Happy Holidays: A Scandalous Rumor on Christmas Eve

For the past couple of years I've written Christmas short stories for blogger Dani's holiday celebration. This year my designated theme (I do like an assignment!) was A SCANDALOUS RUMOR ON CHRISTMAS EVE.  The story of Alice and Amville finds a more permanent home here.

A SCANDALOUS RUMOR ON CHRISTMAS EVE

Monday

“My dear,” Lady Chatterby said to her Aunt Maria who was growing a little deaf. “Did you hear that the younger Kilpatrick girl is increasing?”

“Alice?”

“No, the married one. Annabel.”

Tuesday

“Alice Kilpatrick is with child.”

“Don’t you mean Annabel?”

“No, the elder girl.”

Wednesday

Miss Lawson was taking tea with her best friend Lady Susan. “Miss Kilpatrick …” Then she lowered her voice because one could not speak of such shocking things aloud.

Thursday

At Boodle’s Club young Lord Helmsley and his three boon companions were into their fifth bottle. “M’sister Susan tells me that Alice Kilpatrick has raised her petticoats and dropped her drawers with the predictable result.”

Friday, at White’s

“Alice Kilpatrick is a slut.”

***

Saturday, Christmas Eve

Although Mrs. Kilpatrick had been confined all week with a cold, she heroically arose from her bed of pain to chaperone her daughter to the Countess of Porton’s Christmas Eve ball. No trifle like a sniffle would keep her from her triumph: Sir James Banfield, a Buckinghamshire baronet, had asked permission to pay his addresses to her elder daughter. And Alice, the choosiest daughter to ever afflict a mother, had finally agreed to accept a proposal.

Tonight, at the ripe age of four-and-twenty, Alice would achieve that summit of every girl’s ambitions: a good match. There was nothing wrong with Sir James and everything right: the right age (thirty), the right income (twenty thousand a year), the right county (his estate was less than thirty miles from that of her sister Annabel’s husband). Even the right looks. For a young unmarried man of good fortune he was a veritable Adonis. Most of them looked like toads.

Alice was a lucky girl to have attracted his attention. Everyone agreed, including Sir James. Especially Sir James. He might propose to her on bended knee, but Alice had a feeling she was the one who should be in the supplicant position. Along with everyone in London, he thought she was getting the best of the bargain.

The Porton ball was a sad crush. Alice and her mother–her father had been delayed by government business–were stuck at the foot of the handsome staircase, waiting for the throng of guests to greet the hosts on the landing and disperse, like chicks released from the coop, into the rooms beyond. Sir James was ahead of them, almost at the top. He offered an admirable view of well-shaped shoulders, in a neat but conservative coat of dark blue superfine, and perfectly cropped hair. Even his ears were tidy. When he turned to answer a remark from an acquaintance he exhibited a classical profile and an air of self-consequence.

“Such a handsome man,” Mrs. Kilpatrick said.

“Indeed.” Alice wished she felt more enthusiastic about the betrothal that would be concluded and announced tonight. She needed to be married. Her younger sister was expecting her second child. Very soon the dreaded word spinster would be attached to her and she might even, perish the thought, be expected to wear a cap. If only Sir James made her heart dance, her skin tingle, and her belly glow.

Lost in dispiriting reflection on the stolid nature of her emotions, she had failed to notice the whispering that, from years of experience at London assemblies, told her there was scandal afoot. A certain quality in the ambient sound always meant trouble for someone. It wasn’t hard to guess the subject of tonight’s gossip. The Marquess of Amville had been grist to the scandal mill for as long as Alice had been out, and longer. He was accepted in the ton, barely, because of his rank, wealth and connections, but not everyone received him.

Her mother did not approve.

“Tsk tsk,” Mrs. Kilpatrick said. “I believe Lady Porton is his godmother so he had to be invited. I wish people wouldn’t bother.”

Amville leaned against the bannister at the very top of the staircase. He stood out from the fashionable company by wearing his coat unbuttoned, his neckcloth askew, and his smile devilish. A lock of gold-streaked hair tumbled over his brow. As always, Alice couldn’t stop looking at him.

