Genre: Fiction, Romance,
Historical, Alternative History
Release Date: March 13, 2014
Digital ISBN 10: 1631120093 ISBN-13:978-1-63112-009-1
Print ISBN 10:1631120107 ISBN-13:978-1-63112-010-7
The Copper Witch:
“Ambition or Love”
Adela Tilden has always been more ambitious than her station
in life might allow. A minor nobleman’s daughter on a failing barony, Adela’s
prospects seem dire outside of marrying well-off. When Adela catches the eye of
the crown prince, Edward, however, well-off doesn’t seem to be a problem.
Thrown into a world of politics and intrigue, Adela might have found all the
excitement she ever wanted—if she can manage to leave her past behind.
About Jessica Dall:
Jessica Dall finished her first novel at age 15 and been
writing ever sense. She is the author of such novels as
Grey Areas and
The Bleeding
Crowd and a number of short stories which have appeared in both literary
magazines and anthologies. When not writing, she works as a freelance editor
and creative writing teacher in Washington, DC.
How to find Jessica Dall:
Twitter: @JessicaDall
Excerpt of The Copper Witch:
Adela Tilden held as still as she could
force herself to be, her eyes sliding over every now and again to study the man
sitting in front of her.
Antony looked up from the easel and
released a breath through his nose. “Hold still.”
“I am,” she said, barely moving her
mouth.
He gave her a dark look.
Adela exaggerated a sigh, dropping her
eyes again to the side, staring at the same patch of grey stone as she had been
for what felt like years. “I want to see what you’re doing.”
“You’ll see when I’m done.”
She fidgeted, glancing at her dress.
“Can’t we make the neckline just a little lower?”
“Your grandmother doesn’t like it as it
is,” Antony droned, the same answer yet again.
“Well, of course she doesn’t,” Adela
said, barely refraining from rolling her eyes and getting yelled at again.
“Drop your shoulder a little,” he
directed, “and hold still.”
So she’d get yelled at either way, it
seemed. Adela shifted, still attempted to freeze.
Antony shook his head, running a
frustrated hand through his brown hair. “No, drop…not… You know what?” He moved
to her.
Adela watched him carefully, making no
effort to help as he straightened the line of the dress where it stopped around
her shoulders. If a little too thin to be called well built, she had to admit
Antony was an attractive man with his dark eyes and square jaw. It was a shame
he had staged her looking away. She wouldn’t have minded the excuse to spend
her time studying him right back.
He pressed her shoulder down lightly
with the end of his paintbrush. “Can you hold that now?”
Her eyes remained on his face. “It’s
hardly acrobatics.”
Antony’s eyes flicked up as he offered a
weak smile, sliding away just as quickly as he adjusted the oblong pearl in the
headpiece Adela’s grandmother had pulled out just for the occasion. He paused,
finally moved a strand of the hair that had been left out of the braids at her
crown and placed it over her shoulder. He stepped back, looking at her just a
little bit too long, starting when he met her eyes. “There. Much better.”
The way he backed away, almost making it
look like a retreat, made Adela smile. She watched Antony settle himself before
tilting her head back the way it had been. “I don’t understand why Grandmamma
wants a portrait of me anyway. It’s not as if anyone is going to see it. No one
ever comes out here, you know. I’m surprised you’re here and you’re paid to be.”
“She’s trying to make sure that no one
gets any funny ideas about your financial situation, I believe, Miss Tilden.”
Antony didn’t look away from the easel.
“Even if they’re completely correct.”
Adela heaved a sigh.
“Stop moving.”
She couldn’t help glancing again,
looking away when he glared. “How old are you, Antony?”
He paused momentarily. “Does that
matter?”
“I was just curious,” she said. “You’re
much younger than the painters we used to have come here.”
“I’m not as well-seasoned as them, I
would think,” he said. “And I imagine I’m quite a bit cheaper.”
“Oh.” She fought away a smile. “So I
shouldn’t be surprised when my nose comprises the better part of my face,
then?”
