A Respectable Trade for a Woman
On a research trip to the Caribbean, historical novelist Davida Dunn finds herself entangled in a mystery of chronological inconsistency.
Not even her writer's imagination can prepare her for where that mystery will lead her...
Time travel. Decided lack of romance. Historical inaccuracy and corresponding explanations offered. Random rambling of a vaguely literary nature.
Chapter One: I shall never begin if I hold my peace
"A trip to the Caribbean for research?" Trevor Buckley's scepticism was audible over the telephone. "Sounds like an excuse for a holiday to me, Davey darling-"
"Writer here, Trevor," Davida interjected swiftly. "Call it what you like, it won't stop the stories turning up of their own accord. Look, it's a wonderful setting for a historical novel. The War of Spanish Succession. Europe and the Americas in turmoil. The treasure fleets of Spain and Portugal under attack. Privateers and slavery. Colour, danger, amazing scenery, more political intrigue than you can shake a stick at-"
"And Sir Charles would be in the middle of it all?" Trevor was not entirely persuaded, but Davida thought she detected the signs that he was weakening.
"Well actually..." Davida cursed her honesty. Trevor would know no better if she told him Sir Charles Lancaster, darling of the court of Charles the Second, would next appear as a World War One flying ace taking on a herd of Viking war elephants. Trevor's editorial staff, on the other hand, were a completely different matter. They were certain to point out that her Sir Charles would be far too old to swash his buckler across Caribbean waters at the time Davida had in mind.
"No," Davida admitted, thinking fast. "But his son could be..." She let her voice trail away enticingly. She could almost hear Trevor's thoughts in the silence that followed.
"A son! You would need the back story, of course," Trevor said slowly, after a long pause.
"Leave that for another novel. Let the readers speculate for a while," Davida stated. She knew Trevor was sold on the idea now. She had committed herself to somehow providing her erstwhile creation with at least one offspring, but she'd think of something and, frankly, it was about time that disgracefully charming rogue had his comeuppance. He'd seduced his way through most of the aristocracy of Europe, after all.
On the other hand, perhaps she should leave her choice of dates more flexible. Nobody knew for sure what Blackbeard was up to around the end of 1717. If she couldn't make something out of that, she had no business calling herself a writer. Even a son of Sir Charles would be middle-aged by then, however. Or she could try something earlier. Sir Charles himself would have been freed from the need for much of his artful spycraft once the turmoil of the Protestant Reformation settled down. She could send him out with the first English governor of Tortuga, right after the capture of Jamaica.
The thought of giving Sir Charles a son did appeal to her, now that she had thought of it. Why not do both? Sir Charles, charming his way through the new world... an illicit liaison with a Naval officer's wife or daughter... then, several years later, the Caribbean sees the rising star of a young man with a remarkable resemblance to the by then ageing philanderer...
Not too great a resemblance. Not nearly so much of a peacock, Davida mused. Less flamboyant and capricious. So much about Sir Charles was the result of her inexperience as an author when she first created him. His unpredictability was largely because she had wished him to be considerably more intelligent than his contemporaries, and yet her ability to write him as such had been lacking. Thus she had hidden his intellect behind a smokescreen of seemingly pointless mannerisms and habits. She had made him devilish handsome and quite the fashion model because she had been (she admitted to herself now) rather bad at portraying genuine charm. A son could be her chance to create a new protagonist, with the benefit of lessons learned.
"Davey? Davey, are you still there?" Trevor's voice broke into her thoughts.
"What?" With an effort, Davida dragged her mind back from the seventeenth century. "Sorry, Trevor. I was hit with the plot hammer. Repeatedly."
Trevor laughed. "As long as it leads to another Davida Dunn novel, darling, there's no need to apologise. Let me know the dates. And stay in touch! I hear even desert islands have wireless hotspots nowadays."
I'll 'darling' you one of these days, Davida thought without heat as she said her goodbyes and ended the call. You're a publishing director, not an actor. Her thumb hovered over the keypad of the phone for a long moment, forgotten as she made her final decision. Then she reached for her laptop, and started looking up flights.