She’d danced with Amville in her second season. She’d never before or since had a partner for the waltz that whirled her around the floor with such exuberance, or made her laugh so much. Then an affair with the wife of the Chancellor of the Exchequer had him dropped from government guest lists and they met only occasionally. Somehow they always managed to exchange a few words. Five minutes in his company made everyone else seem flat and colorless. With him the most banal topic seemed new, and she also felt they’d known each other forever. His presence now brightened the prospects for a dull evening.

Dull? What was she thinking? This was the evening in which she was supposed to celebrate her engagement.

“Stop staring at him,” her mother hissed. “I do believe he came out this evening without shaving.”

It was true. The shadow on his chin made him even more raffish, also more alluring. He turned and noticed her for the first time. A meeting of the eyes, a shared smile, and the yards of air in between them seemed to crackle.

Her heart danced, her skin tingled, and her belly glowed.

***

Alice Kilpatrick was the only reason Amville attended these affairs. Nothing in life, jaded by endless debaucheries, gave him greater pleasure than their brief, innocent encounters. She was lovely tonight, a deep green silk setting off her dark hair and bright complexion. She always glowed with life and joy. For the hundredth, no thousandth, time he tormented himself with thoughts of what might have been. If only after that first waltz he’d set out to court her as she deserved. If only he hadn’t already been involved with the Chancellor’s wife. If only they had not been discovered in virtual flagrante delicto at the Prime Minister’s garden party. If only Mr. Kilpatrick were not a respected member of the government. If only….

Yet what was the use? He’d been doomed long before, steeped in inevitable infamy and vice through his upbringing in the household of his uncle, a man of reputation so deservedly foul that even Lady Porton wouldn’t have him in the house. When he’d died of a seizure in a low brothel no one had mourned him, least of all his nephew.

Yet Amville had to live with his uncle’s legacy, making it impossible for him to aspire to the hand of London’s brightest jewel, the daughter of the incorruptible Kilpatrick. Word was she’d accepted Banfield, a dry stick of a man who’d never permit his wife to maintain the slightest acquaintance with a dissolute marquess. Tonight might be the last in which he would enjoy those precious five or ten minutes with Alice, dizzied by her voice and scent, yearning to possess what he could never even touch.

He gazed down at her with an ache in the area of his heart. Yet that organ could not be so affected for it had long since been atrophied by the senselessness of life. 

He took his time before he approached her, endured the dreary assembly for an hour, enjoying the anticipation of a few minutes’ happiness. Passing through Lady Porton’s suite of reception rooms, he was aware of voices rising in surprise and falling in pretended horror, the shocked intake of breath and the deliciously appalled laughter. In short, the familiar sound of scandal.

There was something different tonight. Instead of falling silent at his approach, the outrage reached him, like surf washing up on a beach. Tonight he was not the object of the gossip.

When he heard what was being said he was incredulous and then, for the first time in his life, scandalized. How could they believe such things of Alice? Not that he would judge her–he always eschewed hypocrisy–but couldn’t these blind idiots see that she would never betray her betrothed? And poker-backed James Banfield would never anticipate his vows. Amville would wager his very considerable fortune that Alice Kilpatrick was neither impure nor pregnant.

He happened to see her just as she learned what was being said. Her eyes widened, a hand covered her mouth. Two ladies turned their backs on her and she looked as though she had received a mortal blow.

No one must be allowed to distress his Alice.

Protective hackles rose and he charged to the rescue, but Banfield reached her first. Amville stopped abruptly. It was her fiancé’s right to defend her against calumny.

“Miss Kilpatrick!” Banfield was bristling with indignation. “I am horrified at what I have heard.” Alice opened her mouth, but the baronet’s ire was not to be contained. “I demand to know if it is true.”

Distress turned to astonishment. “Of course it is not. I don’t know how such a rumor can have started.”

“I wonder too.” Banfield, who had been a priggish arse since Amville knew him at Harrow, folded his arms and looked down his nose. “You must have done something to give rise to such a report.”

“You believe it?”

“As they always say, there’s no smoke without fire.”

Her fists clenched and she appeared about to throw an unladylike punch and terminate her engagement, a move Amville would have applauded. But of course she did not. She would deny the charge, reason would prevail and her betrothal and eventual marriage would progress as planned.

Then he had an idea. A wicked idea. He shouldn’t, but resisting temptation had never been his strong suit. He took a deep breath and committed the most dishonorable act of a life filled with iniquity.

