Tipping The Velvet {five}

Okay, this might be the last one I get to read in a while m'dear, so do excuse me if there is a sad lack of reviews from me in the near future.

I. NITPICKS

her house.

before taking Anne’s arm and walking her through the lane to the block.

weathered, careworn face

dependant

somehow would not relinquish her.

Blushing with embarrassment, Anne wished they would just fall and smother the two of them.

As no such thing happened to relieve her from the humiliation, she gripped the stiff material of her companion’s overcoat-clad arm and paid attention on which leather buckled shoe she placed on each step.

He did not release her, and bored his eyes into her like that first day they had met.

Mr Murdoch did not answer, but raised one of her hands he was gripping and brushed it around the circumference of her face.

Zomg, I hadn't read any of your fantastic reviews for this chapter yet! Shame on me.
Thanks so much for critiquing, all of you. Haven't got time to do individual replies, but might later.

CastlesInTheSky wrote:
Chapter 5

When they arrived at Coal Yard Lane, Mr Murdoch insisted on accompanying Anne back upstairs to her house. Henry made no move to second the offer, instead he seemed content as ever simply watching them through raw sienna eyes. They gripped Anne like iron handcuffs and somehow would not relinquish her.
I think they gripped is a bit strong. Maybe his gaze, or his stare or some variation on that would be less literal.
Mr Murdoch glanced up in the distance at the yellow-tiled roof, speckled with black grains, and pressed a handkerchief to his nose before taking Anne’s arm and walking her through the lane to the block.

The ground was choked with rubbish and weeds twisted up through the cracked tiles in the pavement. They finally approached the front door of the building, which was as narrow as a lighthouse,
I didn't think light houses were especially narrow?
with vines creeping up the grey exterior. When Anne saw the look on her companion’s face, she remembered why she hadn’t wanted him to see her lodgings. Tell us what look, at least.

He cast a slightly perturbed glance at the dirty stone walls with plaster peeling away from it like spindly white fingers. The black timber beams loomed ominously above the staircase. Blushing with embarrassment, Anne wished they would just fall and smother
crush them, beams wouldn't smother.
the two of them. As no such thing happened to relieve her from the humiliation, she gripped the stiff material of her companion’s overcoat-clad arm and paid attention on which leather buckled shoe she placed on each step.

Finally, they had climbed the three flights and were standing in front of Anne’s apartment. Before she could enter, Mr Murdoch held both her gloved hands and smiled ingeniously, his inky eyes sparkling with something she could not read.

“Mother will be waiting,” she said, and tried to pull away. He did not release her, and bored his eyes
and his eyes bored into her
into her like that first day they had met. “Please, sir,” Anne emphasized.

Mr Murdoch did not answer, but raised one of her hands he was gripping and brushed it around the circumference of her face. “Perfect, my dear,” he murmured.
Of all the things he could have said, this falls very flat. Anne is not perfect, and even if she were, a man seeking to posses her would not make her rise above her station like. If his intentions were honourable, perhaps he would say that.

Feeling increasingly unnerved by his peculiar conduct, Anne made a final effort to draw away. “Sir!” she said, increasing the volume of her voice. “Please maintain your distance.” Well, what was his distance then? If she was uncomfortable, surely she would want him to back off, not maintain.

His forehead creased, and then each wrinkle in his jowly face fragmented. “How silly you are, my dear,” Mr Murdoch said, chuckling heartily into his close-cut beard.

“No, sir,” said Anne, trying to sound calm despite the fact that her throat was closing up with panic. “Not silly, but cautious.”

“You belong to me,” Mr Murdoch said evenly. He made as if to release her for a second and then drew her in once more, gripping her wrists. “You belonged to me that very day I saw you at the theatre. I owned you even before that, because –” His eyes darkened and the usually imperturbable face suffused with red.

Every limb in Anne’s body tingled with curiosity, but she was too numbed to pursue his statement further. A strange feeling of unreality had come over her, but she was more aware than ever before of everything around her. She noticed as if for the first time the uneven patters of sunlight shifting on the cracks in the whitewashed walls. She took in the acrid smell of sweat and ale from the tavern flanking the block.

Mr Murdoch took advantage of her state of mind. He caught her tightly around the waist and forced his bristly mouth onto hers, parting her soft, un-painted lips and kissing her roughly. Her mind blanked, and then her hand shot out of his grip and slapped him over the cheeks. It broke the silence in two, like a cracked mirror portending seven years of bad luck.Love that!
Choking back tears of humiliation and shock, she hurried inside the apartment and slammed the door.

