Par hasard à un rêve

I’ve spent the day reading and I was over my grandma’s house for the most of my day, so I hadn’t had the chance to write anything but these blog post. I’ve read on some author’s site that it’s important to write and write and write, no matter what you write, just write.

This is all I could churn out today:

“She has not been out.” The words were spoken with a disgusted lilt, as if it was the most horrifying thing, Lady Ingram heard in her entire life. Catherine sat, her hands folded, in a chair that creaked each time she moved. Her heart was in her throat and to make matters worse, Lady Ingram and Miss Ward were staring at her, their eyes direct descendants of flaming coals. Black and fiery.
“No, yer Grace. She be an American after all.”
“The poor little thing.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Catherine saw pity extinguish some of the revulsion in her eyes, but it did nothing for the tears forming in her own. Here she was, in a strange place, in the company of a woman who was supposed to be her aunt. A relation she had not heard of until the day her mother died.
” ‘Er father be a fine man. If ye were to know him, yer Grace…”
“Miss Ward, men with an amiable salary per annum are considered to be fine.  And Mr. Smith had not a shilling to his name when he died.”

I had the character from Under the Twilight in mind. For some reason, I made her American. None of the heroine’s in the stories I write are American, even though I am.

I don’t know why that is.