Reds and oranges paint a late summer sky over Lexington, Kentucky. Under the ash trees lining both sides of a recently raked gravel drive, an athletic, dark-skinned man jumps down from the driver’s seat of a Landau carriage. He moves with a grace that belies his 43 years. In two fluid moves he lowers the left side step for the passengers inside. The tricky twilight shadows hide a wry smile. His strong, callused hand reaches up to help Mistress Blakeney down from the enclosed passenger’s compartment.
“Very comfortable trip, Henry. I’ll remember to put in a good word with the stable overseer when we get back.” Marguerite winks from under her wide brimmed hat, voice dripping with charm and privilege. The next words come barely above a whisper, “Very good driving, especially for a free-born genius, Henry. No, don’t break costume! Just… Thank you.”
“My pleasure, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.” His reply is pitched up, just enough to be audible over the string quartet on the front porch.
The coach rocks on its well-oiled leaf springs barely making a sound. The carriage house crew has done its job to specification. Sir Percy makes his entrance without their squealing, groaning fanfare.
“Huzzah! Good show, chappie!” He tosses a nickel to the agriculturist wearing a driver's cap with a flourish. “Buy yourself whatever little pleasure you can find from Senator Clay’s boys.”
He throws his 6-foot frame down, bypassing the step and turns back to the coach. A bit louder than necessary he calls to the interior, “Judy! Don't dawdle. Just because you must be last, doesn't mean you must be sluggish.”
Judy sticks her head out and climbs down, a greenish tint beneath her dark, olive skin. “Sorry, Master Percy. I'm not used to ya rich folks’ ways of traveling, I’m much more at home tending to the kitchens than the road.”
That same greenish tint floods Maxwell’s lighter complexion, for different reasons.
“Cousin, I must protest! The biomechanists’ decision to feed the iron horses Helaium laced with coal slurry was a toxic shortcut.”
“In another week I could have had the magnetic drive ready.”
Jackson's clenched jaw and steely, unmoving gaze hide his own discomfort. “I told you; the new formula is called Jacksahol. It is the fuel that will drive the new South.”
“Besides, we didn't have another week. The fools in the chemist’s lab continue to insist that bastard Acadian’s formula is not reproducible. I have to preserve what pure stock we have to power my heart.”
He quickly represses a coughing fit and curses, “Incompetent wastrels!”
He pounds on the side of the cab. “Mr. Taggart! How far from Ashland?”
“Only a mile, sir.” His lieutenant shouts back.
Jackson glares at his protégé, “Are we close enough to announce our arrival to Senator Clay with the ethergraph you sent him last week?
“The night is clear, no storms…it should work.” Maxwell taps out a ‘ready to receive’ query on a telegraph key attached to a large vacuum tube and a pair of wires running to an antenna on the roof of the coach. “They are receiving.”
“Request the Honorable Mr. Clay to meet us in the drive. I wish him to witness true power as it arrives.”
“Mr. Jackson labors under the impression that he is still president.”
Henry Clay, “The Great Compromiser”, current senator for Kentucky heaves himself out of his chair, cane tapping apologies to those around him.
A path to the door clears, men bowing heads and ladies dropping curtseys. His practiced nods are cut short by a vision in gold-chased, yellow taffeta.
The doorman intones, “Sir and Lady Blakeney.”
Half a beat behind his announcement, the blond, clean-shaven man shoulders past his wife, earning him a shocked, hooded glare.
“Dear Republican Clay! Many thanks for your invitation. Your hospitality is legendary.”
“Welcome to my home, sir. This humble Whig tires of titles. Please call me Henry.” He clears his throat attempting to see over his guest’s shoulder.
Percy raises his eyebrows, shifts his feet, and dusts the shoulder of his black formal coat. Marguerite’s face clouds further.
A wave of awkward titters dance from behind fluttering fans and break the comic standoff.
“Ah! My wife! Mr. Henry, may I present my beloved, Marguerite Blakeney.”
She steps forward, with a graceful, stiff shoulder to take the elder statesman’s hand.
“Mah absolute joy to make your acquaintance, dear Henry. Ah must say, Ah’m pleased to find your home a picture of Southern hospitality.” Her gaze passes over the crowd, noting various dark complected faces serving the guests.
“After your recent speeches in Washington, Ah wasn't sure what to expect.” Her perfect poker face gives him nothing, but clearly expects an answer.
He blushes; cane taps lightly.
A loud rumble from outside intrudes. The string music on the porch dwindles to silence. Henry Clay’s answer dies, stillborn, on his lips. All eyes go to the steaming, roaring coach pounding up the drive.
Clay wipes his brow, signals the doorman, and releases a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. “Old Hickory always knew how to make an entrance.”
The page breathes like theater here. Shadows, winks, coughs, whispers, every detail pulls the reader closer until the coach roars in like punctuation. That last line made me laugh and wince at the same time. Curious, Ian, when you write these entrances, are you choreographing them like stage directions first, or letting the dialogue steer the scene?
The situation they are in requires a very specific performance that's very different from who they really are. So it's a little of both.
I'm also trying to stay true to the spirit of the original book.
Only in the original, Percy was being an ass to protect his wife while she had no idea what was going on.
Thanks for the kind words BTW! 😊