Chapter Two.doc
Chapter Two.doc
CHAPTER TWO.doc
“Fran, hurry up! We have to go!” I hear a girl running down the hall, and [s]I[/s] my eyes grow wide with panic; I’m late.
“You’ve read too many novels, dear,” her adversary[s], I know her name is Whitney,[/s] [You've told us her name in the above line of dialogue so this is unnecessary.] says aloofly. “Dream all you want.”
People are already milling about the streets. There are rough-looking men hauling crates filled with oranges, eggs, and bread. Small boys run about shouting out the headline for today’s newspaper. [There'd be more than one paper so it should be headlines for today's papers. Maybe list a few too. They're of interest to the story, especially if they talk of more murders.] People gabble and shout among the shrill neighing of horses drawing carriages. Chickens in cages squawk, and the laugher of children rings out.
Once inside I adjust my hair. The household is already awake and the day has started without me. I selfishly hope that there is less work to do, seeing as how it has started without me. [A little repetitive. Perhaps 'I selfishly hope that my tardiness results in less work for myself.']
“Good,” she says briskly, clutching tightly at the stair rail, and plodding on slowly. She’s wincing slightly, as if in pain. “All the sewing is taking place in the drawing room,[s] seeing as all the bedrooms are in use[/s] [Too much explanation for a simple servant.][s]and the master is in his study.[/s] Beatrice is sewing today, as well.” She glances sideways at me, and I am under the impression that Jillian has tried to do me a kindness by putting me together with my only friend. It’s common knowledge that Beatrice doesn’t sew very well.
Once again Jillian doesn’t bother giving me time to speak. “You may all have supper when you’ve finished. Do not linger in the kitchen as you usually do. Grace has much more to do today than entertain the maids. The Nathanials are having company tonight.” She takes the pile from me, grumbling something about [s]how short of notice she’s been given about the guests[/s] the short notice.
“Clean up the room after you’ve finished with it,” she tosses over her shoulder. [Too modern a phrase and I've come to expect a more refined narrative from your character. Perhaps 'mumbles' or 'orders'.]
I open the large oak door to thedrawing [You're missing a space between the and drawing.] room and step inside. The room is aglow with soft oil lamps. Books align the walls, as they do in Mr. Nathnial’s study. There is little furniture besides two small chairs tucked away in the corner, and a large table in the middle of the carpeted floor. The table is littered with sewing supplies, and the silk fabric is in pieces everywhere. About six girls are working, chatting quietly.
“Oh, don’t mind them. Here,” Beatrice hands me a bolt of the material. “Get to work. This is for a sleeve. These are Miss Nathanial’s arm measurements [Comma here.] written down here,” she thrusts a piece of paper at me, “and here’s the material for the other sleeve. Harriet there is working on the bodice, and you two will work together on attaching them later.”
“Will we be able to finish by the end of today?” I ask doubtfully, picking up some thread and finding a needle under all the various things on the table.What’s [You need a space between table and what's.] been accomplished so far is minimal, to say in the least.
“Of course.” Beatrice bites off the end of her thread. She carefully sits back and studies her piece. She is struggling with her own project. If all is not well any one of us can be replaced. Mistakes are a luxury we do not have. “We’ve no choice,” she goes on. “The mistress will have our heads if we don’t. Her precious little Laura must have everything her heart desires.” Disdain fills my friend’s voice; we all have intense dislike for the youngest woman in the household. I turn to look up at the portrait of the girl over [Perhaps above?] the mantel. It does her justice. She is [s]umistakeably[/s] unmistakably rich, pretentious in her extravagant gown, and her wide pink lips are pouting. One of her small, slightly pudgy hands holds a tiny white dog that I’ve haven’t seen since [s]I’ve[/s] I started work here.
We work in silence for a time. I focus on not poking holes in my fingers and sewing the sleeve properly. If I were to make the slightest error of any kind, Miss Nathanial would surely see to it I am dismissed. She is not a mistress of considerate inclinations. I cannot afford to lose my [s]postion[/s] position here—it is difficult for me to lie at an interview about my background. I don’t want to do it again.
“Violet, there is too [I'd remove the 'too' because it makes Beatrice sound too young, almost whiny.] some good in it,” Beatrice says soothingly. “It gives us something to do on a rainy day when we’re shut up in the drawing room making a dreary old dress!”
I concentrate on the sleeve I’m working on again. I feel several eyes upon me. “Oh,” I say. Beatrice studies me from the corner of her eye. [Don't have her return to work straight away. She needs to put on a plaster first or a lint bandage. She can't risk getting blood on the material. Have Beatrice offer her one perhaps; if she's not good with a needle she's more likely to have some.]
The hours pass in the small [Comma here.] hot room, and the girls find other things to talk about. They speak of the upcoming horse races, the juicy pieces of gossip, and all the latest fashions.
I smile at her gratefully and [s]almost run[/s] hurry through the doors.
The moment I wake, I am aware of all the work ahead of me. It makes the actual sitting up and leaving my bed harder. I try not to remember a time when I didn’t have to get up if I didn’t want to.
“Fran, hurry up! We have to go!” I hear a girl running down the hall, and I my eyes grow wide with panic; I’m late.
I ready myself hastily, but I have no time to wash. I do the best I can, splashing my face and neck with water. Once I am properly attired in my crisp uniform with my coat over one arm, I swiftly descend the stair.
“It’s hardly a laughing matter, Whitney!” one of the girls snarls to another across the table. I pause to listen as I try to get my cap to stay on.
“You’ve read too many novels, dear,” her adversary, I know her name is Whitney, says aloofly. “Dream all you want.”
People are already milling about the streets. There are rough-looking men hauling crates filled with oranges, eggs, and bread. Small boys run about shouting out the headline for today’s newspaper. People gabble and shout among the shrill neighing of horses drawing carriages. Chickens in cages squawk, and the laugher of children rings out.
120,616 Literary Works • 651,093 Reviews
Gender:
Points: 1068
Reviews: 582