Local Lit

Jem, A Girl of London (excerpt 2 of 3)

Chapter 5—January 1758 | I Meet Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, America

Delaney Green |

           Quiet and stealthy, I crept down the stairs. When I reached the ground floor, I peeked round the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Macintyre, the cook, whirled in the kitchen, stirring this and tasting that. She talked aloud to herself as she worked: “Now, then, a wee bit more time for the beef (slam!) and there’s the tureen for the soup (thump!) and now where is my carving knife (crash!)”  Mum said that Mrs. Macintyre came from Scotland but was a good cook anyway.
 
            “You there!” she barked. “Jessamyn, isn’t it?” I jumped. Mrs. Macintyre was looking at me with her carving knife raised. “And just what are ye about, then?”
 
            “M-Mum asked me to tell her if the baby awoke,” I said, eyeing the knife.
 
            “Yer mother’s busy serving, girl. She canna’ come now. Go on! I can’t stand here jibber-jabberin’ . Here, put on this cap so ye look a bit more presentable and take this out to the sideboard in the dining room, there’s a good girl.” She handed me a large ladle and pushed me out.
 
            Through the double doors that closed off the front parlor, I could hear conversation, much louder now, but I still couldn’t see any of the people. I tiptoed closer and put my eye up to the crack in the door.
 
            It was grander than anything I’d ever seen. Every color of the rainbow gleamed in the ladies’ silk gowns and men’s waistcoats. Fans fluttered like bird wings. The women’s wigs were fantastic piles of curls and feathers and jewels. A cloud of tobacco smoke made it look like the people floated in fog.
 
            Then a blue suit came toward the crack. Before I could move, the door swung open and knocked me on the head. The hired footman who’d opened the door for the guest glared at me, but the gentleman told the footman not to worry. The fellow in the blue suit guided me to a lamp in the hallway so he could examine the bump on my head.
 
            He wasn’t handsome or ugly. He was just ordinary. He wore no wig, just his own brown hair threaded with gray. His blue suit fit him well but lacked embroidery or other trim. He smelled of peppermint and tobacco smoke.
 
            I wasn’t much of a one for crying, but the rap on my noggin had brought tears to my eyes. The gentleman sat on a chair in the hall and stood me in front of his knees. He pushed back my borrowed cap to look at the lump. “Hm,” he said, “I think you’ll recover. What were you about then, standing at the door?”
 
            “Looking out for my mother, sir,” I said, truthfully, for I’d been ready to run if Mum had come toward the door.
 
            “Shall I fetch her for you? Which lady is she?”
 
            “No! Thank you sir. I can wait for her.” His kind gray eyes encouraged me to confide, “I wanted to see the pretty dresses, sir.”
 
            “Ah, I see. My daughter does the same thing. Just remember that fine feathers don’t make a fine bird, although I grant that most of the birds in that room are fine ladies to the bone, Miss--?”
 
            “Jessamyn,” I said, “Jessamyn Marietta Connolly. Everybody calls me ‘Jenna’ . ”
 
            “And I am Mr. Franklin. Jessamyn is a lovely name. An English variant of ‘Jasmine,’ a pretty vine that grows in warm places. It has a tiny white flower that smells like heaven on toast. I believe jasmine grows out at the Chelsea Gardens. How did you get such a pretty name?”
 
            “My mother got it from a book, sir.
 
            “Well, Jessamyn Marietta Connolly, I hope the inopportune meeting of your head with a thick chunk of walnut has taught you that knocking on a door with your hand is preferable to knocking on a door with your head.”
 
            “Yes, sir it has,” I said.

            “I take my leave of you.” He bowed. “Your servant, mademoiselle.” He climbed the stairs, and I heard a door open and close. 

Delaney Green is the pen name of Eau Claire’s Debra Peterson. Peterson taught English for 25 years, and before that, she was a reporter, a copy editor, a professional actress, a Broadway theater concessions manager, and a farm laborer. She is the author of Playwriting: A Manual for Beginners, published by Dramatic Publishing. She answers questions about writing on her website here.

I Meet Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, America is excerpted from Jem, A Girl of London – the first book of Peterson’s in-progress Young Adult series (currently looking for a publisher). The books focus on Jessamyn Connolly – no ordinary girl. She hears what animals are thinking. She feels disease in people with no outward symptoms. And she decides early on that the only way for a girl to get along in a man's world is not to be a girl at all – so she dons a pair of breeches and calls herself "Jem."

You can find two more excerpts below.

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