Ursa Minor (7)

The story so far…

—–

“I feel I should apologize for my mother.”

Ursula looked at Humphrey with something between a smile and a wince. “I appreciate the apology, but I rather think I’m more responsible. If I were content to live the boring life your mother and my aunt deem appropriate, none of this would have happened.”

Humphrey was silent for a moment as they walked. They had managed to navigate a few more minutes of polite discussion after Mrs. Marshall had been calmed, but both were quite grateful when Mrs. Elliott suggested they take a stroll in the garden. They walked side-by-side, unconsciously mirroring one another with their hands clasped loosely behind their backs. Ursula looked on ahead, gazing disinterestedly at the trees which marked the edge of the Elliott land, while Humphrey studied the path a few yards ahead of them.

“If you were content to do as our matriarchal dragons commanded,” Humphrey began quietly, startling a laugh from Ursula.

“Matriarchal dragons!” she cried. “Oh, it’s too perfect. I never knew you had such a way with words.”

A faint pink tinged Humphrey’s cheeks. “You may have noticed I prefer to keep my words to myself.”

“My masterful powers of observation hinted at that fact, yes.”

He smiled slightly, though he still looked ahead as they walked. “Perhaps we have more in common than our dragons would think,” he mused. “Sharp eyes…certain talents we prefer to keep hidden…”

It was Ursula’s turn to blush. “That picture was–“

“I have seen naked men before, you know,” Humphrey said, a tad peevishly. “Er–I didn’t mean that quite as it sounded. I only mean–that picture was positively tame compared to the work of many artists. And it had…energy.”

Ursula stopped. “Thank you, I think,” she said.

Humphrey turned his head, seeing she no longer followed, and backtracked slightly. He sighed, shoved a hand through his sandy hair, propped his hands on his hips. “Look,” he said finally, staring intently at her shoes. “They want us to get married. It might save us a lot of trouble if we just agree to it.”

“Humphrey–” Ursula began.

He held up a hand. “Hear me out. I know you’re not interested in the life of a banker’s wife, any more than I wish to be a banker. But giving in now would save us months if not years of badgering from our respective female guardians on the subject of matrimony, and capitulation on this point might gain us a degree of leeway in other areas.”

“You want your doctorate.”

Humphrey looked at her then, just for an instant. “Yes. And you must want something more than the dull life of a country lady under the thumb of your aunt. You could attend Wellesley, if you like.”

“And if I don’t like?” Ursula countered, musingly

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Well–I suppose there are many things you could do with your time. Charitable organizations, or women’s clubs…”

“Welding?” Ursula suggested brightly, smiling when this earned her another short-lived glance.

“I suppose…” Humphrey said, scratching an ear. “Whatever you wish, provided we could find someone willing to teach you. Err–unless you are already proficient in the art?”

“Humphrey,” Ursula laughed. “No, I’m not,” she continued with a smile, “and I was teasing you–although I have always wanted to learn.”

“You’ll consider it, then?” he said with ill-disguised relief.

Ursula inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “I will,” she said.

“On one condition,” she added as Humphrey opened his mouth. “From now on, when we speak, try to remember that there are nearly six feet between my footwear and my face.”

Humphrey smiled at that, and managed a slightly longer look at her this time. “I’ll do my best.”

—–

Oh, hey. Ursula. I’m really failing at this whole weekly update thing, huh? But slowly but surely, we progress…to a proposal of marriage! Okay, not the most romantic proposal in the world, but what can you expect from dear Humphrey? Now the question is…what will Ursula decide?

 

Ursa Minor (6)

You can find the rest of Ursula’s story here.

—–

“Well, I’m sure you’ve seen quite enough of my work by now,” Ursula exclaimed, flipping the sketchbook shut over the Czarina’s fingers. “Would anybody care for more tea?”

“Really, my dear!” Mrs. Marshall exclaimed. “I must say that I am shocked! This is most inappropriate for a young woman of your station–for any woman at all, I dare say!”

