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We apprentices have continued our wanderings, but we always remember with fondness the friends and benefactors from Venezia, Rocca Sorrentina and the Royal Courts. Greetings to all for a Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year from all the apprentices and young people of Sorrento and the Bay of Naples.
I settled back into the heavy leather chair, sighing softly at the warmth the sun had bestowed upon it, and looked across the desk at the young man seated before me.
"Angel," I began "I have read your letter of introduction and I understand that you are highly qualified for the position..."
The young man nodded, confidently, sitting upright. He was handsome and well built. His frame was slightly larger that what might have been a perfect form, but that was just being picky. He had all of the attributes and experience that made him quite suitable.
And yet, and as always, the past stood beside me, whispering wise counsel into my ear. "Do not forget.... Katie...." I accepted the ethereal advisement of the years gone by and shifted his letter atop my journal, and willed my countenance expressionless, though a shadow of that great betrayal swept across my features in the warm afternoon light.
"One thing I expect, beyond the impeccable attention to your duties, is that you are steadfast in your loyalty to me. I will not hesitate to end your employment should you fail to do so. While I do appreciate that you have come at my father's recommendation, you are under my employ, not his. Is that understood...?"
I hoped that he did. I had plenty of servants, but none beyond my maid who might accompany me in travels; and who might be my constant companion, and hear my private and intimate conversation... and if he were to breathe one word of it to Papa...
I watched as the young man nodded, his brow threatening to knit in concern and then soften "I do understand, m'Lady," he responded "your confidence is well kept with me."
Assured, at least for the moment, I nodded sharply and reached for the small bell on the desk, lifting it to summon the house maid.
Standing and brushing my skirts of imaginary dust, I gestured to Anne as she entered "Please show Angel to his quarters, and see to it that the tailor is fetched. The livery will likely need to be let out a bit."
I turned and walked to the windows as Anne curtsied and departed with my new footman, surveying the park.
It was good to be home again.
Having first discovered Jane Austen as a child means that I've been pursuing her for many years now. I distinctly remember being enchanted by the fairy tale aspects of Emma 
Her penchant for happy endings was also appealing.
All-in-all I perceived Austen's world as something very "Disneyfied" where beautiful damsels were aided by kindhearted helpers something like this ...
Sir Mansur Marawi – nay, Sir Mansur Marawi Pasha , now -- steeples his hands over a broad swath of black linen caftan. He inclines his head in a seated imitation of the courteous bow he had previously offered you.
"Please sit," the bewhiskered man says politely.
You find yourself in a palace. From the harem room above, the loud peel of an infant's cry echoes over intricately paneled walls. In the back of the room, a drape of patterned silk wafts invitingly. The shadowed corridor beyond must lead to a kitchen; you can tell by the ever flowing aroma of falafel, shwarma, and shish kabob. You hear the jingle of bells, the coarse laughter of corsairs. Once, muffled, the walls shake with what might be an explosion or could be the clatter of a large skillet falling to the floor. Your nostrils flare subtly. Is that sulfur in the air?
Mansur's only reaction from his seat upon a high-backed, velvet upholstered throne is to cross a wooden leg over another of flesh and bone. No one else in the parlor seems much discomfited by events beyond the curtain. Guards, guests, officials, and a child or two bustle about on their way to or from various duties. Some even stop to take refreshment alongside you, to lounge about the comfortably appointed sofas and chairs, to chat, to rest, to sip the tea that flows like water while servants ferry plates laden with cheese and dates.
Your portion of this fare is served by a cheery female with shorn locks of black, springy hair. She glides with the self assurance of a princess despite the blue silks and jeweled collar that mark her as a slave. She slides to her master's side, kneeling, and you feel a curious prickle at the nape of your neck. Every time you look up, the woman's blind, clouded eyes are respectfully averted. But you feel her gaze; it follows you like a shadow.
"My friend, you have my sincere apologies," Mansur says at last. He brings a falafel ball to his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "I have been remiss, I think, in putting off our visit for so long. How do you find our city?"
"Well," you say with a chuckle. "It is not Europe."
The year is 178x, but it is not the 178x with which you are so intimately acquainted. This is a different 18th century, a new perspective on the world you knew, and your lungs cramp with the desire to be home.