“My dear Alice,” he drawled, stepping up beside her and placing her hand on his arm. “Are you having trouble?”

She stared at the use of her Christian name, her pink mouth forming a kissable oval. He wouldn’t let her pull away. Her hand felt perfect there and he intended to keep it.

Sir James recovered his wits, or at least his voice. “Amville! You are Miss Kilpatrick’s debaucher and the father of her child.”

“Sir James!” she squeaked, still trying to escape.

“Whatever do you mean? I don’t believe for a minute that Alice is with child.” A small huff of breath told him she appreciated his defense. She stopped struggling and relaxed. Prematurely. He smiled nastily. “You see, Banfield, a wise man knows how to take precaution against accidents.”

Banfield sputtered, Alice gasped. Amville had made it impossible for the rumor to be put to rest. There wasn’t a soul in England who’d ever believe he hadn’t seduced her. Now for the coup de grace.

“I will, of course, be asking for Miss Kilpatrick’s hand in marriage.” He brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Better luck next time, Banfield.”

***

Alice was ruined. Yet a bubble of joy, hardly bigger than a mustard seed, formed in her heart. Did Amville mean his bizarre proposal? He wasn’t the marrying kind; if he were, she’d never have contemplated wedding Sir James. It came to her in a blaze of enlightenment that she’d turned down half a dozen perfectly eligible suitors because of one miraculous waltz in her second season.

Sir James stalked off in high dudgeon while other guests hovered, fascinated spectators of the drama. Amville was ghostly pale without a hint of his devil-may-care bravado and he held her so tightly her hand hurt.

“Come,” was all he said, and dragged her through the staring crowd. Her heart beat a tattoo as she tripped after him, brushing past friends, acquaintances and her horrified mother, into a small sitting room. Amville slammed the door and wedged a chair under the doorknob.

Breathing as though he’d run a mile, he put his hand on her shoulders, regarding her with anxious eyes. Mesmerized, she stroked the shadowed jaw. His dawning, devastating smile put her fears to rest. Her heart danced, her skin tingled, and she wanted to laugh out loud with joy.

Especially when he kissed her. This was no polite caress but the devouring possession she’d waited for all her life. He kissed her until her brain turned to wool and held her fast against him, body to hard body. Her belly didn’t merely glow; it burned.

All too soon he let her go. And, as expected that evening, a man got down on his knees before her. “Please marry me, Alice.” He looked humble, uncertain, supplicating. “By any standard I should make a wretched husband but you won’t find one who loves you more. I swear by whatever shreds of honor I possess to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

“Why have you never said anything?”

He shrugged. “My reputation, your father. But tonight I seized my chance. I believe even Mr. Kilpatrick will say you have no alternative. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”

“Only if you are.”

She swept the disorderly lock of hair from his forehead, with a delicious shiver that she was now permitted to touch him. “I’m glad.”

“You’ll have me then?”

“As long as you never go near the wife of any cabinet minister again.”

“To be on the safe side you’d better not leave me alone in the vicinity of Downing Street.” Humility had vanished and Lord Amville was back, and she didn’t care how wicked he was as long as he was only hers.

“And how shall we celebrate Christmas?” she asked

“If I have my way, we’ll spend the rest of the winter in bed, with the curtains closed.”

A Photo from the Old Country

I'm in England, visiting family, fighting jet lag, and finishing a book. This afternoon, after a trip to Tesco (a large grocery chain) I stopped by Gold Hill in Shaftesbury, a narrow steep street built along the ramparts of the ruined Shaftesbury Abbey.  This highly picturesque street has been much photographed - I've seen jigsaw puzzles of it in U.S. stores. It was featured in the 1967 film Far From the Madding Crowd.

Gorgeous Shawl

Natalie Garbett is an English costume expert with a smashing blog. Here she demonstrates the actual size of a Regency era shawl. Those ladies in white muslin needed something to keep them warm in the cold, damp climate.

Holiday Short Story: Three Dukes & A Baby

I wrote this short story for Rita and Dani's Historical Christmas Eve Celebration in which they invite authors for short pieces on assigned themes. I took a somewhat loose definition of the word duke!

 Three Dukes and A Baby

Jonathan Bradshaw hated dukes. To be specific he hated one duke.