“I apologize if my work has offended you, Mrs. Marshall, I assure you–” Ursula halted on a strangled noise as Humphrey reached across her and tugged the sketchbook from his mother’s fingers. He flipped the book open to the painting in question and his eyes widened briefly.

“Really, mother, this is hardly worth troubling yourself over,” Humphrey said. He sounded almost bored, though Ursula could see the tips of his ears had flushed pink. “Any artist serious about her craft is sure to have many studies of the human form.”

“Many–” Mrs. Marshall began.

“May I see the work in question?” Mrs. Elliott asked quellingly, stopping the Czarina’s tirade but only adding to her apoplexy. Wordlessly Humphrey handed the book across the table.

“I see,” Matilda said after a moment’s perusal. “Well, I have seen much of Ursula’s work, and I can assure you that works such as this are few and far between. I suppose this was an assignment of her teacher’s?”

“Er–yes, Master Fournier wished us to study muscles,” Ursula lied smoothly. “I was reluctant to undertake the assignment; he had specified that he preferred us to work from nude models–” Mrs. Marshall went pale at this announcement and Ursula hurriedly continued “–but I could not bring myself to do so. Father had suggested that I do a study of the furnace in his workshop, and I had thought to find his workers with sleeves rolled up or perhaps their outer shirts removed in deference to the heat. It was…rather warmer than I had originally supposed.”

“Well,” Mrs. Marshall said huffily. “If you say so, dear. Though I dare say I still find it highly improper.”

“I was most uncomfortable drawing such figures myself,” Ursula assured her. That at least was the truth; she liked to consider herself a practical and unflappable young woman, but there were certain things a young lady was not prepared to witness. Truth be told, she was proud of the painting, for she thought she had caught the shadows and reflections of the furnace’s light quite well, but it still gave her an odd sort of shiver to think of that light reflecting off of the sweaty skin of so many male bodies.

And now you sound like a harem tale, Ursula scolded herself. “Humphrey,” she said aloud, turning away from Mrs. Marshall to address her son in a too-cheerful voice. “You must tell me about life at Harvard. I must confess it has been far too long since I have been to Boston, and I don’t know that I have ever been to Cambridge.”

“I am sure you would find both most pleasant,” Humphrey said after a moment. “The grounds at Harvard are quite beautiful…”

Ursula permitted herself a small sigh and did her best to appear intent on Humphrey’s descriptions of the campus, relieved to no longer be the center of attention.

—–

Poor Ursula has gone three weeks since we last left her. My apologies for this; travel was far from conducive to extending her story. I hope to avoid such long gaps in the future. Things are still not developing nearly as quickly as I would like, but I think (hope?) next week we will finally start to Get Somewhere, assuming the Czarina doesn’t throw another fit about Ursula’s art…

 

Ursa Minor (5)

You can read the rest of Ursa Minor here.

—–

“Oh, much the same as other young ladies,” Ursula said in what she hoped was an airy tone. “I have my hobbies to keep me occupied.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Marshall. “I suppose you play the piano, or the viola? And sing, of course, and sew.”

“Er,” said Ursula, belatedly remembering that er was not a very ladylike noise. She could haltingly pick out a tune at the piano, but her voice was atrocious and her stitchery abysmal.

“Ursula is quite an artist,” Matilda said smoothly, covering the gap. “Why don’t you show Mrs. Marshall your sketchbook, dear?”

“Yes, of course,” Ursula quickly replied. “Excuse me for just a moment while I fetch it.” She gave Mrs. Marshall a bob of the head as she stood and tried not to show any signs of relief as she exited the parlor. If she remembered correctly, a book of her more ladylike sketches was in the smallest of the manor’s three drawing rooms.

She found the sketchbook quickly, resting on top of the small writing desk by the room’s only window. Ursula flipped through the first few pictures and was relieved to find only innocuous (if somewhat dull) renditions of flower arrangements and pastoral landscapes. She toyed with the idea of studying each one as a means of delaying her return to the parlor, but straightened her spine and strode back into the hallway.