For some, this strange place is home, and you recall it sharply when a petite woman, obviously breeding, sidles up along the other side of Mansur. Her eyes are bright and merry. Her long black hair, subtly streaked with gray, hangs loose over a modest blue gown. For all of that, she wears a scimitar in a belt slung low beneath her belly.
"Salaam, Brute. Who is your friend?" this woman asks, giggling, as she plops into Mansur's lap.
The slave on the floor huffs indignantly at the two scarred feet that now dangle in the general vicinity of her earlobe. "Mistress. Salaam," she says.
The pasha's lips twitch in a mixture of annoyance and amusement and you are not surprised when he introduces the impertinent minx as his wife.
" You have been too busy to receive visitors, I wager,” you remark with a fleeting glance toward the wife's blooming belly.
Mansur shrugs. "I have many claims on my time. The recent fires come to mind -- and those Russians in my harbor. Tell me, would you like a tour of the new constructions?"
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I am an admin at The Barbary Coast, a Second-Life role playing simulation open since the summer of 2009. We are set sometime in the 1700s, with time being relatively fluid, and take place along a northern stretch of African shoreline. Roles are varied. A plethora of options from vulnerable shipwreck victims to pacifist physicians to mercenary knights to bloodthirsty outlaws are available. We are a thriving port city and, as such, we welcome citizens of all nations except Japan (whose borders were closed during our time period). A mixture of text-based para-rp and light metered combat is employed.
We would love to take part in cross-sim rp and to join the other 18 th century role playing communities in Second Life and beyond. It is our supreme pleasure to meet and mingle with those from other rp environments within our period. Please let me know if you would like to send or receive an official ambassador or delegation.
Slurl:
http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Hunters%20XVI/88/193/32
Recently, RPers at the Barbary Coast have partnered with 1798 Deep South and Antiquity. Two travelers from the city of Korat share their letters home.
Xander Marawi, visiting 1798 Deep South
Dear Father:
I am greatly honored to have been entrusted with the task of expanding our foreign holdings and trade. I have found ready partners here and good, solid crops which I believe will withstand the passage home. There is cotton and tobacco in abundance. I believe any green thing in Allah's fine creation could grow in this soil. It is thicker than in any oasis.
I cannot describe to you the lush foliage that everywhere abounds, or even the pestilential swamplands on the borders of my host's estate. Trees grow, as thick as a forest, straight out of the water! Along with greenery, however, comes vermin, and my skin is a mess of small bites. Further exacerbating matters is the humid, unhealthful quality of the air. It is... miasmic. One feels as if one is breathing in soup. I find it little wonder that these people are in need of servants; they overwork the help they do have and needs must lose great quantities of slaves to disease.
It is in this way that I think we can be most helpful to them. They are in need of opium and other goods, certainly, but it is labor which they most require. The trouble is that they are curiously particular as to the color of their servants. I am led to understand that they accept only the local savages, like our boy Shadow, and black Africans. I cannot quite fathom why a region so in need of farm hands should be so damnably picky, and yet they are. I shall have to ask them about indentures; I have heard they are somewhat more flexible on the subject of indentured men and women. Perhaps we can send them some criminals.
To help me to better determine the health of the crops and to learn new farming methods, please ask Uncle Rowan to send or bring his farm girl, Celia. She has a remarkable talent for greenery. Also, in the meantime, consider what we can do to gather fewer Christian Europeans. They are unaccountably opposed to that particular brand of livestock in this region.
Your Son,
--Dr. Michael Alexander Luke Marawi, Pashazada--
Mansur Marawi, visiting Antiquity Finlanda
Dear Sir:
I trust that all is well back home? Dr. Larkham and I arrived safely at our destination and have enjoyed unseasonably cold weather. While the locals may lament the cold snap, I, for one, am delighted! On our first evening here, I met my first reindeer and, later, tasted the same. The meat was sweeter than lamb, perhaps a tad gamier, and I shall attempt to bring some home as jerky or salted or perhaps smoked, however it will best travel. The night brought with it my first glimpse of the famous northern lights. They are astounding, fiery slivers and jags of color that seem to billow and shine. Words cannot describe the scene, so I have endeavored to paint it. I send a few rough watercolors enclosed.
