A Lark In The Bushel

Chapter 1 - "Balls and eligible men"

"To hell with it!  The blasted thing has thrown a shoe!"  The frustrated outburst came from the head of the carriage,  Kitty peered out of her window but could not see the coachman from this angle. She felt the ripple of unease sweep around her family in the carriage but she could not share their misgivings, ever the optimist, Kitty was instead thrilled by the carriage ride with her family. Whatever the issue, they would find a way around it, she was sure of it.

Her gaze drifted across to the tightly packed trees at the side of the road, the longer she stared into their shaded gloom the more she could swear she saw movement, it felt as though the trees were watching her, with unseen hooded eyes and malevolent grins. The breeze rustling through the branches a whisper of discontent, of murmured plans reminiscent of the conversations held in a quiet corner of inns of ill repute. Hushed exchanges where men keep their features hidden, the subjects they discussed too dark to be held in well-lit rooms or in pleasant company.

Kitty imagined highwaymen hiding in the trees, thieves and murders lying in wait,she recalled the stories she would share with her sister when they were but babes as she gazed out into the thick forest beyond the warm comforting safety of the carriage. They were stories of witches and wizards, goblins, elves, fairies, giants, dragons. The stories were brimming with knights and princesses from far ago times, mystical creatures from far away lands and discovered treasure far beyond their wildest imagining. Good and evil, triumph and happily-ever-afters.

Kitty smiled fondly at the memory of her sister and herself sitting crossed-legged on their bedroom floor, long after they were supposed to be asleep. Both leaning in over the candle burning low, speaking with a hushed urgency, wanting to tell an exciting story but desiring not to be caught out of bed at this unseemly hour.

Sometimes they would tell these stories during their afternoons of embroidery or when walking through the grounds of their manor house, but these times of storytelling never carried the same magic. It would seem the adventure of the tales lay only partly in the plot and mostly in the atmosphere of the environment. The important thing about stories was how they made you feel. Long after character and place names had been forgotten, story details lost in time, there would remain the recollection of vicariously sharing the triumph of the protagonist. The strongest memory would be the build up of suspense - breath held as they pored over the pages in a well-thumbed book.

The stories of evil kings, malevolent spirits and trickster imps were at their most potent in the dead of night, over a spluttering candle flame that threw dancing shadows around the walls. It was much easier to imagine these horrors crouching in the corners ready to strike as the whispered words of the stories sent shivers down their spines.

Kitty would often turn to squint at these shadows, fascinated by their ever-changing forms and the array of shapes, convinced she could see the monsters forming in her very own room. When the candle would finally give up the ghost and be lost to the night, Kitty and her sister would suppress their terrified squeals as they jumped up and scrambled to their beds. Dragging the blankets over their heads to shield from the spirits they had conjured up from the dark with their words.

They held onto the certain knowledge of children that the handsome princes exist and would eventually cross the line from hopeful imaginings into their real lives. Kitty and her sister believed themselves to be the beautiful princesses that their brave princes would inevitably find –after a heroic and perilous quest to prove their worth, of course.