You do know how to do this, she reminded herself as she slowed her steps to the gliding tread her aunt had drilled her on for months until she mastered it. The incident with the tea set and the Tesla coil had gotten her rather flustered, but she was a well-brought up young lady and granddaughter to one of Boston’s most successful and respected businessmen.

Mrs. Marshall has nothing on an Atkinson cycle engine, Ursula told herself firmly, straightening her spine as she reentered the parlor. She tried not to feel pleased when she saw her aunt’s approval at her improved posture.

“Ah, Miss Elliott, do come sit by me and show me your works!,” said Ethel Marshall. “No, Humphrey, you stay where you are, I am sure there is quite enough room for all three of us.”

Humphrey flushed and sat down again, scooting as far to one side of the settee as he could managed. Ursula managed an approximation of a gracious smile and squeezed herself in between mother and son. “There, Mrs. Marshall. You must tell me what you think of my work; I am quite the amateur, I am sure, but I hope you will find some merit in them.” Lord help her, now she was in full Society mode, complete with unnecessary verbiage and the requisite diminution of one’s own accomplishments.

“Well, Miss Elliott, I am sure you are quite skilled,” said Ethel Marshall indulgently, flipping open to the first drawing, a rather ordinary sketch of cabbage roses in a vase.

“It is quite rough,” Ursula put in quickly when she saw the Czarina hesitate in search of some polite compliment. It is a perfectly well-drawn sketch, as you well know! It isn’t my fault that Liza picked our model that day. Eliza Donahue was the daughter of a railway baron. The family lived in Boston much of the time, but had a summer home near the Elliott’s manor in the Connecticut countryside, and Ursula was invited to their home at least once a week to share in Liza’s drawing lessons when the Donahues were in the country.

Mrs. Marshall flipped past several more rough sketches, pausing finally at a watercolor of the pathway as seen from the door of the kitchens. “Such an…unusual choice of subject, dear.”

“So I am often told,” said Ursula, trying to lean her weight away from Humphrey without falling into Ethel Marshall’s lap. On second thought, I think I’d rather fall on Humphrey, she though, and settled. “But I find that the shapes and lines of a mechanical device make such an interesting contrast to the organic lines of the background.”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Marshall, in a tone which clearly implied that she did not suppose. Well, few people–least of all the maids–had appreciated father’s improved garden pump for its practical merits; surely the person who could appreciate it for its aesthetic merits would be rarer still.

“Well, I do like your use of color, Miss Elliott,” the Czarina declared, flipping through half a dozen watercolors of several of her father’s devices in various states of disarray on the back lawn of the manor. The images shifted to indoor sketches of her father’s workshop, and Ursula’s stomach began to churn uneasily. If she remembered, this particular series included–

“My word!” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall.

—–

Just what is on the picture that so shocked Ethel Marshall’s sensibilities? How red will Humphrey’s face turn when he, too, sees the picture? How will Ursula smooth things over? What will Aunt Matilda think? Whatever happened to that tea that was mentioned in part 4? Tune in next week to find out…

This segment fought me every step of the way. I’m not thrilled with it, nor with Ursula’s sudden transition from graceless tomboy to well-bred young lady, though she is in fact both. At least we do seem to be getting somewhere at last…I suppose it would be too much if Ursula were in the habit of drawing attractive young men with no clothing but a strategically-placed bit of machine shop detritus? Sigh, I suspect even she would blush at that.

 

Ursa Minor (4)

You can find the rest of Ursa Minor here.

—–

Ursula made it down to the parlor with seconds to spare. No sooner had she thrown herself somewhat haphazardly onto the end of the divan but the footman announced, “Mrs. Marshall and Mr. Humphrey Marshall.”

Under her aunt’s displeased eye, Ursula attempted to untwist her skirts and arrange them in something resembling the effortless drape of Matilda’s. She was soon forced to forgo her fidgeting and hope for the best as their guests entered the parlor.

