Tipping The Velvet {four}

Back for some more! (I've decided, I'm typing something up, so I'll type a page and then do a review and so on and so forth...)

It's alright, I love teen romance .

I. NITPICKS

her chocolate pupils dilated.

gifts of money were frequent, and therefore so were new clothes.

Nell had arrived at rehearsal hours

“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.”

Fortesque,

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.

Ah, I hate being the last to critique, I feel like I'm only repeating everyone else.

I liked this chapter a lot but I stand firm and direct when I say that you're cheating everyone, including yourself out of something good hear. This story is brilliant in every form of the word and if this was in print and sold around the world on many a literary stair I'd hate for people to question it's brilliance. It seems as though you're taking short-cuts and every time Anne seems to make her ascent into the world 3D you block her. Take your time, view every aspect of this girl's life. Take advantage of what you have.

Otherwise, I shall keep reading.

Eurchh, I know this chapter is probably a bit too soppy and lurv-filled for some of my faithful readers

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.

Eurchh, I know this chapter is probably a bit too soppy and lurv-filled for some of my faithful readers, but trust me, teen-romance is not going to be the objective of this novel. I needed this chapter to be somewhat weak and mundane for Chapter 5 to make its full effect. You'll understand in my next updated. 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.

Sarah, dear, I'm trying a new reviewing thingamajig so be a tad patient with me

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. 1 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.2 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.”3


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?”4


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.”5


“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- ”6


“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.”7


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.8


“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.9


“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.

Once I earn enough money at the theatre it shall become very possible.

Thankyou so much, to all of you who read.

Juniper - Thanks for the invaluable points about my grammatical/comma/fullstop usage, I'll definitely look it over. You've been really patient about it, therefore, you rock.

JC - your suggestions about characterisation were just brilliant. They are going to help so, so much in this novel. You've got it just right - she needs dreams or a goal. I'm certainly going to try and work that in, so thankyou so much.

Ducati - thanks so much for following this all the way through. Your point about making Anne weak instead of strong is absolute genius. Absolute genius, and you have hit on such a good point. I will definitely relook it.

Anyway, guys, you've helped me so much with rethinking this novel's goal. I'm so grateful to all three of you. Thankyou so, so much.

-Sarah

CastlesInTheSky wrote:
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
this sounds a little silly. I thought pupils where black, the iris had the colour!

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 why would clothes be high in her priority? This doesn't suit her at all. Please explain!

But Anne detested the rippling feeling of expensive silk over her legs,and the serene walk the new cream slippers caused her to adopt. I agree that this is awkwardly worded. Serene is the odd word out, I think.

She longed for the worn old muslin frock and the crinkled shawl that was nearly tearingtorn to pieces. She wanted to be able to curl up reading or stretch out on a park bench, uncaring of the mud It would be dirt, not mud, if it were on a park bench. tainting the fabric of her gown. But she couldn’t; not 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? 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.”
What happened to the dialogue of the last chapter? The mother daughter relationship falls flat. Read back over it and see the difference between the two. It was my favourite part.

*

“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. Since they were not in sight yet, she contented herself with surveying the theatre, which never ceased to amaze.
her.
Glittering chandeliers shone above her, so the high ceiling seemed as if it were made of liquid gold. Bronze plaster Cupids decorated the walls, with stone wings frozen in flight forevernix the forever and plump hands outstretched towards the audience. Rows and rows of gilded seats ascended upwards until the top ones seemed almost lost from view. Nice description, but we don't really care. We have been to theatre before, and the description should of been done then, if at all. Sorry for harshness, but description can be interesting or boring, depending where it is.

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 takenNot quite taken, played by. This is misleading.
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. A shouting match ensued between the two and eventually both of them retired to separate rooms.

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 battered novel.
Sure you don't mean tattered? If you had said battered pages it would have worked also. But this makes me imagine a novel being hit with a club. Not quite the restful effect you were going for.

She glanced up at the stage, where Eliza and Elinor had reappeared. They were standing at opposite sides and studiously ignoring each other. The stage manager was wringing his hands and the musical director, a fop named Fortesque, seemed unable to make a decision of who should act on the opening night.

Anne couldn’t help smiling at the stubborn look, identical on both ladies’ faces.
The identical stubborn look on both ladies' faces.
Eliza was makingmade
some elaborate speech about how she was destined for the role, and eventually it was decided that she should play it. Elinor looked ready to strangle her, but was restrained.

“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 she had never seen there before – but it vanished as soon as it had arrived.Cliche He snapped the book shut and extended it shyly.

“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 awkward hush during which Henry seemed to grow distant and unfathomableTry unreadable. Not so melodramatic 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 the ribbon of 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, towering above her in his formidable overcoat. “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.

pupils dilated

the serene walk the new cream slippers caused her to adopt.

Soon growing bored of the never-ending pretence that she actually needed to make money here

A shouting match ensued between the two and eventually both of them retired to separate rooms.

He snapped the book shut and extended it shyly.

Hey Sarah!


Brilliant.

I loved this chapter. I don't care that it's headed in the direction of romance-- you promise to make the story otherwise, so I believe you will.

I think Anne is coming along strongly. Her character is easy to see; she meets the Murdoch's and then is forced to keep in touch with them for the money they donate to them. I don't really see what you could change about her. She seems pretty well thought out to me.

The only issue I have (as I pointed out in your previous chapters) are your commas . Just pay slight attention to where you put your periods. You often put a period where a comma belongs, dear. Let me show you:

“Miss Lincombe?” he said, towering above her in his formidable overcoat. “I don’t believe you are very well.”