The day a duke ruined his life he’d ended up face down in a ditch on the Scottish side of the border, stunned and aching from the beating he’d suffered at the hands of His Grace’s lackeys. The smell of whisky cut through the mud clogging his swollen nose. That was the last straw. His pocket flask, fully charged against the chill of a northern journey in early spring, had cracked. If he managed to lug his bruised body out of the dirt, he wouldn’t be able to console his bruised soul and broken heart with the Scottish breath of life.

Waiting for his miserable existence to evaporate along with his last source of comfort, he became aware of a faint lapping sound close to his ear. Then a tiny snuffle and a wet little tongue licking his cheek. Something else was chewing on his boot. The ignominy of ending his life a meal for rats lifted him out of his torpid despair. Rolling onto his arse he found himself surrounded by a trio of puppies. Funny little things, they were, with snub noses and floppy ears and madly wagging tails. They must have been abandoned since their breeding was, to put it kindly, indeterminate. He felt a kinship with the mongrels. Had he not also been rejected by the Duke of Windlesham for his lack of the proper parentage?

The creatures yelped with joy, butting their little heads against his legs and nuzzling his hands with wet noses. One of them demanded to be picked up. When he obliged a wet warmth trickled through his fingers.

The little devil had wet himself.

•••

Jonathan averted his eyes from his housekeeper’s festive sprig of holly and checked that the decanter was full. It was Christmas Eve, an occasion he’d dreamed of celebrating in his elegant hundred-year-old house with his wife. If he had a wife. The Duke of Windlesham said not, when he dragged his daughter from the Gretna Green smithy where the smith had just declared Mr. Jonathan Bradshaw and the Lady Anthea Winslow man and wife. A Scottish marriage apparently didn’t count unless it was consummated. As it happened the consummation had taken place, but before the ceremony. In any case, the question was moot. All efforts to find his bride had proved futile. Anthea had vanished from society, from her father’s many mansions, and, as far as Jonathan could discover, from the face of the earth.

So he’d returned to the estate he’d purchased in a vain attempt to impress the duke, who’d declared he’d never give his daughter to the son of a tradesman, however rich. Jonathan wasn’t in the habit of indulging alone, but tonight he intended to get rip roaring drunk.

Something was missing. Or rather three somethings.

“Dukes!” he called into the garden where moonlight glittered on frosted trees. “Come in boys!”

In his loathing for all things ducal, he’d decided to insult the highest rank of nobility by bestowing the title on his brood of curs. Clarence, who had a penchant for spirits, was named for the duke who was unfortunately drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine. Wellington was the boot chewer. And the dog who peed on him was honored with the title of Windlesham. But since he was fond of the little fellow, he usually just  called him Widdle. Except when he widdled.

“Clarence! Wellington! Widdle!” he shouted. Ill-bred yapping arose from the shrubbery. The dogs had either cornered a creature or found something vile-smelling to roll in. “Come, boys. If you stink it’s the stables for you, and not a bite of my supper.”

Jonathan’s amble across the lawn turned into a run when a new sound joined the cacophony of barks. Good Lord! A capacious basket wedged into the shelter of a rhododendron emitted the unmistakable howl of an angry baby.

In short order he carried the foundling inside. Without knowing much about infants, he was sure this one was very young. His ridiculously small and very red face was topped by a spindly mop of dark hair. With eyes screwed shut he emitted a level of noise astonishing for such a tiny body.

“Hey there,” he whispered, touched by such fragile helplessness. “What’s the matter?” Was he hungry, cold? Both? The only response was a continuing howl. “What do you want, little one?”

The child was tightly wrapped, a good idea outside, but his library had a good fire. He gently removed a blanket and loosened the swaddling. The perfection of the miniature hands tempted him to touch. Little fingers clutched at his giant one. The baby fell silent and regarded him with big, unfocused eyes.

The dukes sat around him, regarding him with adoring trust. He’d cared for them as orphaned babies and now it apparently fell to him to do the same for a human one. Reaching below the child’s bottom, he smiled. “Well, well,” he told the dogs. “We’ve acquired another widdler.”

His competent housekeeper, whom he’d previously dismissed for the night, responded to his ring. “Newborn, sir. I’ll take care of him and we can decide what to do tomorrow. The mother must be in a sad way to abandon her child at Christmas.”

“Bring him back here when you’ve made him comfortable.”

