Page 6 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
She didn’t wait for an answer, from Imelda or from the other two either, before bustling off, pulling a wave of admirers in her wake. It was clear to see that she was a highly favored companion.
“My mother means well,” Lady Charlotte murmured, leaning in conspiratorially. “She just doesn’t know how not to manage everything around her.”
“Everyone around her,” Miss Tuberville giggled. “It isn’t like anyone has the wherewithal to dare to tell her no.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to,” Imelda assured them both, smiling and feeling more welcomed than she had anticipated.
“Good. And hopefully, you’ll understand our wanting to take our seats before she starts barking out orders,” Lady Charlotte said with a grin. She took Imelda’s arm, tucking her own through it as the two of them flanked her. “I do prefer to sit on the right side of the room. I know the best couches, you know.”
Imelda grinned, allowing herself to be toted along between the two of them as Lady Wadderson’s voice rose in the background to address the rest of the room.
“Here,” Miss Tuberville handed the papers to Imelda with a wink. “You can read over them before we start.”
“Are these—” Imelda cut off as she looked down to see the critic’s section, her heart freezing in her chest along with the smile on her face. She had been brave before, talking about it, but the truth was that she had avoided looking yet for more than just the one reason.
She’d heard feedback for years on her stories…but there was something different and altogether more terrifying about reading what the London papers had to say.
Miss Tuberville and Lady Charlotte continued talking around her as they ushered her into a seat, but Imelda’s eyes were already devouring the reactions to her piece.
Immersive…fantastic…lovely, the words jumped off of the page and reinforced the pride that Imelda had already been feeling.
At least until the headline from one column caught her attention.
A Story Even Older in its Retelling:
I turn my discerning eye this week to a recent addition to the literary landscape. This critic hates to shame one for trying but there was nothing changed about the winds of this story. If anything, it was long-winded and dull, full of unnecessary prose and with a plot that we’ve seen too many times before. While the focus on friendship over romance is a break from the recent influx of the latter, I cannot fully sign off on this piece.
The author uses a delicate hand to paint the conflict, but the conflict itself remains overdone and trite. One cannot deny the author’s skillful use of language; however, beneath that veneer of well-crafted word lies a narrative that struggles to transcend the conventions of its genre.
The characters, though finely drawn, adhere too closely to archetypal tropes, failing to elicit the depth of emotion necessary to truly engage the reader.
Furthermore, the pacing of the story leaves much to be desired. The central conflict is rushed, undermining the emotional impact and leaving this reader feeling somewhat unsatisfied. Additionally, certain plot points are left unexplored, robbing the narrative of the complexity it so desperately needs to resonate with a discerning audience.
In short, while a commendable effort, With Changing Winds falls short of greatness. While the author demonstrates ability, the story ultimately lacks the depth and originality necessary to leave a lasting impression.
As always, I eagerly await the next installment in our literary journey, hoping to encounter a work that does transcend the boundaries of its genre.
-Prospero
“Prospero?” Imelda found herself testing his name aloud, her brows furrowing with frustration as she looked back up at the shreds he had made of her work.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” Miss Tuberville comforted her in a quiet undertone as more and more ladies gathered around to find seats. “He’s very difficult to please.”
“Who is he?” Imelda asked, trying to bury the sharpness of her words. Prospero. That wasn’t even a real name, she was sure of it. She wanted to know exactly who had ripped apart her work so fully. Not some penname that he hid behind.
“Well—” Lady Charlotte looked decidedly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat as she looked to Imelda with wide eyes full of apology.
But whatever she had been about to say was cut off by the musical chimes ringing through the room again, and her mother standing at the head of the room with a wide smile as everyone fell silent.
Imelda didn’t think it should have been at all possible for her to bedisappointedthat the Woman’s Word was starting. But she was, the question of Prospero and his cutting critique still indenting itself behind her lashes as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying desperately to focus on Lady Waddeson’s opening words.
Prospero…Who did he think he was?
Chapter 2
“God save me from dry champagne,” Romeo muttered, swirling the champagne flute in his hand with an irritated look as if the glass itself had offended him. His mouth was pinched, his brow set, and he had the look of a man who would rather be anywhere but where he was.
Even if where he was happened to be one of the finest sitting rooms in all of England.