Our next trip was inland, up the mountains. I found the hiking very taxing, as you might imagine. Did you know that snow is slippery? Of course you did; you grew up with snow. I did not. Everyone neglected to inform me that, in addition to being wet and white and cold, the stuff is also beastly hard to get a foothold in. The clearing at the top was worth the effort, however, for we arrived at a white slice of paradise. Neither words nor paints can do justice the beauty that I found atop that mountain. Luke slipped once and I had to catch him, but he is unharmed. That is another thing worth the mentioning: ice, too, is slippery. It is especially so when allowed to form on bridges.
The cold is most disagreeable to my person and the clothes are uncomfortable. I miss my sand and heat and caftans. The people at the marketplace were an odd bunch, mostly children. The language I find a jumble incomprehensible babble. Be that as it may, I have seen snow and the northern lights and I am the richer for it.
Now, then, enough of my little holiday abroad. How are you? How fares the city? I know you were of two minds with regard to my leaving, so I thank you heartily for 'holding down the fort,' as it were, in my absence. Pray send my love and well wishes to those back home.
Your Friend,
--Sir Mansur Marawi Pasha--
Enclosed:
The Northern Lights:
Snow:
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I am an admin at The Barbary Coast, a Second-Life role playing simulation open since the summer of 2009. We are set sometime in the 1700s, with time being relatively fluid, and take place along a northern stretch of African shoreline. Roles are varied. A plethora of options from vulnerable shipwreck victims to pacifist physicians to mercenary knights to bloodthirsty outlaws are available. We are a thriving port city and, as such, we welcome citizens of all nations except Japan (whose borders were closed during our time period). A mixture of text-based para-rp and light metered combat is employed.
We would love to take part in cross-sim rp and to join the other 18th century role playing communities in Second Life and beyond. It is our supreme pleasure to meet and mingle with those from other rp environments within our period. Please let me know if you would like to send or receive an official ambassador or delegation.
S lurl:
http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Hunters%20XVI/88/193/32
Today is Ada Lovelace Day , a celebration of women in science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM). It aims to increase the profile of women in STEM and, in doing so, create new role models who will encourage more girls into STEM careers and support women already working in STEM.
Ada Lovelace is a fascinating woman, credited with being the first computer programmer back in the 1830s!
Don Aldo Stern, senior Magistrate for the Island of Rocca Sorrentina in the Sorrento district of the Kingdom of Napoli stood at the end of the new structure. Oddly enough, after just a few months of weathering during the construction, it had already acquired an apparent patina of age. But then of course, it was built mostly with salvaged materials scrounged from the far side of the island, and other old stone, iron banding and bollards brought down by His Majesty's engineers from the royal yards at Castellammare. That was the main reason it went up so quickly: the stone was already cut and dressed, and there was the remains of the foundation of the mole that had been built by the Elswitts when they held title to the island. Once the support and interest of King Ferdinando was squarely behind the project, the actual construction was relatively straightforward. "Everything in life should be so simple," thought the magistrate.
That original mole had been demolished not long before Don Aldo had come to the island, some six years ago. Il Principe had devised a plan to expand the size of the harbor, which had been carried out in his absence, while he went on that fateful trip to the new World. Boulders had been placed to create a breakwater, the harbor had been dredged, a fine stone dock added right by the grand arch, and the old mole was level to permit larger ships into the older part of the labor by the roman steps.
The only problem was larger ships hadn't used that space as intended. Instead, the biggest ships anchored out in the new harbor, sheltered from the winds by the little island with the former harbormaster's house where Donna Sere now resided, and under the protection of the heavy guns of the "nuova fortezza." They also had more room to maneuver out there: the old inner harbor was fairly confined. Smaller ships did alright, but as the economy of the island kept improving and more vessels stopped to exchange cargoes and discharge or take on passengers, more dock space was needed. So the council of magistrates of Rocca Sorentina had devised the plan to rebuild the old mole...now the "new mole"...or was it perhaps best called the "new old mole?"
Well, either way, it hopefully would serve trade well, and it certainly looked fine...it was not the biggest such structure, even among the smaller coastal communities around the bay, and certainly looked tiny when compared to the great mole in Napoli, but it had been finished off nicely and seemed like it would serve its purpose well.
And standing out at its end and looking back to the island, it certainly provided an excellent and appealing new view of the village...