The infant had fallen under his protection and he’d care for it, as he would any one in need. But he felt more than casual charity for this waif. His company for Christmas was far more appealing than the bottle.

Her company, as the housekeeper informed him when she returned. “Ring again when she cries, sir. She’ll be hungry in the night. I’ve rigged up a bottle and teat for her but tomorrow she’ll need a wet nurse.”

“Show me what to do. I’ll see to her.”

For now the tiny girl slept peacefully while he watched. Dry napkins, a wet nurse, a foster mother. The needs of so helpless a creature were overwhelming. Perhaps he’d keep her. The notion surprised him. When he’d persuaded Anthea to elope with him to escape her arranged marriage, his mind had been possessed by love and earthy passion, the consequences of domesticity little regarded. He wondered if she had wed the middle-aged earl with his two dead wives and a rakish reputation. Surely he would have heard.

Unmanly tears prickled his eyes yet his heart was lighter. Fortune had brought him someone to care for, besides his trio of dukes.

He didn’t know how long he kept vigil. It was the dukes who disturbed the silence first, starting up from their sleeping heap of fur on the hearth rug. Distantly he heard the front door knocker. A glance at the mantle clock told him it was after midnight.

Christmas Day.

He opened the door to a pathetic and wondrous sight. She was bedraggled and shivering but he’d recognize her in a full face mask in the dark. His one and only love.

“Anthea!” he cried and she collapsed into his arms.

“Joanna? Do you have her? I put her down because I couldn’t carry her another step. I was coming to the house but I fainted. When I awoke she was gone.”

“She is safe, my love. Come.”

He lifted her up and bore her trembling body into the library. Her care was all for her daughter but he could wait.

Their daughter. He was a father.

“What happened?” he asked, when he had his wife curled in his lap in a large armchair, their child in her arms.

“Father kept me locked at his hunting box until the birth. He was going to take her away from me and I couldn’t bear it. Finally I found a way to escape and come to you. I’m sorry it took so long, Jonathan. I love you and I’ve never loved another.”

“Nothing matters now. I love you, I love Joanna, and we’re together.”

“I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”

He stroked her smooth dark head and drank in the lovely face he’d feared lost forever. Her cheek was chilled beneath his palm, as were the lips he traced with his thumb. Then he kissed her and felt nothing but warmth and the promise of a blissful future.

A tug on his boot interrupted the tender interlude. There was a puddle on the carpet, and one pair of eyes gazed longingly at the untouched decanter.

“My darling,” he said. “I must introduce you to the dukes.”

For my previous Christmas reads see A Gift For A Princess and A Deranged Marriage

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The Importance of Being Ernie

To celebrate the release of The Importance of Being Wicked tomorrow, my cat has made a video.

What I Saw in England

English gardens are famous, and June is when they are at their best. The roses in particular are spectacular. Instead of telling you about my recent trip, I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves. 

 

 If you want to see more, there are a few dozen on my Facebook page. Go to Photos and browse the albums England June 2012 and Another Wiltshire Garden.  (And if you feel like it, "Like" my page while you are there).

Extra Scene from Confessions from an Arranged Marriage

For lovers of Sebastian Iverley - or simply if you'd like to see a glimpse of his feud with Blake coming to an end - I've posted an extra scene that was cut from the book. Contains spoilers so better enjoyed if you've read Confessions. Here it is! I'd love to know what you think.

Ten things you should know about Confessions From an Arranged Marriage.

1. Minerva has political ambitions. But she isn’t anything like Margaret Thatcher, though I could see Meryl Streep playing her when Meryl was much younger.

2. Lord Blakeney gets up to no good in the library, something he has Cause to Regret.

3. In Paris things are much less proper, oo-la-la. Minerva and Blake go on a date.

4. You may hate Blake at first, but you’ll love him once you know his childhood secret.

5. Minerva isn’t always as clever as she thinks. Nothing like seeing Miss Smartypants taken down a peg or two.

6. Like all good heroes, Blake knows how to come to the rescue of a lady. Even when she gets herself into trouble.

7. There’s one thing to be said for jocks: they have stamina. Also excellent muscle tone.

8. Blake may not agree, but there ARE worse things than being a duke.

9. Minerva may not agree, but there ARE worse things than marrying a duke.

10.  Blake & Minerva manage to find their way to a rapturous conclusion, but don’t take my word for it. The book is out today in a bookstore or ebook reader near you!

