Elisabeth Grace Foley

Historical Fiction Author

Scattered Snippets: 2022

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Although it was not a year for getting down a big chunk of progress on one individual project, I did make tiny bits of progress on several. It doesn’t seem like a terrible lot to me, but at least it’s enough to give you a very tiny taste of snippets from each one. I’d love to hear which story appeals to you the most…and no doubt it will be whichever one I’m least in the mood to work on. Take bets on which one I’m likeliest to finish first, if you like—at the present moment I haven’t the faintest idea which that will be!

(Technically, The Summer Country is finished; it just needs a round of edits, and I’m still considering different options for publication. The other two still have a lot of drafting to go.)

The Summer Country

{middle-grade novel: historical fantasy}

“If you meant to catch the 8:15,” said the Gentleman Traveler, holding up his watch, “you had exactly fourteen hours and fifteen minutes since the six o’clock train last night to do it in. And you were still late.”

“Gracious goodness, my dear man, I wasn’t trying to catch the 8:15!” said the Lady with the Map, putting it away in her handbag (the map, that is).

*

Milly answered the door, and when she saw Anne she did not say “Walk in, please, miss,” as she probably should have, but uttered an astonished “Well, I declare!” Milly had never been very good at answering the door properly, and since so few real guests rang the doorbell at Uncle Timothy’s she had gotten even more out of practice.

*

Peggy sat down on the edge of his wheelbarrow and watched him for a minute, studying his battered hat and his big boots with the fresh soil always on them, and his weathered hands handling the spade. It was all so exactly like what she had been told that Peggy felt he must know something; he must know the secret of what puzzled her. So when presently he turned and his keen, kind eyes met hers, she spoke what she was thinking without it seeming at all strange. “I wonder, are you really the Gardener?”

The City of the Great King

{novel: Ruritanian}

“Dear Julian,” ran the microscopic note in Phyllida’s inky curlicued handwriting. “I am giving a very elegant, very intellectual little dinner this week, and one of my less important guests has cried off at the last minute. Do come and fill his place so I don’t have to rearrange my table.”

*

“I don’t fancy Schaldorf much,” observed Kinzelmann. “Cold sort of climate—dodgy company. And their vintage is sour.”

*

Deep down Matthias knew that Isabel would not be Isabel were it not for her honesty and her principle, but he had always been a little too serene in imagining that they would always agree, as they had always agreed heretofore, and that he would never do anything that Isabel might criticize. It always seems a little unfair to have cold water poured on you by the person you have paid the very great honor of admiring and holding in high esteem.

Last Ride at the Lazy G

{novel: historical mystery}

For half a minute, listening to the sizzle of frying eggs on the stove and seeing the patterns the morning light made on the floor, Rusty felt absolutely nothing. It was like the few seconds of perfect silence before a bomb made impact. Then the hollow feeling in his gut told him that yes, he had actually heard the words. He stared at his father, who met his look fairly now with concerned, heavy-browed eyes. “Sold?” he said.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“You thought I did?” Rusty was still at sea, but with the futile clenching of hurt and anger a hard knot under his breastbone.

*

Mrs. MacIntyre’s voice turned warm and friendly. “Rusty! How good to hear your voice again! When did you get home?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” Too soon to call? Not soon enough? Come on, Gregory, get a grip on yourself. It was sometimes useful to think in his sergeant’s voice. “Is Janice there?”

*

The sun edged above the eastern hills and the pasture streamed with gold. For a while they rode without speaking, soaking in the sights and sounds of morning, their horses moving at a slow jingling trot. Rusty glanced at the amateur helpers; Judy Price’s shining face and Nicky Sheridan’s straight back and eager scanning of the landscape showed that this was high adventure to them. Jack Vaughn, trailing in the rear, sat his horse casually and whistled sporadically, scraps of no tune in particular that were like off-key echoes of the birds trilling from trees and thickets.