Ethel Marshall swept in with as much dignity as the Czarina of all the Russias–an effect which was only underscored by the boxy hat and headscarf draped over her iron-gray hair. “Mrs. Elliott,” she said in a most decidedly un-Russian Bostonian accent.

“Welcome, Ethel, Humphrey.” Matilda rose to greet their guests, Ursula half a second behind her. “My, Humphery, you are quite changed since we saw you last! Harvard has made quite the man of you.”

Humphery dipped his head briefly in acknowledgement and mumbled something in the way of thanks.

“Humphery graduated first in his class,” Ethel said proudly, with a small frown at her son which indicated she was less than pleased with his persistent shyness.

“Indeed? Congratulations are in order, Mr. Marshall,” Matilda said graciously. Ursula fought the urge to roll her eyes and had a suspicion that her aunt was doing the same. “What did you take your degree in?”

“Ah–astronomy, Mrs. Elliott,” Humphery replied.

He hasn’t changed so very much then, thought Ursula. He may have finally lost most of that baby fat, but he’s still the same old bespectacled Humphrey, with his nose in a book and his head in the clouds.

“His professors wanted him to continue on for his doctoral degree, but of course he wouldn’t consider it,” added Mrs. Marshall, somehow managing to express both pride in her son’s achievement and scorn at the thought of a Marshall pursuing a career in academia.

Humphery looked at the floor. Ursula suspected he would much rather be back at Harvard poring over star charts and calculating–whatever was it that astronomers needed calculating? Though, come to think of it, they didn’t do much of it themselves, turning it over to the computers. I suppose if I do marry Humphery, I can be a computer and support him while he gets his doctorate. Assuming I could convince him to stand up to his mother and do what he wants for a change. Not that I particularly want to be a computer… “It has been too long,” she added hastily as the focus shifted from Humphery and she was finally greeted by the Czarina.

“Please, do sit. I’ve rung for tea,” said Matilda, gesturing to the settee opposite. The Elliott women took their seats a beat after Mrs. Marshall had settled herself, and Ursula congratulated herself on not making a wreck of her skirts this time.

“So, tell me, Miss Elliott, as a young unmarried woman, what do you find to fill your days?” Ethel Marshall asked.

Ursula tried not to wince. Somehow she didn’t think the truth would make a satisfying answer.

—–

UMi update, despite another evening of teens and telescopes. Humphery was supposed to be completely disgusting, but somehow he’s turned into someone rather sympathetic…maybe he and Ursula will plan their rebellions together. Who knows? Tune in next week, when the Marshall’s visit goes from bad to worse…

 

UMi Image: Ursula and the Whangdoodle

Today’s an Ursula day but I didn’t feel like writing…hence, you get a doodle. Took about 2.25 hrs in Gimp. It’s not awful, but not nearly as good as I wanted it to be. Digital artwork is not my strong suit.

In a related note, if you’re drawing with your tablet and your cat decides to use the touchpad of your laptop as a pillow, said laptop will throw a fit and refuse to recognize any input from either tablet or touchpad until you succeed in removing said cat.

She still thinks she’s helping…

Illustration for the very end of Part 1 of Ursa Minor. Don’t ask me how the whangdoodle Tesla coil managed to sprout that many wires. This doesn’t quite capture the feeling I wanted, but I had a heck of a fun time shading the dress. The smudge tool is still my favorite thing.

You can find all of the story so far by clicking this shiny shiny link.

 

Ursa Minor (3)

For part 2 of Ursa Minor, click here.

—–

When Mary didn’t instantly appear–it had been too much to hope she would be within shouting distance–Ursula dashed to the bell pull and tugged it vigorously. Her aunt would no doubt protest the heartiness of both the shout and the bell-ringing, but what Matilda didn’t know couldn’t hurt Ursula.