Anne precipitated towards her armchair and collapsed into it, panting heavily. She drew a trembling hand to her throat, as if to stem the flow of tears. Her forehead creased with the concentration of containing her emotions, and with every frantic gulp of air, she forbade herself to cry. Mrs Lincombe entered the room, the floorboards shuddering each time she stepped forward.
I think she shouldn't try to stop the tears. Since she starts crying just after this bit. I think crying is common way of coping. She is in shock but tears will make it better.

“Anne,” she said, a concerned look seeping into her face. “Whatever is the matter, child?”

“I...I...” she looked up at her mother and bolted towards her, sobbing into her red woollen shawl, “I cannot go back to Mr Murdoch. I will not.”

“What foolishness is this? Come, now, Anne. You’re makin’ too much of a little matter.”

“No...no, Mother. He is not a good man,” Anne managed to choke out between tears, using as simple words as she could.

“What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs Lincombe, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly.

“He...he kissed me against my will, Mother,” her daughter replied. As soon as the words were out, Anne realised how petty they sounded, when spoken. What proof had she? That Mr Murdoch had merely embraced her, had shown signs of liking her?

“How silly you are, child,” said her mother, and it was if she had morphed into Mr Murdoch in front of her daughter’s very eyes. “Don’t ye want to have a rich admirer? ‘Tis what every wench dreams of.”

Anne looked into her mother’s weathered, careworn face and realised she would refuse to believe any word spoken against their ‘benefactor.’ He was the sole person providing for them and as long as they had money, Mrs Lincombe was prepared to go to any extremes.

“Mother,” started Anne. She stared at the fine fur rug spread across the floor, where the ragged grimy mat used to lie. At the framed paintings and embroideries hanging on the walls which used to be blank and grey, a few nails knocked into the old plaster. All transformed in three weeks. “Do you see how dependant on him we are now? It was his plan, Mother, I am sure of it. We can never go back to living without his allowance now. We’re...we’re...”

“What dramatics, child,” exclaimed Mrs Lincombe, pursing her lips and shaking her grey head. “What exaggeration. It’s not dependence. What other means have we of ‘a gettin’ money? Answer me that.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Mother,” Anne said wearily. “I’m willing to work. Forget the bookshop for the time being, I know you despise it so. I could be a governess, or a lady’s maid. I would love to work, Mother, rather than live off the Murdochs’ money.”

“Oh, cease with yer empty talk of work and governesses. You’ll never be able to make a serious career of it, you’ll see. It’ll come to nothing, Anne, so why set such stakes on it?”

“Because it is better than stealing, Mother!” retorted Anne, the anger bubbling up inside her once again. “It is better than being mere...mere scavengers.”
If I were Anne, I would go right ahead and pull out the whore card. Say it's no better than that. Not abiding to look her mother in the face, she turned away, breaking into fresh tears.

“Oh, do not take on so,” Mrs Lincombe remarked harshly, waving a handkerchief at her. “You’ll make your eyes red and nose run, and you’ll end up looking like a boar’s backside. What man would desire you then?”

“All the better,” retorted Anne, snatching the handkerchief and throwing it on the ground. “I do not want to be desired, Mother. Not by Mr Murdoch. Oh Mother, you do not understand. He...he has made a claim on me.”

“’Tis but a way of showing his affection,” said her mother determinedly, forcing Anne back onto the armchair and folding her arms against her chest.

“No, Mother. It is not natural. And, Mother, Mr Murdoch seems to know me from before...before we met. I do not understand any of it.” Anne tried to control her tears but they came spilling out of her watery black eyes. Detesting how pathetic she was, Anne buried her face in her hands as her thin shoulders convulsed with each sob.

Mrs Lincombe turned her face away from her daughter, shaking her head so grey tendrils fell from the bun, shielding her expression like a smokescreen. “Nor do I, Anne,” she said, her voice muffled. “Do not try to seek the answers from me, for I...I do not know what the gentlemen’s implying. Maybe you misunderstood it. Most likely, with the state you’re in.”

Anne let her head droop softly like a wilting black flower. “Mother,” she whispered hoarsely, tears beading her eyelashes. She realised there was little point in finishing her sentence, or trying to explain matters to her mother. There was nobody to understand or help her. So she apologised quietly for her outburst, and rose from the chair. Retiring to her room, she lost herself in the pages of a book until the early hours of the morning, where she finally fell back on the pillow. Even then, traces of dry, bitter tears stained her cheeks like jagged train tracks on snow.

