Anyway, thankyou so much for reading so far, whoever's made it to Chapter 4 in one piece. ^_^ You're invaluable to me.My main issue is characterisation - I don't feel Anne is coming across strongly enough. I've worked on it more in this chapter, but it's really lacking. She's 2D. I'd like your opinions and suggestions on my characterisation, and how it could improve, please, dahlings. xD Thanks a lot.
Chapter 4
Three weeks later...
Anne draped herself over the wicker armchair and relaxed every single muscle in her body, breathing in and out as her chocolate pupils dilated. She placed her hands gently in her lap, smoothing out the folds of her gown. It was a new one, dark and red-panelled, with a blue embroidered waistcoat and a lapis-lazuli brooch pinned at the neck.
It had been years since Anne had been able to purchase a new outfit, but since she had made the acquaintance of the Murdochs, gifts of money were frequent, and therefore so were new clothes. But Anne detested the rippling feeling of expensive silk over her legs, the serene walk the new cream slippers caused her to adopt. She longed for the worn old muslin frock and the crinkled shawl that was nearly tearing to pieces. She wanted to be able to curl up reading or stretch out on a park bench, uncaring of the mud tainting the fabric of her gown. But she couldn’t now. Not in these fine clothes.
“I hope you will be seeing Mr Murdoch today, Anne,” said her mother, upon entering the room. She settled herself upon the usual armchair, and took up her knitting basket.
Her daughter groaned. “Mother, I detest it. Our rent is well paid, so why should I have to degrade myself to the rank of orange girl, simply to meet the two gentlemen? This income is really quite unnecessary. We are becoming so dependent on them. Too dependent on them. Oh Mother, I would rather attempt to find work than accept this charity.”
Her mother snorted, her wizened face contorting as she patted her sparse white bun in a supercilious manner. “Nonsense, Anne. What would you work as? A shop assistant? A lady’s maid? Or is it that ridiculous pipe dream of setting up a bookshop?”
Anne gritted her teeth to restrain herself from screaming. “It...is not ridiculous, Mother,” she said with a great deal of self-control. “Once I have made enough money – myself – from my job at the theatre, it could become very possible.”
“Tosh,” retorted her mother. “Whatever you’d be employed as, it would never bring in as much money as the gifts from Mr Murdoch do.”
“But Mother! I hate it, I feel like such a scavenger, like such a beggar, going up to the King’s each day and simpering away at them. If I could at least try to work then- ”
“No, Anne. It’s not difficult. You simply have to do it if we’re to remain in such good fortune. And that’s the end of it.”
*
“Fine, sweet oranges!” Anne called out, making a refrain of it. “Oranges, who will buy my oranges?”
Soon growing bored of the never-ending pretence that she actually needed to make money here, Anne dumped her basket on the floor in frustration and looked around for the Murdochs, who were nowhere to be seen.
It was three-o-clock, and the King’s Theatre was about to open its doors to the public. Nell had arrived at rehearsal hours late that morning because she had been at a party, and so her role as Titania in a Midsummer Night’s Dream had been taken by her rival, Elinor Marson. Recently promoted from orange girl to actress, she had apparently played it rather well and was now reluctant to relinquish the part. Anne looked up at the stage, watching the shouting match that ensued. They were standing at opposite sides and studiously ignoring each other.
“I do not know why there is any ‘if’ about the matter,” Eliza huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “She,” here she pointed at Elinor as if she had been spattered in dung; “...she was merely a replacement.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Elinor. “You said I played the part even better than that saucy madam over there.” She glowered at the musical director, a fop named Fortesque, who was standing by the front row with the stage director. Neither seemed able to make a decision.
“Um...I’m not sure I recall,” Fortesque started nervously, wringing his hands.
“That’s treason!” Eliza cut in before the director could utter another work. “You said the part was written with me in mind.” If looks could kill, poor Fortesque would have one foot well planted in the grave before the end of his encounter with the two actresses.
“If you cared about the role,” Elinor said, her voice dripping with hatred, “You would have made a care of turning up to rehearsals, rather than flouncing around at parties and bedding every man that threw a compliment your way.”
Eliza clenched her fists and stormed across the stage, looking ready to strangle her rival.
“Wait...wait,” Fortesque muttered, and he and the stage director restrained the two. “Miss Eliza will play the part on the opening night, and Elinor shall remain understudy.”
The two ladies departed to tiring rooms, as it was decided they were better preserved well away from each other. How Anne wished to retire as well, from the hubbub and commotion in the theatre, back to a quiet room where she could lose herself in the pages of a tattered novel.