While she waited for her maid’s arrival, Ursula did what she could to hasten the process of amending her appearance. The gloves were hopelessly soiled, of course, and the whangdoodle–damn Uncle Archie and his lexicon, it was a Tesla coil, no engineer with any self respect whatever would be caught dead calling it a whangdoodle–had left smudges of soot and what was probably engine grease on the lavender skirt kilted up on her hip. Though just what the Tesla coil had been doing covered in engine grease remains to be seen, Ursula thought darkly. Her ruminations on the chaos of her father’s workshop gave way quickly to another frequent irritation as she scrabbled ineffectually at the tiny buttons that fastened her gown.

“Miss–Oh dear, miss,” said Mary, rushing to Ursula as soon as she entered the room. “You know you’ll only pull the seams if you keep doing that,” the maid fussed as she began unhooking the buttons.

“Well, if they would just use larger buttons,” Ursula began, “or put them on the front of ladies’ clothes the way they do men’s, or–“

“Or come up with some other fashionable silhouette that didn’t place the buttons directly between one’s shoulder blades, where they are impossible to reach,” Mary finished with her. “Miss Ursula, the empire style is very flattering, even…” She trailed off, and Ursula didn’t have to see her face to know the maid was blushing.

“Even on me, yes,” Ursula sighed. “No, don’t fuss about it, we both know it’s true. I don’t suppose I have another tea gown?” she asked somewhat forlornly as Mary pulled the lavender up over her head.

“No,” said Mary, clucking over the stains on the skirt of the lavender gown.

No doubt she’s shocked I even own one. My own maid doesn’t even think I’m a lady. “Okay, next best option,” said Ursula bracingly. She sank onto the bench before her vanity and began unlacing the workman’s boots she’d “borrowed” from Beckett some three years before.

Mary draped the soiled gown over the back of a chair and opened the wardrobe. She contemplated for several minutes, lips pursed, before nodding and saying, “I have it, miss. The pale green silk.”

“Isn’t that a bit formal for afternoon tea with an old family acquaintance?” Ursula asked, but she was already digging through a drawer for the long ivory gloves which set off the color of the silk magnificently, even if they did tend to make her look rather paler even than was fashionable.

“It is ostensibly and evening gown, yes,”–I knew that much, thought Ursula grumpily–“but with the proper fichu, say, the one with the ivy embroidery, it will do for a first meeting with a prospective suitor,” Mary said decisively, pulling the gown out of the wardrobe.

“I don’t suppose, just for my sake, we could pretend that Aunt Matilda is not about to marry me off to Humpty-Dumpty?” Ursula sighed as Mary whisked the gown down over her head and began to do up the buttons. Thank heavens the cut was similar to the lavender tea gown; they didn’t have time to fuss with petticoats or changing her corset.

“No,” said Mary shortly. It was a sign of how rushed they were–and perhaps, Ursula dared to hope, some small token of sympathy–that the maid didn’t chide her for using Humphrey’s least favorite childhood nickname.

“You are a miracle worker,” Ursula said as Mary deftly tucked the sheer fichu around her shoulders. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Suffer your aunt’s unending wrath, miss,” said Mary. “Now go, before you get me in trouble as well as you!”

—–

There is a cat on my stomach. This is not a helpful place for the cat to be.

I did get to Ursula, though a little later than I had planned…the story is going somewhere, I promise. Stay tuned next week to find out what sort of disaster our little bear manages to make of tea with the Marshalls…

 

Ursa Minor (2)

For part 1 of Ursa Minor, click here.

—–

“Yes, Aunt Matilda?” Ursula said as demurely as she could manage.

Matilda Elliott frowned, her eyebrows drawing together just slightly over the wire rims of her spectacles. “Don’t think I’ll fall for that act,” she said sternly. “Agatha has upset the butter churn.”

Ursula did her best not to wince at the thought of buttermilk and clumps of partially-churned butter spilling out across the floor of the kitchens. “I’m sorry, Aunt Matilda,” she said sincerely, though she knew her apology would do little to placate her aunt. “I wouldn’t have shouted if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

“Shouting is never necessary for a young lady of your station,” her aunt replied. “No, I don’t want to hear your excuses. The Marshalls will be here soon, and I asked you to fetch your mother’s tea set half an hour ago.”

