Music Monday: Little Drummer Boy (for King and Country)

I thought we would start off the season of Christmas music with a bang! This song should do that quite well.

Heads up: This is not your sweet and soft Christmas carol, and if you are sensitive to flashes of light, you might want to listen and not watch. If you follow my Facebook page, I did share this video on there last week because I just really enjoy this fun take on this classic song.

PUBLISHED TO YOUTUBE BY FOR KING AND COUNTRY ON NOV 9, 2018.

I have very little writing news at this moment. I was able to get two more chapters of Kitty and Lorcan’s story written this week. I had hoped to get three done, but that just did not work out. 🙂

I did complete my final read-through of First Blooms and Second Chances. This project, while it is going to be published soon, was written with the intention of being a gift to my mailing list and Patreon subscribers. If you happen to fall into one of those groups, be watching for your copy of this book to show up in your inbox this week before it goes live on any publishing platform.

If you are not a Leenie B Book News mailing list subscriber and you’d like to be, there is a link at the bottom of this post where you can join. Until January 6, 2020, one of the thank you gifts for subscribing will be First Blooms and Second Chances. (Or it will be as soon as I get that set up to send out after I have emailed the current subscribers — so many little details.)

The only other thing I wished to mention in the writing news section today is that there is now a print version available of The Choices Series compilation, and it has been linked to the ebook sales page and has had the page count updated there to match for both books. (It used to list the book as 400 and some pages and the 5.5 in x 8.5 in paperback I submitted was over 600 pages — this is why it is not always safe to assume that the page count Amazon is showing you is correct or even close, in this case.)

Well, since I do not have anything new that I am writing and since my writing news was rather short, I think I will share the first chapter from “Morning Mist”, which is a Sense and Sensibility variation novelette and is part of last year’s mailing list Christmas gift, Thunder, Mist, and Frost (Nature’s Fury and Delights, book 1).

CHAPTER 1

As she climbed the hill near her new home, Barton Cottage, Marianne Dashwood hummed the tune of the new piece of music she was currently learning while her fingers occasionally moved along an imaginary set of keys.

She and her sisters and mother had only been at Barton Cottage a short time, and it was nothing like Norland, the estate on which Marianne had grown up. However, it did have some enchantments. Some of those enchantments were these hills and the meadow just at the top of this particular one — especially at this time of day when the morning’s mist was just rising to make way for the day ahead.

As she reached the top of the mound, she paused both her walking and humming, lifted her face to the sun, and pulled in a deep breath of fresh morning air – air that had yet to be used by many since most people would likely still be lying in bed or preparing for the day.

There were servants, of course, who had been up since before the first tantalizing fingers of sunshine had begun to stir and part the mist which hung over the hills and valleys surrounding Barton Cottage. However, there would be few servants wandering the fields as she was. They would be busy baking bread, tending children, seeing to the animals, and other such tasks as were expected of them. Theirs was a life of hard work, and the thought of such caused Marianne to sigh. How dreadful it must be to live such a life where greeting the morning with exuberance would be impossible.

At the melancholy thought of missing the delights of these hills and meadows, an idea sprang to Marianne’s mind. She would gather some flowers and place them around the cottage. Surely, that would give Walter and Mary a small portion of the wonder and beauty she experienced on these morning rambles.

She was confident that there was nothing more refreshing in the entire world than a walk in the morning mist. Here, the visions she gathered from the stories and poems she read, as well as the songs she played, could run free — galloping up the hills, descending down the valleys, rising on wings into the air.

A walk in the countryside at any time of day was delicious. However, in these early hours of the morning, when the dew still clung to the grass and flowers and when the clouds, which had descended to touch the ground, bringing with them the dreams found upon one’s bed, were beginning to rise and depart, a walk was more than delicious. It was magical. She almost expected to meet some gallant knight returning to his castle after successfully vanquishing his foe.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. The air was cool, but the day had appeared too lovely to wear her brown pelisse. Brown could be such a dull colour, and today was not a dull day! And so, she had ventured out with only her shawl to ward off the mischievous little pixies who delighted in causing a lady’s skin to bump and her muscles to shiver. Marianne could not help but smile at the idea of pixies being shooed away by the motion of her hands as she warmed her skin.

The sound of a falcon’s cry and the snort of a horse drew her from her reverie and urged her to discover their source. With any luck, it would be him.

She had come upon him – an intriguing stranger — yesterday morning, and she had watched him from a distance, advancing and retreating, parrying, and lunging as he fought an imaginary foe. She had been mesmerized with the movement of his feet and the form of his arms. She imagined he was likely an excellent dancer since his steps were light, quick, and precise. His carriage was erect and noble, and his arms strong and steady.

She had been transfixed where she stood, completely and utterly incapable of alerting him to her presence. And so, she had watched until he had sheathed his sword and turned to leave. Then, she had hurried away, fearful that he might discover she had been watching him.

It was not polite for a young lady to stand and stare at anyone. Her sister Eleanor had reminded Marianne of that many times throughout her life. But how could one, as curious as she, refrain from occasionally watching something of interest, especially when that something was actually someone very reminiscent of a knight from days of old?

Quietly, so as not to draw notice to herself, she took up the same vantage point as yesterday, near a tree at the edge of the meadow.  A skittering of delight danced up her spine. It was him, and he was dressed exactly as he had been yesterday with boots that shone in the sunlight, breaches which stretched smoothly across muscular thighs, and a shirt of billowy fine white lawn that was open at the neck. He wore no cravat, no waistcoat, no jacket, and no hat. Wisps of his light brown hair moved freely as the wind blew, and his complexion appeared to be browned by the sun as if his hat were a thing he often forewent wearing. He did not appear to be classically handsome, but there was something about him – an aura which proclaimed him to be far more desirable than any classic dandy. In Marianne’s opinion, he was simply magnificent.