Alas, I've come to the last chapter, but parting is such sweet chapter. I have no nit-picks or complaints for that matter, about this chapter. I liked it and it's my second favorite. It had emotions, weaknesses, a little romance, and more lovely characterization. Keep writing in this way and don't lose sight of who Anne is. And even though you're just starting to get a hang of who she is, I like her as a character. She's smart and likes reading books (which is good) and she doesn't let money blind her senses. Mr. Murdoch was wrong for advancing on her the way he did and then he says that he owned her from the moment he laid his eyes on her! He deserved that slap across the face, Go Anne!

And mother's of those times were so unbelievably narrow-minded. The mother in my story is like this as well. I hate her for being so money hungry and nosy but then I like her mannerisms and such.

This was a really really good chapter and I would be very happy if you were to PM when you had chapter six up.

Ta,

~Angel

*screams when the chapter ends*
PLEASE PM me when the next chapter comes out!

So, I've finally managed to work on characterisation. I haven't worked it into this chapter explicitly, because this is where something finally happens, so it would be silly to suddenly start introducing Anne's character. However, I have gone back and edited Chapter 2, trying to work in characterisation. And I would advise you to read the update first, or you will not understand the reference to the bookshop.


Chapter 5


When they arrived at Coal Yard Lane, Mr Murdoch insisted on accompanying Anne back upstairs to her house. Henry made no move to second the offer, instead he seemed content as ever simply watching them through raw sienna eyes. They gripped Anne like iron handcuffs and somehow would not relinquish her.1


Mr Murdoch glanced up in the distance at the yellow-tiled roof, speckled with black grains, and pressed a handkerchief to his nose before taking Anne’s arm and walking her through the lane to the block. 2


The ground was choked with rubbish and weeds twisted up through the cracked tiles in the pavement. They finally approached the front door of the building, which was as narrow as a lighthouse, with vines creeping up the grey exterior. When Anne saw the look on her companion’s face, she remembered why she hadn’t wanted him to see her lodgings.


He cast a slightly perturbed glance at the dirty stone walls with plaster peeling away from it like spindly white fingers. The black timber beams loomed ominously above the staircase. Blushing with embarrassment, Anne wished they would just fall and smother the two of them. As no such thing happened to relieve her from the humiliation, she gripped the stiff material of her companion’s overcoat-clad arm and paid attention on which leather buckled shoe she placed on each step.


Finally, they had climbed the three flights and were standing in front of Anne’s apartment. Before she could enter, Mr Murdoch held both her gloved hands and smiled ingeniously, his inky eyes sparkling with something she could not read. 3


“Mother will be waiting,” she said, and tried to pull away. He did not release her, and bored his eyes into her like that first day they had met. “Please, sir,” Anne emphasized.


Mr Murdoch did not answer, but raised one of her hands he was gripping and brushed it around the circumference of her face. “Perfect, my dear,” he murmured.4


Feeling increasingly unnerved by his peculiar conduct, Anne made a final effort to draw away. “Sir!” she said, increasing the volume of her voice. “Please maintain your distance.”


His forehead creased, and then each wrinkle in his jowly face fragmented. “How silly you are, my dear,” Mr Murdoch said, chuckling heartily into his close-cut beard.


“No, sir,” said Anne, trying to sound calm despite the fact that her throat was closing up with panic. “Not silly, but cautious.” 5


“You belong to me,” Mr Murdoch said evenly. He made as if to release her for a second and then drew her in once more, gripping her wrists. “You belonged to me that very day I saw you at the theatre. I owned you even before that, because –” His eyes darkened and the usually imperturbable face suffused with red.


Every limb in Anne’s body tingled with curiosity, but she was too numbed to pursue his statement further. A strange feeling of unreality6 had come over her, but she was more aware than ever before of everything around her. She noticed as if for the first time the uneven patters of sunlight shifting on the cracks in the whitewashed walls. She took in the acrid smell of sweat and ale from the tavern flanking the block.


Mr Murdoch took advantage of her state of mind. He caught her tightly around the waist and forced his bristly mouth onto hers, parting her soft, un-painted lips and kissing her roughly. Her mind blanked, and then her hand shot out of his grip and slapped him over the cheeks.7 It broke the silence in two, like a cracked mirror portending seven years of bad luck. Choking back tears of humiliation and shock, she hurried inside the apartment and slammed the door.


Anne precipitated towards her armchair and collapsed into it, panting heavily. She drew a trembling hand to her throat, as if to stem the flow of tears. Her forehead creased with the concentration of containing her emotions, and with every frantic gulp of air, she forbade herself to cry. Mrs Lincombe entered the room, the floorboards shuddering each time she stepped forward.