“Yes, Aunt Matilda,” Ursula sighed. “I was just on my way to give it to Mrs. Pfeffer.”

“Well, be quick about it,” Matilda advised. “I won’t have you appearing before Ethel and Humphrey Marshall looking like some railwayman’s floozy.”

Ursula opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. “Yes, ma’am. Uncle Archibald–” She stopped short as she realized her uncle was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he had crept back into his study rather than face any overspill of his wife’s wrath. “–had wanted me to bring him something, but it can wait,” she finished less than smoothly in an attempt to answer the question implicit in her aunt’s arched brow. She resettled her grip on the tea set and set off down the hallway in short, quick steps.

The mess in the kitchen was not so bad as she had feared; Agatha had been nearly finished with the butter, which had stuck to the inside of the churn when it fell, and so only the buttermilk had escaped through the cracked lid. The churn had been righted, and Agatha was on her knees with a cloth, sopping up the buttermilk. Red-faced, Ursula stepped around her and placed the tea service on the end of the long table that took up most of the room. “I’ve brought the china, Mrs. Pfeffer,” she said.

“Hmm,” the houskeeper replied, fixing her with a stern look. “Thank you, Miss Elliot.” Mrs. Pfeffer had been with the family for as long as Ursula could remember, which allowed her to express a certain degree of disapproval with the Master and Mistress’s troublesome niece, but she was careful to observe the formalities of address just the same.

Ursula bobbed her head in an apologetic sort of answer and fled from the kitchens as quickly as she dared. Taking the servants’ stair–much quicker, and less exposed, than the main staircase–she made her way to her rooms. Located on the third floor of the manor, her chambers were sweltering in the August heat, but they were as far from her aunt’s room’s as Ursula could get without sleeping on the roof, which was worth the heat as far as Ursula was concerned.

She hurried through the solar and into her dressing room, stopping short at the sight of herself in the long mirror.

“Oh, dear,” Ursula sighed. “Mary!“

—–

Brought to you courtesy of the free wireless at my local library, since the internet connection at our house is determined that we shall not access the interwebs for any reason whatsoever. I’ve left Ursula alone for too long, but here she is again! I’m going to try to write a little for her and for Tabitha each week.

 

The Fibrous Life of Tabitha Ann Montgomery: Prologue

I remember one day, when I was very little, my mother took me out for a walk. We lived in a good neighborhood—and like most good neighborhoods, this one hid a shameful secret in its core. 

We had not gotten far from home when I saw a woman approaching us on the sidewalk. It was summer, but she was wearing a wool hat with pom-poms, a thick cabled scarf, and several lace shawls over a fair island sweater. She wore a skirt of granny squares over her cargo shorts, and a pair of thin flip-flops over her hand-knit socks–one pink and lacy, one patterned in leaves and stretching up past her knee.

My mother pulled me closer as the woman neared us. She was hunched slightly, muttering over something in her hands. When she was nearly even with us, I could hear that she was saying, “It won’t break. Won’t break. Why won’t it break?” The object in her hands was a scrap of red yarn. She kept tugging feebly on the ends, but the yarn didn’t break.

“Why did she want her yarn to break, Mommy?” I asked once she had passed us. “Isn’t that bad?”

“She’s a bad lady,” my mother said shortly, pulling at my hand, but I stayed where I was. The woman had turned onto the front walkway of Mrs. Morrison’s house. She looked up from the bit of yarn long enough to knock on the doorbell–one, two, three, pause, one-two, pause, one–then returned to her muttering. I watched, fascinated, as the door opened only an inch or two. I could see the light reflecting off of Mrs. Morrison’s glasses through the small crack.

“Password?” Mrs. Morrison demanded.

“Intarsia,” said the woman. The door opened just wide enough to allow the woman to slip inside.