The falcon soared above him, dipping and circling, and then when the intriguing stranger whistled, the animal came to rest on his outstretched arm. Other than the customary chickens, pheasants, geese, and ducks, Marianne had never seen a bird at such a close distance as he was to his falcon. She had definitely never held any of the fowl that she had seen! The sight of the falcon resting on his arm captured her imagination, and she longed to step out from the shadows of the trees and make her presence known, so that she could see the creature even more closely.

However, she was reluctant to disturb the gentleman before her as he spoke softly to the animal while reaching into the bag which hung at his waist and drawing out some morsel of food which he presented to his bird. Marianne marvelled at how gentle both master and falcon now appeared when just moments ago both had looked wary and prepared to take on some foe even if the enemy proved only to be a pheasant or a mouse.

Marianne attempted to remain perfectly still as she waited and watched while silently hoping he would send the bird flying once again before her position of covert observation was discovered. However, she was not successful, for as she shifted to make herself more comfortable leaning against the tree, the falcon noticed her and alerted his master to her presence with a loud cry and a slight flapping of his wings.

“Good morning,” the stranger said, turning towards her.

Marianne pushed off the tree where she was leaning, stepped forward two paces, and extended a greeting of her own. “I did not wish to disturb you or frighten your falcon,” she explained. It was not a complete falsehood. She had not wished to disturb them. She also had not wished to be discovered, but that part did not need to be said. “Is it safe for me to approach?”

“Yes,  Lorcan is relatively gentle,” he replied. “He is no lapdog, but he has been flying for Sir John and myself for several years.”

Marianne approached slowly for, though the stranger said the bird was gentle, it was still a bird of prey with sharp talons and only a partially tamed heart. “This is Sir John’s bird?”

The eyes of the handsome gentleman before her lit with humour. “It was an entirely self-serving gift from me to him three years ago. I tired of only hunting with dogs.”

“Do you visit Barton Park often then?” She hoped he did, for she would very much like to see him there. Sir John could be interesting, but he could also be a bore. And he and his mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, enjoyed teasing and gossip far more than Marianne could abide. And then there was Mrs. Sir John, Lady Middleton, who cared for little save her horribly spoiled children. If he were at Barton Park, then there would be a delightful reason to suffer the others.

“Indeed, I do. Sir John is a friend of long-standing. And you, do you visit there often?”

“We have only just arrived at Barton Cottage. However, we do dine there as often as Sir John can convince my mother to do so. You must be the colonel whom Sir John was telling us would be visiting.” From Sir John’s intelligence about his friend, Marianne had expected some old, balding, and somewhat portly fellow. She had not thought that any friend of Sir John’s, let alone one who was retired, would be so dignified, yet with a deliciously tantalizing liveliness lying behind his reserved façade. There was more to the gentleman before her than what he presented. She could just feel it.

“Colonel Christopher Brandon at your service,” he said with a gallant nod of his head.

Marianne was certain that if he had not been holding a bird on his arm, his bow would have been executed with perfect grace. He just seemed the sort who would be a gentleman through and through.

“And you must be one of the Miss Dashwoods about whom I have heard so much,” he continued with a smile as he prepared to send his falcon flying once again. “One more turn of the sky for my friend here, and then he must be returned to his home,” he explained.

“I am Marianne, the second eldest Dashwood,” Marianne said as she tipped her head back and watched the bird rise into the air with great powerful flaps of his wings. As she shielded the sun from her eyes, Lorcan’s wings held their position as he soared.

“He is beautiful,” Marianne murmured.

“That he is,” Colonel Brandon agreed. “There is something rather special about the mixture of power and grace.”

“Oh, indeed!” Marianne cried. She had been thinking the very same words.

“My heart leaps up when I behold a falcon in the sky,” he began.

Marianne smiled with delight. She enjoyed poetry nearly as much as she enjoyed music. “It is a rainbow, sir.”

“While a rainbow is delightful, I prefer the majesty of a falcon in flight,” he answered before continuing the poem:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

   Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

[My Heart Leaps Up by William Wordsworth]

A sigh escaped Marianne as she listened to the short poem. Colonel Brandon’s voice was the sort that she preferred. It was neither too high nor too low in tone. She would willingly listen to him read or recite all day. There was a musical quality to his voice.

“Do you sing?” she asked as the excitement of the prospect of hearing him behind her while she played overtook her.

“I have not in years.” He whistled for his bird.

Marianne’s hand flew to her heart. “You have not sung in years? How do you manage it?”

He cast a quick glance her direction and chuckled as he once again rewarded Lorcan for returning to his arm. “It was only trying at first,” he assured her. “Thomas,” he called to a groom who stood with the horse.

Marianne had not noticed there was anyone else with them. But there was Thomas, whom she had seen once when arriving in Sir John’s carriage for dinner on one of the occasions when her mother had accepted an invitation. She nodded and murmured a greeting to him, then, waited and watched as a hood was placed on the falcon and the majestic bird was placed in a box to be taken back to his home at Barton Park.

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Oh, did you notice that? I used Lorcan as the name of the falcon. I hadn’t remembered that when I named Lord Westonbury’s friend the same name. 🙂

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MAILING LIST    PATREON