My stab at the wonderful Lord Peter (Death Bredon) Wimsey (…I shouldn’t say that about a man heavily involved in crime stories!) February 21, 2008
Posted by Anya in : spontaneous degeneration , trackbackIt’s an extremely sad thing that Dorothy Sayers didn’t write a few more Lord Peter books before she died. Such as 400 or so.
Anyway, something possessed me around Christmas time (I think it was my Greek copywork, really I do. I love Hebrews, but it has a lot of obscure vocabulary. Dear LEXICON!!!!) to try writing a bit of Lord Peter myself. Oh, I remember. It was the copywork in conjunction with reading a Peter Wimsey. (The one with the cat charm in it.)
But yes, being the absent-minded person who I am, I wrote this and then completely forgot about it. *sigh*
“Topping,” said Lord Peter, and decided that that wasn’t the ideal word. “Smashing.”
For this observation, which he had considered rather witty, he was rewarded with a stern look from the young woman beside him. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, reproachfully.
“Beg pardon,” he replied. “I had no intention of offending you, what?” His boyish grin backed up his words.
She turned around to face him, running a hand through her red hair. “It’s just that it’s so irritating to hear you calling my stained glass window ’smashing’ especially when I’ve just had one smashed.”
Lord Peter gave such a start that his unfortunate walking stick came quite close to being flung across the lawn. “I do beg your pardon,” he repeated, sounding much more penitential and humbled. “Is it really, truly yours?”
She glared at him for a moment. “I’ll not have any of your ‘dear girlie’-ing, and I do think that you might at least introduce yourself if you’re so intent on standing on my property.”
“Peter Wimsey, don’t’cha know,” he said, extending a hand to her. “And awfully delighted and all that rot, what?”
Her expression changed to one of bewilderment and then amusement and finally she laughed. “I’m Fiona Paul. And if you’re going to stand here looking at the window, you may as well come inside and do it, and stay for dinner. That way you can see what it looks like with the sun shining in through as well.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I certainly don’t desire to be trespassin’, but that would be so awfully ripping of you. As it is, the bloody auto (oh, sincere apologies; it has a habit of just slippin’ out) broke down and Bunter sent me to stand in front of people’s houses, lookin’ pathetic until they offered me dinner. Although I admit that I forgot to beg for your scraps when first I caught sight of the luminous beauty of your gem-like glass.”
Fiona, foot on the stone steps leading up to the polished oak door, paused, turned around. “And Mr. Bunter? Is he not to have dinner?”
“Let not your heart be troubled,” replied Peter cheerily. “Bunter is quite equal to the task of finding one wayward — and hungry — lord.”
“You’re a lord?” She pushed the towering door and it swung open smoothly.
He struck himself in the forehead. “Dash it all, the tongue gave it all away again. Dear Miss Paul — it is Miss, i’n’t it? Or is it Mrs? — whenever you have children yourself (always assumin’ you do) I advise you to cut out their tongues. Save them a world of trouble, and so on.”
She shot him a glance which couldn’t decide if it was shocked or amused. “Wait here.”
Peter, abandoned, found himself inspecting the vestibule of the house. It was draped all over with paint-spattered clothes, which seemed odd as no wet paint was visible or — he sniffed. Not a whiff.
Fiona came back in. “There,” she said, “’tis accomplished and Alex has consented to set another place at the table for you.”
“I say,” said Peter apologetically, “I’m being a dreadful nuisance, aren’t I?”
“P’rhaps,” she shrugged, “but we’ve been meaning to meet our neighbors anyway. So come on in, do; I’m such a dreadful hostess. And our house is such a terrible mess. “
“Did’ja only just arrive? Paint clothes all over, I was noticin’.” He was imagining all sorts of sinister things and had quite overlooked the obvious explanation.
“Alexander just put them up; he means to paint but I told him that dinner was positively in order.” She grinned. “There has to be some sort of order, no matter what sort of barbarous country we happen to be in.”
A huge dog came following after them. “Di’rgan,” said Fiona to the dog comfortably, and he went into another room.
“We’re eating in the kitchen,” Fiona informed Peter over her shoulder. “Alex pointed out to me that we haven’t yet figured out which room is for dining.”
“Alexander is… your butler-cook?”
“No!” she laughed. “Alex is my brother.”
The kitchen door stood wide open and
And not to leave you all in suspense, but that is where it ends. It looks like I worked on it for two days, a week apart. The title was And His Ministers, but that doesn’t really play into it yet.
*grins*
Comments»
well, i copied and pasted this to read in some moment when i am not so pressed for time. but it looks quite exciting!
actually i just read it. it’s very cool! i’ve never read a peter wimsey book, but by your new story here, they seem very interesting!
well, just forget college, young lady. You need to stay home and finish what you’ve started.
I kept running inside and standing by the fire, then running back out and taking pictures. Man, I don’t usually stand around in 3 degree weather though. Lol.
It was kinda’ eerie, but it is amazing knowing it is just the earth’s shadow crossing the moon.
Eric