“Come along, Tabitha,” my mother insisted. I was too small to keep her from dragging me down the street, but I kept looking over my shoulder as she towed me off. Who was that woman? And what was going on in Mrs. Morrison’s house? I was determined to find out…

—–

That was supposed to be an amusing description of a yarn addict as a prelude to the rest of the post, but naturally it ran away with itself. It would seem I’ve been reading too many Agent K stories…the last thing I need is another project and another character (Ursula, I swear I haven’t abandoned you! Or that novel that I’m majorly behind on…), but Tabitha took on a life of her own, and I’m really curious to find out what’s behind Mrs. Morrison’s door….

Sigh. I’m going through major withdrawal here, people. All I have that isn’t acrylic (ptooie!) is this blankety-blank cotton in this blankety-blank pale yellow and THERE ARE NO WORDS IN ANY LANGUAGE TO DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE IT. Not even in Greek, which is really saying something.

Not that it matters given how much my left hand still hurts, but still. I may have to put a moratorium on visits to Ravelry, because all the pretty pictures and patterns and yarns are making me even crazier. At least I have a couple of new sock books from the library…

If you have any sympathy for a knitter in need, you can find me on Ravelry here. And if you haven’t, go read the Agent K stories. They’re brilliant. By the same author, and even more brilliant, in my opinion, is this.

 

Ursa Minor (1)

Life would be considerably easier if I were content to do what everyone else wanted, Ursula thought. Or perhaps, if I were content to do so all the time. That was how she had ended up in her current predicament, after all.

The current predicament changed daily, but today’s was best characterized by the tray of bone china balanced precariously in the crook of Ursula’s right arm, and the collection of copper wires and tubing held tightly in her left hand. The airy, elegant afternoon gown kilted up over a pair of tall workman’s boots only underscored the absurdity of the situation.

I should have chosen one, Ursula thought, not for the first time, shifting her weight cautiously to her right foot in an effort to provide a more stable base for her mother’s tea service. But no, I wanted a third option—and now I’m stuck with both. The tea tray wobbled alarmingly and she froze.

“Beckett?” she hazarded a call, attempting to keep her voice within the registers her aunt deemed appropriate for a young lady of wealth and status. “Beckett?”

There was no reply, not that she had truly expected one. Beckett was an able engineer, and an invaluable help to her father in his workshop, but an unfortunate (and, if one were to be honest, rather comical) incident involving a large block of potassium, a bucket of water, and a cat, had severely reduced his hearing.

Ursula huffed out a breath, stirring the lock of mink-brown hair that had fallen out of her coiffure. Well, there was nothing for it; she could feel one of the muscles in her back tensing, and the tray was starting to slip off the smooth fabric of her long gloves. “BECKETT!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs.

From one end of the corridor there was a shriek; from the other, a thud. Ursula sighed, and wondered whether the shriek of the thud was going to get her in more trouble this time.

“Ursula, lass, what are you hollering about?”

Ursula allowed herself a small sigh of relief at her uncle’s voice. He might not be as useful in her current situation as, say, Beckett, but he was certainly better than an irate housekeeper—or worse, her aunt.

“Sorry, Uncle Archie,” she said. “I’m in a bit of a state. I don’t suppose you could…?”

“Ah, I see, yes, I see,” Archie said. “Hmm. And which is giving you more trouble, the teacups or the whangdoodle?”

Ursula’s lips twitched, but she managed to contain her smile. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the whangdoodle for a moment, I think I can get myself sorted out.” Gratefully she transferred the ‘whangdoodle’—actually a Tesla coil, or what had once been a Tesla coil before young Geoff had gotten hold of it—into her uncle’s arms. “Much better,” she sighed, flexing her left hand several times before sliding it under the tray.

“Ursula Brittania Elliott.”

Ursula closed her eyes. It appeared her relief was to be short-lived, indeed. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned to face her aunt’s wrath.

—–

I’m going to be embarking on a major writing effort starting tomorrow, but since a few hundred words of storytelling is much cheaper than therapy, I dashed this off tonight. I have no idea where Ursula may be headed, but her story will evolve in fits and starts as I find myself stressed or inspired. Onward, Little Bear!