Ruritanian Snippets

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So the secret is out: I’m writing a Ruritanian novel. It’s an idea I’ve been gradually accumulating notes for and simmering in my head for two or three years, and finally decided “what the heck, let’s go for it.” It’s fun writing something a little different than my usual: cutting loose with a tad more flowery language and lavish setting (basically all the stored-up inspiration from years of reading classics and watching period films), and straight-up inventing stuff instead of researching every detail. It’s also a little different because I have an outline that’s shockingly more detailed and complete than any I’ve worked from before and which actually manages to incorporate some Crucial Elements of Story Structure that I usually blithely ignore. What do you know.

Anyway, I’ve reached a first milestone of sorts in the rough draft, though still not too far into the story (I have a hunch this thing is going to be a tome), and in spite of my typical wrestling with tendencies toward self-pressuring and self-criticism, I’m pretty satisfied with how it’s going so far. (In bad moments I just keep repeating to myself, “You can fix the mess in the next draft. You can fix the mess in the next draft.”) So here’s a few snippets:

Never allow yourself, Maximilian had taught her, to appear too eager, or heaven forbid, desperate, when negotiating with anyone who had the ability to grant or deny your request at their own will. And who but he stood in that exact position in nearly every aspect of Margareta’s life?

She wished she had someone to run to the way Lucie and Mathilde did to their mother—to tumble into someone’s arms and pour out her feelings and desires as simply as the little girls did their small wishes and grievances in their mother’s silken embrace, and to ask for decisions based entirely on love. But for Margareta no such person existed. Life was a chess-match in which she did not yet have a queen’s freedom to move.

*

He sat shaking his head a little in meditation for a moment, until Captain Marcusin’s rising to come around and stand at his elbow apparently roused him. “‘On the whole I’d rather not—!’ I don’t know. That boy has the makings of either a fine officer or a consummate rascal, and whichever it ends up being will be due solely to chance.”

“Not chance,” said Captain Marcusin, who never wasted words. “Providence.”

“Ay, well,” said Colonel Sproesser, “Providence had best take a hand soon, for I am about to give up.”

*

The Baron called his tenants by each other’s names, confused last year’s harvest with this year’s planting, and was surprised by the absence of fences long since moved and flocks long gone to market, and the farmers corrected him or did not bother to correct him, both with the greatest good-humor. Often Julian met a twinkling eye over his father’s shoulder as he stood by and listened. The Baron was conscious of nothing from them but respect, but Julian saw that he moved in a sheltered atmosphere of their tolerant kindliness—an almost paternal attitude, as if they were the ones taking care of him rather than the theoretical opposite. It was a good thing they were fond of him, Julian reflected, or they might have cheated him far more than they actually did.

*

“I own I was surprised,” she said, “but if indeed there was any change in my manner you must put it down to curiosity, not incivility.”

Charclau bowed slightly. “I would not do you the dishonor of thinking otherwise. But you know, Your Grace, even curiosity need not lead to restraint. In my experience a lady is often more than usually free and secure in speaking to one used to burying confessions in oblivion.”

Valencia was smiling a little. “You do not look to me like someone who knows much of the confessional.”

“You are right. I am more of the scholar than the priest. But discretion—” he gave an infinitesimal pause as if to lay some stress on the word “—is one of the subjects I have always studied.”

*

Two other officers of another regiment joined them and Guilbault left; a hand at cards was proposed, and they cut for a dealer. Rapscal dealt, and small wagers in gold and silver appeared on the table among the wineglasses. There was a certain unpredictable excitement in playing cards with Rapscal; they never knew when he would bet casually and play lazily, or when he would be merciless. One time he might glance at his cards and toss them face downward on the table with a half-smile as if it were not worth the effort, and another time he would sweep away an ensign’s livelihood for a month with a cool, “Better luck next time, lad.” The uncertainty was as heady as the gambling itself.

*

“If I wanted to reprimand you, I could do much better than that. But I am not in the mood. Today I am letting you talk nonsense because it amuses me.”

 

There will probably be radio silence on this project again for a while, at least till I have another good chunk of the first draft under my belt, because I just do not do well at concentrating on something while sharing progress continuously. But you’ll be hearing more of it eventually.

well, whatcha think?