“Good evening, Miss Lincombe,” came a gruff voice a stone’s throw away from the stage, and once again Anne found herself descending the stage stairs with Mr Murdoch.
“Good evening, sir,” said Anne, remembering with a depressing certainty what her mission was. “It is lovely to see you again.”
Before Mr Murdoch could reply, he was addressed by a loquacious gentlemen and his wife, who linked arms with him and escorted him away in a flurry. Somewhat relieved, Anne turned around and saw Henry Murdoch standing near, absorbed in a leather-backed book. He looked up from its pages and smiled faintly. “Evening, Miss Lincombe,” he said, before returning to his reading. She returned the greeting and peered at the cover.
Noticing that Anne was so interested in his novel, he met her glance. “Do you like reading, Miss Lincombe?” he asked in a soft, lilting voice.
“I do,” she said, faintly surprised that he should address her for once. He was always so self-absorbed and took little interest in his father’s donations to Anne. “It is uncommon, I know, for someone like me,” she continued, a slightly cutting tone edging her voice. “Probably because the lower classes have so little access to books, while the rich sit at home with their untouched libraries.”
“What a shame,” he said quietly. “Why not take this one? I’ve read it many a time and...as you said. The rich have hundreds at home.” Something flickered in his eye, a sharp, mischievous look, but it vanished as soon as it had arrived. He snapped the book shut and extended it awkwardly.
“Are you quite sure, sir?” she asked, surprised that somebody who had seemed so self-absorbed and uninterested in her would suddenly pay attention to her.
“Quite sure,” he said. “And for goodness’ sake, I don’t think I can quite stand being called Sir. Henry will do well enough.”
They stood together in an discomfited hush during which Henry seemed to grow distant and unfathomable again and Anne could merely stare uncomfortably at her book. The silence was so acute that none of them dared to breathe, though neither knew why. They began walking from the stage exit and each took seats in the front row.
Anne got up from her chair, eventually, and excused herself. “I...I do not have a ticket, sir,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “My business is to sell fruit to the audience, not to sit with them. I will go back to my work now.”
He made no protest, but simply stared at her until she walked out of his sight. Overcome with feelings, she hurried out of the theatre, pushing past the well-dressed merchants, businessmen, a party of sailors, an assorted crowd of London’s high-born and low-born.
Her gown felt too tight, the corset restricting her lungs. She stood against the glass doors, loosened her bonnet and sucked in deep breaths of the cold air. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped, startled. It was Mr Murdoch, however, standing there with a concerned look on his face.
“Miss Lincombe?” he said. “I don’t believe you are very well.”
“No...no,” she gasped, turning away and trying to walk on shaky legs. The world was warped, as if she was viewing it through a wine-bottle that had cracked into pieces. Everything was contorting in front of her eyes and she could not straighten it out.
His swarthy hands gripped her and he swept her up in his muscular arms as though she weighed little less than one of the weathered, autumn-ravaged leaves lying underneath the trees. He carried her into the horse-and-four, where she pressed her back against the headboard, lace bonnet askew on her dark ringlets.
“I...I am alright now,” she said, as the colour slowly drained back into her white cheeks. “I just felt faint. It was only a spell.”
He relaxed on the seat opposite, scrutinizing her from under his straggly dark eyebrows. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Lincombe,” he said. “We cannot have you getting ill.”
“Indeed,” said Anne, somewhat unnerved by his repeated perusal of her. At that moment, Henry arrived in the carriage.
“Is Miss Lincombe not well?” he asked, looking at Anne with concern. She averted her gaze, embarrassed because of their recent encounter and her abrupt departure from it.
“I believe her to better now,” his father replied. “Is that not so, my dear?”
Taking care not to meet Henry’s eyes, Anne nodded, letting her dishevelled head flop back. The carriage started and she relaxed into the rhythmic lullaby of the horses’ hooves clacking against the cobbles.
. Just pay slight attention to where you put your periods. You often put a period where a comma belongs, dear. Let me show you:
in plot. The very things which get us as a reader, and you as a writer attached to a character and give a sense of realism in them, happens to be the simplest thing. What does she want? Why does she bother doing what she does (and for that matter, what is she doing. See 
.) The hopes and dreams, fears and weaknesses are missing. She is nothing without drive, empty without passion. The three dimensional things are those which make us human.
methinks that is going to be very sad. But I do think Anne is strong. She is, she doesn't want money, she doesn't want sympathy either. So she is strong. Maybe just turn some of that strength into weakness. She is coming along great though. 
