stable family life. So did Daphne.

Nine months ago, she hadn’t even known Gareth. They had met by accident, literally. He had bumped into her on Princes Street, literally knocking her over. He apologized, claiming he’d been looking at the bagpiper, dressed in a kilt and playing “Amazing Grace.” Gareth offered to buy her coffee and a scone.

He’d been in Edinburgh on a government errand. She was drawn to him in a way that she’d never been drawn to any other man.

She had expected that eventually she would find someone, maybe another historian like herself, and end up living near her parents in the same section of Edinburgh where she’d grown up. She wasn’t panicking as she approached 30 that she wasn’t married, engaged or living with someone. It would happen someday … or not. Except it had happened, and here she was in Boston with a challenging new role as the wife of the head of the British Consulate. There would be many events where she would be hostess or required to appear. Today wasn’t one of them.

“You’re going to a ceremony that celebrates our loss of thirteen colonies. What you should say is good riddance.”

Gareth frowned. “I thought you loved history?”

“I do, but I’m not sure I want to see a lot of fake British soldiers get beaten by the rag-tag rebels.” She half smiled. “It might be fun if this year the rebels lost and we Brits won.

Gareth frowned. “Daphne, as my wife, you have to watch your tongue.”

Daphne found her jacket. “Go. I’m going to watch the Boston Marathon.”

 

Chapter 4

Geneva, Switzerland

November

 

 I’VE FOUND MY British soldier. At first, I named him James Hathaway. Then I watched the British television series, Lewis where James Hathaway was a detective. I wanted to keep the name James because it was my father’s. I changed my James’s last name to Holloway.

Matching a character’s name to time and place can be a challenge. I couldn’t have any early American woman named Madison or Mackenzie, for example. I find names in graveyards, telephone books, lists such as those giving favorite names for any given year.

There are also national considerations. Simon might be common in England, but not in America. Hamish definitely has a Scottish flavor. I decided on Gareth for one character because I know a number of Brits about the age of my character with that name.

For this book, the Mayflower passenger list was a help for Boston names in 1774.

I’ve wanted to use my grandmother’s name Florence for a French character. Flow-Rence would be the pronunciation the French way. I don’t yet know the part Florence or Flow-Rence will play. Maybe it will come to me some sleepless night.

Youtube has some great historical documentaries. I watched a series on bread making at different times throughout history including in Medieval and Victorian times. There were other documentaries about bread making with the Romans, Vikings, peasants, as well more scientific ones about the chemistry of bread making.

Watching them made my mouth water for freshly made bread. When we’re in Argelès, we can wander around the corner for bread still warm from the oven. In Geneva there’s an excellent bakery about a five-minute drive from the studio.

I’ve begun to create James Holloway’s life.

Where should he come from? With the pandemic, I can’t visit the UK. One friend suggested Richmond. Then I thought of Ely where I researched Murder in Ely. The members of the historical society helped me with that. I toured Oliver Cromwell’s house and spent hours in the local museum. A known setting is a definite timesaver.

In the case of Ely, I have to be aware 245-plus years can make massive changes in a place. Also, my artist friend Pauline, who still lives there, can verify certain facts if I can’t locate the answers elsewhere.

Some writers have their characters completely worked out. I have a form that I give in writing seminars for aspiring writers to help them develop a character. I’ve used it, but with James, I just write, creating his life as I go. He will reveal himself.

Note: In the next chapter we meet James Holloway in Ely where he is frustrated with his brother