Don Aldo looked up at the ancient campanile of the church, and the charming, asymmetrical jumble of houses, including his own odd little villa with the off-centered porch, grape vines, and arbor made from salvaged ship's timbers. The west side of the village looked as if some irresponsible giant child had casually dumped toy houses and blocks at random on a sand pile at the beach, and then wandered off, leaving the mess to eventually be collected by some long-suffering but infinitely patient giant governess or nanny.
As the setting sun made the little houses and ancient stones glow with warmth, the magistrate was once again struck that it was perhaps one of the most beautiful locales he had seen during the course of his travels, and certainly stood out as his own personal favorite place on the planet.
As I sat on the bench near the garden, trying to stop my heart from beating out of my breast, I contemplated the pure absurdity of belief in any closed door staying closed.
I had grieved, and then resolutely moved on, after his departure. No, perhaps not with anyone but myself but that had been enough. I had grown stronger -- or so I believed. And yet, here I was, drawn back in time... or, more to the point, to all of the times.
To the day in the driving rain, peering through a veil of stormy obscurity; seeking out the face that had haunted me from my first vision of it.
To the unexpected introduction near the lake at the family estate.
To the plans, the secret meetings, the scent of lavender and grass when we would meet.
And, alas, to the courtyard in Belgium when I had believed that door not only closed, but bolted tightly and bricked up.
Yet, here laying on the book in my lap across a page of prose, lay a calling card.
"Edward Stafford"
My maid had met me after I arrived in the carriage. The roads had been very dusty and I swiped at my skirts, peeling my gloves from my hand as she held out the silver tray. On it, a single card.
It seemed that the walls first closed in, and then stretched outward. I barely heard her voice asking if I was feeling alright.
I glanced back at the house, realizing that I had just tread the same steps that he had; how long ago?
Edward Stafford. In my home while I was away. Edward.
His name pealed in my mind like the largest bell of any cathedral and a knot grew in my throat. The heated tears rising and then cascading down my cheeks as I sat in the waning light, the scent of lavendar and grass pervading my senses.
Whitehall
April 1666
Dearest Rose,
It seems months since I have written, but a lifetime of events have occurred since! First, Stephen arrived home unhurt at the end of March after that skirmish with the Dutch. He surprised me by showing up at the Banqueting House during the Gods and Goddesses Ball and took me in his arms. A lovely end to the evening.
For me, at least. Our dear Queen Catherine lost the baby she has so hoped for and then her mother died, so we all donned more somber colors in mourning. I took private pleasure in seeing how lovely and fresh Mrs. Frances Stuart looked and how pale and unkempt Lady Castlemaine looked without her paint and powder.
Whitehall in spring blooms with intrigue and new arrivals. The Duke and Duchess of Hamilton have come to stay in the palace, and the Queen Mother has also come to visit her son, I presume. At a recent gathering, she took ill and was quickly attended in the Queen's chambers. Upon recovering, she blamed the Protestants for her illness
I fear my ward Elizabeth Malet may soon be remanded back to her stepfather, as she has fallen in with bad company, namely John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester. I know that she sneaks about with him though she demurs in acknowledging it. Too many people have informed me otherwise, though I have yet to mention it to Stephen. He already thinks poorly of Rochester.
On a brighter note, Stephen also returned with trunks and crates of glorious fabric taken from a Dutch ship. Our dressmakers have been busy creating gorgeous gowns, styled with elements of French, Italian, and Dutch design, all to create a very English look in our Court! Naturally, I get my pick of them first, but I also offer them to the Queen and Frances too.
Stephen has been down to the docks and Whitehall every day this week and I fear it means he will be returning to sea shortly. He speaks of us sailing to Ireland to assess his family's landholdings the King restored when he was made Earl, but I've no desire to leave London anytime soon, especially with the King's birthday celebration on 21 May.
Now, for the news I have not even hinted at, but eager to reveal: Castlemaine is banished! She angered the King over a matter I do not know of, but it was enough for him to order her to her husband's country estate for an indefinite period! Perhaps I am too giddy, as I myself was sent from Court for a few days for publicly posting a rude verse about Castlemaine by that Rochester, but that has subsided in the wake of her breach with the King.
I must close, Rose dearest. I long to see you soon!
your sister,
Margaret
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