A Contrast in Venuses

I enjoyed the comments when I posted the Goya Maja paintings here. I've drawn from elements of both these Titian portrayals of Venus in my current work in progress.  Which do you prefer, and why?

Venus and Cupid with an Organist

Venus of Urbino

Mini-Excerpt from Confessions From An Arranged Marriage

This brief snippet has already appeared on my Facebook page. It's a glimpse of the first meeting between Minerva and Blake in the book. (They already know each other quite well, to their mutual disgust.)

 ***

A gentleman staggered through the double doors and skidded on the polished parquetry floor. At a distance of twenty feet, Minerva saw the newcomer preserve his balance by grabbing the shoulders of a large-bosomed, open-mouthed matron. Swinging her aside, his backward slide was arrested by the wall. Without a hint of embarrassment he slouched against a pilaster and scowled at the assembly.

He was as gorgeous as ever. A lock of dark blond hair with glints of gold flopped over a noble brow. No nose had ever been more perfectly carved, no jaw as firmly etched. The shapely mouth was full, sensuous and sulky, matching the expression in his dusky blue eyes.

He’d always been a handsome devil but the sight of him filled Minerva with disgust.

Lord Blakeney had arrived.

Surveying the room, his glance came to rest on her. His lips twisted into a derisive half smile and their eyes met in mutual displeasure. He shoved his back away from the wall and ambled over to her

“Our dance, I believe, Miss Montrose.” He hadn’t changed a bit.

Minerva felt a strong desire to slap his arrogant face. “Lord Blakeney,” she said with the merest hint of a curtsey. “I believe our dance was over half an hour ago.”

“This one will do just as well.”

 ***

Confessions from an Arranged Marriage releases March 27, 2012.  I will post a longer excerpt in about a month.

A "Bold Piece"

The book I'm writing now involves a lot of research into the art of the period, something I enjoy very much. I thought I'd share this pair of Goya portraits from the Prado Museum: The Naked Maja (c. 1797-1800) and The Clothed Maja (ca. 1803). The model may have been the Duchess of Alba, rumored to be the artist's lover. She certainly looks like a very sexy woman.  By the way, I love the lace-trimmed pillows, but doesn't the nude appear to be occupying a Lazy-Boy recliner?

How I Name Characters

I’m doing a lot of it these days. I’m well into my next book and it’s the first of a brand new series. Each character–major or minor, hero or butler–has to be named. So does every village, house, and street. It’s exhausting. I have a lot of ??? in the manuscript, indicating a name to be named later.

When I name a character, the first thing I consider is his/her parents. Who were they and what were they thinking come christening time? I try and come up with something period appropriate, but if I was being realistic the odds are most characters would be named John or George, Jane or Mary. So I branch out a bit and search for names that were in use during the period and are suitable for the character’s background. And of course the name must suit the character. The heroine of The Dangerous Viscount was originally named Marianne. But she just wasn’t a Marianne. Half way through the writing process I sat down with a yellow pad and wrote down names until I hit on Diana. Her younger sister had been Arabella, but I decided her father had a thing for goddesses and Arabella became Minerva.

If a name is unusual, I usually explain it in the book. The heroine of my first book, Never Resist Temptation, was named Jacobin. Her English mother named her for King James I, the founder of her family fortune. Her French father, a moderate revolutionary, appreciated the irony that she was named for the extreme party.

But I don’t believe I ever explained how Tarquin Compton, hero of The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton, got his name. The truth is, I’m not sure. I know how I settled on his surname (not an interesting story) but Tarquin? WTF? Tarquin has been with me for a long time. He was the hero’s best friend in my first book, a work of genius that will remain forever unpublished. When I jettisoned the book and the hero, I kept Tarquin. By the time I wrote his book he was so real to me I didn’t worry about his name. There was no way I would change it. I could say his father had a passion for Roman history, but it doesn’t seem right. Besides, the Roman Tarquin was a bit of a rapist (see picture above). What I now know about the older Mr. Compton is much more down to earth. Since hindsight is 20-20 I shall now disclose that his mother had a futuristic dream about Lawrence Olivier and decided to name her son after his son. No? Never mind.