“I think I’m skilled enough to keep that
from happening,” Antony answered, continuing under his breath, “Anyway, if I
were going to make a feature too large it would much more likely be your eyes.”
Her eyes slid over to him again.
He met them for a second before looking
away sharply. “Stay still.”
“You just started painting, then?” She
looked down and away again.
“I’ve been painting my entire life,” he
said, seeming relieved. “Just finished my apprenticeship a year or so ago.”
“So you’re what then?” Adela did the
math in her head. “Twenty? Twenty-One?”
“Something like that.”
She smiled. “You don’t know which one?”
“Relax your face.”
She took a breath, forced off the smile.
“Is it a secret?”
Exasperation leeched into his voice. “Is
what?”
“Your age.”
He released a breath. “I just don’t see
how it’s relevant.”
“I asked,” she said. “That doesn’t make
it relevant enough?”
“I don’t believe that’s the way it
works, Miss Tilden.”
She shifted. “Can I please move?
I’m going to freeze in this position if
I have to keep it up much longer.”
Antony set down his brush, holding his
hands up, motioning his surrender. “We can take a break.”
Adela rolled her shoulders, standing
quickly to stretch her legs. She turned. “Can I see now?”
He looked up from straightening his
paints.
“I’d like to see how you’re painting
me,” she continued at his silence.
Antony hesitated. “I prefer people not
to see what I’m painting until I’m done.”
She moved closer. “I’m paying for it.
I’d think you’d want to know if I’m unsatisfied in any way.”
He opened his mouth, cleared his throat
before starting. “Your grandmother’s paying for it, Miss Tilden. Maybe I should
show her.”
Adela pouted. “Please?”
He looked at her for another moment.
Finally, sighing, he backed up for her to take a look.
Adela moved quickly, her soft slippers
barely making a sound on the stone floor. And the painting slid into view.
Unlike the other china-doll portraits in the manor—with every inch of the women
in them softened, pale—the picture in front of her looked as though he had
taken her reflection and pressed it onto the canvas. She studied herself, fascinated for a moment
before collecting herself. She pulled herself straight. “You’re using a lot of
red in my hair.”
His eyes lifted to her scalp. “Well,
there is a lot of red in your hair, Miss Tilden.”
She twirled a strand absentmindedly
around her finger, and didn’t dispute it.
“Satisfied?” he finally asked.
“You are quite talented,” she said,
looked from the painting to him. “I don’t think you have my lips quite right,
though.”
“No?”
She picked up the mirror on the mantel,
studying her face before looking back at him. “Don’t you think? My bottom lip
is fuller.”
He looked at her lips for a moment, slid
his eyes away, nodding. “I’ll fix it when you sit back down.”
She looked at her reflection for another
moment before tilting the mirror down to fix the neckline of her dress. “This
was the dress I wore to my mother’s funeral, you know.”
Antony started, mouth working as he
searched for something to say. “Oh.”
“It’s been altered, of course.” She
played with the gold thread that had been used to embroider the swirling
pattern along the bodice. “But Grandmamma insisted that black was the proper
color for a portrait, and I doubt we would have been able to get new silk, so
she recycled this one.”
“Oh,” Antony repeated.
“I have to say, I like it better this
way.” She leaned back against the wall sliding her hands down the skirt.
Antony coughed, looked at the windows.
“We’re not going to have the light much longer. As soon as the sun…we’ll have
to stop for the night.”
Adela sighed dramatically, looking at
the high windows around the gaping hall. “How much longer do you think it’s
going to be?”
“Not long. I’m almost done with what I need
you for. I can do the background alone.”
She nodded slowly, studying him.
He met her eyes before once again
looking away. “What?”
“Where did you learn to paint?”
He shook his head. “I told you, I’ve
always painted.”
“Was your father a painter?”
Antony pressed his lips together.
“Soldier, actually.”
“Ah,” Adela said. “Second son?”
