My muse dropped by briefly, took one look at the scenes I posted a few days ago and sniffed. So today I have a rewritten version of the scene with Charlie, plus another new scene which may or may not stay around. I needed a break from the long series of scenes of X talks to Y in Meryton - it gets dull after a while. We're a lull in the action at the moment. I struggle with stepping back from a plot to see what its problem is - or rather I can usually see what the problem is, but my muse is notoriously uncooperative with my attempts to fix anything based on an intellectual decision. It's writing from the gut or not at all. But at least I got something this time, and I'm happier with the Charlie scene now.

Follow up:

So here's today's snippet:

Elizabeth gathered a hamper of dirty linens. Between the infant and the invalid, there seemed a never-ending supply of washing. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand, then headed for the washtub outside.

She did not make it past the kitchen. Mary and Charlie left off their whispering at her entrance. Mary handed Charlie a knife, then took the basket of wash from Elizabeth. “You’re not to do this. Mr. Darcy says.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Darcy says? And what of what I say?”

The two exchanged puzzled glances, as if she were speaking Chinese. Then Charlie said to Mary, “The washtub is in the garden.”

She nodded and made as much of a curtsey as she could manage holding a large hamper of wash, then carried it through the open door.

Elizabeth folded her arms and glared amusedly at Charlie. “So Mr. Darcy makes the rules in my sister’s house?”

He flashed a grin. “No, miss, you do. Exceptin’ when Mr. Darcy disagrees with your rules. Once you’re Mrs. Darcy, you can make the rules for him.”

“I see.” She gazed outside. Mary’s hair glinted golden in the sunlight as her lithe figure poured water into the washtub. What was Mr. Darcy’s interest in her, and why had he kept it from her? How many pretty young girls were there who would happily fulfill Mr. Darcy’s every wish? It was not a subject she cared to think on. Her stomach twisted into knots at the idea of her betrothed with any other woman, yet there must have been many.

“She don’t warm his bed, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Charlie’s voice floated into her reverie.

Elizabeth straightened abruptly. “That is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation.”

“She thought she was supposed to at first, but he said no. Now she’s Miss Darcy’s maid. He don’t mistreat the staff the way some gents do.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Pray, how much does Mr. Darcy pay you to sing his praises?”

Charlie’s crooked teeth showed in a grin. “Not a thing. Why should he? You’d have to be mad not to go with him. But he’s a decent man, and I won’t say that of many.”

“What will you do once your work here is done?”

“Dunno. I’ll go back to London, I figure.”

“Mr. Darcy does not have plans for you already? How uncharacteristic of him.”

Charlie shrugged. “I’m not in service to him. He pays me to do things from time to time, that’s all.”

“Will you miss Meryton when you leave?”

“Maybe. It’s too quiet here. Streets should be noisy. I’ll miss the meals and the kitchen, though.”

“The meals have hardly been memorable.”

He gave her a disbelieving look. “I’ve had breakfast and dinner every day since I came here. That’s something to remember.”

***

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not believe in neglecting family responsibilities, even when they were as onerous as visiting his brother’s sickbed. Still, he fortified himself with a generous glass of port before braving the inevitable litany of complaints. Henry had always been a difficult patient, and losing an arm was unlikely to improve his temperament or his sensibilities.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover that the drapes were no longer drawn. He had always thought that Henry’s bedroom at Derby House looked more like an overdecorated prison cell than a pleasant space, with all natural light shut away. Henry sat by the window, gazing out at the small garden, a invalid’s blanket over his legs.

It was hard not to look at the stump of his arm, swathed in yellowing bandages. The colonel knew plenty of men who were missing a limb, but it was different in Henry. His older brother was supposed to be hale and whole.

He covered his dismay with a jovial manner. “Good to see you sitting up, Henry. I was beginning to believe you intended to spend the entire year in bed.”

Henry turned a pallid face toward him for a moment, then looked out the window again, even as he spoke. “There are matters I must attend to.”

“Certainly nothing urgent, I hope. You have been quite ill.”

“I am much recovered.”

This was most unlike Henry. Richard sent a questioning look toward the valet, who pointed to a small, stoppered bottle. Laudanum, no doubt. That would account for Henry’s unusual demeanour.

Richard joined his brother by the window, peering out to see what had captivated Henry’s interest, but he could see nothing unusual beyond a footman heading toward the stable. “It must be pleasant to enjoy the view.”

Henry gave him a suspicious glance. “I am waiting.”

“Until you are stronger? Very sensible.”

“No, no. I am waiting for a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

Henry lowered his voice. “I do not know, but the messenger said there would be a sign, and I would know it.”

He must have had the entire bottle of laudanum, given how insensible his replies were. Richard made another attempt. “What messenger? Did someone write to you?”

Henry looked impatient. “No, the messenger who chased the devil away.”

Long years of practice in disguising his feelings kept Richard’s face unperturbed by the concern he felt. “The devil?”

“The devil wanted me to die unshriven, so that I would burn in hell,” Henry said, as if sharing a confidence. “But the messenger said my fever was a warning, a taste of what awaited me if I continued to follow the devil’s path.”

“I see.” Richard studied his brother’s face carefully. He could see no tell-tale flush of fever, but this seemed to go beyond laudanum dreams. Hopefully it would resolve in a few days, and if so, the less said now, the better. “You would perhaps do better not to mention the messenger to our father. He might not understand.”

Henry nodded at this sage advice. “Yes, you are right. His eyes have not yet been opened.”

Richard decided would definitely have a word with Henry’s valet about watering the laudanum.

Accountability update: I didn't get my 250 words in yesterday, but I did get some on Saturday which was supposed to be my day off. I'm trying to get ready for holiday travels, but I'm hoping to squeeze in a few words each day.