“Anne,” she said, a concerned look seeping into her face. “Whatever is the matter, child?”


“I...I...” she looked up at her mother and bolted towards her, sobbing into her red woollen shawl, “I cannot go back to Mr Murdoch. I will not.”


“What foolishness is this? Come, now, Anne. You’re makin’ too much of a little matter.”8


“No...no, Mother. He is not a good man,” Anne managed to choke out between tears, using as simple words as she could.


“What d’you mean?” questioned Mrs Lincombe, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly.


“He...he kissed me against my will, Mother,” her daughter replied. As soon as the words were out, Anne realised how petty they sounded, when spoken. What proof had she? That Mr Murdoch had merely embraced her, had shown signs of liking her?


“How silly you are, child,” said her mother, and it was if she had morphed into Mr Murdoch in front of her daughter’s very eyes. “Don’t ye want to have a rich admirer? ‘Tis what every wench dreams of.”9


Anne looked into her mother’s weathered, careworn face and realised she would refuse to believe any word spoken against their ‘benefactor.’ He was the sole person providing for them and as long as they had money, Mrs Lincombe was prepared to go to any extremes.


“Mother,” started Anne. She stared at the fine fur rug spread across the floor, where the ragged grimy mat used to lie. At the framed paintings and embroideries hanging on the walls which used to be blank and grey, a few nails knocked into the old plaster. All transformed in three weeks. “Do you see how dependant on him we are now? It was his plan, Mother, I am sure of it. We can never go back to living without his allowance now. We’re...we’re...”


“What dramatics, child,” exclaimed Mrs Lincombe, pursing her lips and shaking her grey head. “What exaggeration. It’s not dependence. What other means have we of ‘a gettin’ money? Answer me that.”


“I’ve told you a thousand times, Mother,” Anne said wearily. “I’m willing to work. Forget the bookshop for the time being, I know you despise it so. I could be a governess, or a lady’s maid. I would love to work, Mother, rather than live off the Murdochs’ money.”10


“Oh, cease with yer empty talk of work and governesses. You’ll never be able to make a serious career of it, you’ll see. It’ll come to nothing, Anne, so why set such stakes on it?”


“Because it is better than stealing, Mother!” retorted Anne, the anger bubbling up inside her once again. “It is better than being mere...mere scavengers.” Not abiding to look her mother in the face, she turned away, breaking into fresh tears.


“Oh, do not take on so,” Mrs Lincombe remarked harshly, waving a handkerchief at her. “You’ll make your eyes red and nose run, and you’ll end up looking like a boar’s backside. What man would desire you then?”


“All the better,” retorted Anne, snatching the handkerchief and throwing it on the ground. “I do not want to be desired, Mother. Not by Mr Murdoch. Oh Mother, you do not understand. He...he has made a claim on me.”


“’Tis but a way of showing his affection,” said her mother determinedly, forcing Anne back onto the armchair and folding her arms against her chest.


“No, Mother. It is not natural. And, Mother, Mr Murdoch seems to know me from before...before we met. I do not understand any of it.” Anne tried to control her tears but they came spilling out of her watery black eyes. Detesting how pathetic she was, Anne buried her face in her hands as her thin shoulders convulsed with each sob.


Mrs Lincombe turned her face away from her daughter, shaking her head so grey tendrils fell from the bun, shielding her expression like a smokescreen. “Nor do I, Anne,” she said, her voice muffled. “Do not try to seek the answers from me, for I...I do not know what the gentlemen’s implying. Maybe you misunderstood it. Most likely, with the state you’re in.”


Anne let her head droop softly like a wilting black flower. “Mother,” she whispered hoarsely, tears beading her eyelashes. She realised there was little point in finishing her sentence, or trying to explain matters to her mother. There was nobody to understand or help her. So she apologised quietly for her outburst, and rose from the chair. Retiring to her room, she lost herself in the pages of a book until the early hours of the morning,11 where she finally fell back on the pillow. Even then, traces of dry, bitter tears stained her cheeks like jagged train tracks on snow.12

Hah, I knew it! Mr Murdoch wasn't all he was painted to be, after all.

Mr Murdoch glanced up in the distance at the yellow-tiled roof, speckled with black grains, and pressed a handkerchief to his nose before taking Anne’s arm and walking her through the lane to the block.

Her mind blanked, and then her hand shot out of his grip and slapped him over the cheeks. It broke the silence in two, like a cracked mirror portending seven years of bad luck.

“I do not want to be desired, Mother. Not by Mr Lincombe.