Antony shrugged.
“What’s your last name?”
“I don’t think I was hired to help you
figure out my life story, Miss Tilden.” Antony finally looked back at her.
“I’m just curious.” Adela shrugged
innocently. “If you were able to apprentice as a painter obviously you aren’t
from a farming family.”
He shook his head, straightening his
brushes awkwardly. “Fletcher.”
Adela tilted her head. “Any relation to
Thurston Fletcher?”
“None,” he said, voice curt. “Think
you’ve stretched out enough to let me finish?”
She smiled at the joke he didn’t seem to
catch. “Maybe.”
He motioned to the stool. “Whenever
you’re ready, Miss Tilden.”
All business once again, Adela’s smile
dropped as she settled on her stool. “You could call me Adela, you realize. No
need for all the formality.”
“I’m more comfortable with ‘Miss Tilden’
if it’s all the same to you,” he said, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t presume the
familiarity.”
“You wouldn’t be presuming anything. I
said you could,” she said. “I call you Antony. I didn’t even know your last
name until a few moments ago.”
“Your family is quite a bit more
important than mine, Miss Tilden.” He took his seat. “There’s no reason for you
to know my family.”
She scoffed. “I’m living in the middle
of nowhere, alone, save my grandmother who hasn’t been further than our front
gates since my mother passed.” Adela looked up at the ceiling. “God rest her
soul. I’m surprised anyone remembers us at all.”
“You do own Penrith,” he said.
“Also known as the entirety of
three-dozen people and five-thousand sheep.” She let out an exasperated sigh
when he didn’t answer. “Am I sitting properly?”
“Turn a little towards me,” he directed,
finally looking up. “Relax your hand.”
“Like this?”
He nodded. “Head down. Right there. You
can hold that?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have been for
two days.”
He didn’t answer, returning to the
painting.
“Whom have you painted before?” she
asked.
“Mostly models,” Antony said.
“Were they pretty?” Adela asked.
Antony’s cheek twitched. “If you want me
to get your mouth right you’re going to have to stop moving it, Miss Tilden.”
She released a breath, froze, staying
still as long as she could stand the silence. Her eyes flicked toward him.
“Well, were they?”
“Miss Tilden,” he snapped.
“It’s just a question, Antony.”
He groaned, the sound coming from the
back of his throat before he finally answered in a more civilized, if still
strained, tone, “Were they what?”
“Pretty,” she said. “The models.”
He painted a few more strokes. “I
suppose. Some of them.”
“Only some?” she asked.
“Well, we need to know how to paint
non-pretty people too.”
“That can’t be fun.” Her nose crinkled.
“Staring at ugly people for days on end.”
“Hold still.”
She sighed, complying for barely a
second before continuing, “Do you think I’m
pretty?”
He frowned. “I hardly think I’m
qualified to judge, Miss Tilden.”
“You’ve seen plenty of both, I’m sure,”
she said. “Am I closer to the pretty models or the ugly ones?”
He released a slow breath. “You are
attractive, in my opinion, Miss Tilden.”
She smiled.
“Miss Tilden,” he snapped.
The smile dropped without having to be
told. She tapped her foot under her dress for a moment. “What’s it like having
a job, Antony?”
He let out a loud, exasperated sigh,
resting his pallet in his lap. “What?”
“I’ve never worked,” she said.
“You’re young.” He waited, only
continuing when she didn’t speak again. “And I doubt you need to.”
“It probably wouldn’t hurt around here.”
She puffed out her cheeks, stopping before he could snap again. “Though my
grandmother would rather die in the poorhouse than let me work, I’m sure.”
He hummed, eyes back on the painting.
“And I’m not that young,” she added.
“Young enough,” he said.
She studied him out of the corner of her
eyes, glancing away each time he looked up. The brush moved quickly, Antony
barely seeming to think before he made the next line. She half wanted to be on
the other side of the easel watching how he painted rather than stuck on her
stool across the room. The silence stretched on, every movement of the brush
seeming amplified as he refused to speak. “You’re rather boring, you know
that?”
“I’m not paid to be entertaining,”
Antony answered quickly.
“Obviously.”
The silence returned, long enough this
time Adela began to doubt he would answer at all, then the sound of brushes
being set on his small table. Adela turned her head to look at him.
He didn’t look back. “I think I have
what I need.”
She frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Very.”
She stood, looking at him for a long
moment. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Antony?”
He glanced up, then away. “No. Why?”
“You never look me in the eyes.”
“That’s a sign of respect, isn’t it?”
“Maybe a hundred years ago.” She
scoffed. “Seems dishonest to me.”
He looked at her, straight on, nearly
seeming to squirm. “You have very…interesting eyes, Miss Tilden.”
She smiled. “Runs in my family, don’t
you know? My mother’s side.”
“I know, in…” he led off.
“You can say it,” she said. “Just
because we’re far enough removed that they forget about us doesn’t mean we
don’t talk about our dear royal family.”
“Your mother,” he said. “From a long
line of mothers.”
“Yes, it’s all very maternal,” Adela
droned. “And why I’m out here on a small tract of nothing rather than in
Carby.”
“You’re still nobility,” Antony said
quietly.
“But not noble enough to even be called
‘Lady’.” Adela pouted. “I’m just ‘The Honorable Miss Tilden’.”
“Most people would be thrilled at being
able to put ‘honorable’ in front of their name,” Antony said.
“In all due respect Antony.” She crossed
her arms. “I’m not most people.”
He looked at her, finally managing to
hold her eyes with some degree of fortitude. “So what’s your plan then, Miss
Tilden? Find yourself a prince to marry?”
Her smile returned. “I’d be happy with a
marquess. Maybe an earl in a pinch. No need for a prince.”
“Well, you have that royal blood. You
have that going for you.” He looked at the portrait.
“True.” She looked at her wrists,
studying the blue veins just under the skin. “Just not nearly enough of it to
be of any use to me.”
Antony tilted his head to the side,
looking at the painting from another angle before looking back up at her. “I
mean no offense, Miss Tilden, but I don’t think I’m the one to whom you should
be complaining about your family.”
“You could always claim you’re related
to Thurston Fletcher,” Adela said. “He was knighted recently.”
“I’m sure he’d love that.”
“Or you could make friends with someone
important and see if they could get you
knighted,” she suggested.
“I have no desire to be Sir Antony
Fletcher, Miss Tilden” Antony said. “I’ll leave such ambitions to you.”
“I don’t want to be a knight.” Adela
smirked. “That would be a step down.”
He frowned. “You know what I meant, Miss
Tilden.”
She still smirked, looking him over.
“You have no ambition then, Antony?”
He shook his head, wiping off one of his
brushes.
“None whatsoever?”
“I’m quite content as I am, Miss
Tilden.”
“Would you turn it down if someone
offered it?”
“There are already two Sir Fletchers in
my family.” He gave a tight smile. “I believe my father and brother have that
title more than covered.”
“You can’t seriously tell me you would turn down the chance for the title,”
Adela insisted.
“You don’t need to sit around here, Miss
Tilden.” He went to straightening his paints, not looking at her. “I can finish
this simply enough.”
“I don’t have anywhere better to go,”
Adela said. “Sadly you’re some of the most interesting human interaction to be
had around here.”
“Lucky me,” he said, sarcasm breaking
through. He quickly reined himself back in. “You really don’t have anything
better to do?”
“I’d just be in my room, reading or
sewing more than likely.” Adela picked at a piece of lint on her hip. “And as
much as I do love Lettice, there’s only so long one can talk to the same person
before everything becomes a chore.”
“Lettice?” he asked
“My chambermaid,” she said. “Though
these days she’s somewhere between a lady’s maid and chambermaid. She’s the one
who did my hair.”
Antony nodded, silent.
