KP Critiques | Tell Me No Lies

Welcome back to another KP Critiques! The past few weeks, we have had some amazing excerpts coming in from KeePers at Kingdom Pen, and today is no exception! Today we have an excerpt from Grace A. Johnson's historical novel: Tell Me No Lies. 

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Now, on to the critique

Tell Me No Lies

Chapter One

Grace A. Johnson

New York City

April 1862

    There was something about slipping her gloved hand into her husband’s rough one and gliding onto the freshly-polished ballroom floor with a grace she could only feign that had long since drawn the last drop of tolerance from Kerri-Leigh Cannon’s heart and become naught but a tedious reminder of what her life was and would always remain.

Great sentence. I really like how you set up the tone and setting, and it overall is very lovely. However, it is a bit too long, and the sentence’s overall meaning gets a little bit lost. Consider breaking it up, into two sentences:

There was something about slipping her gloved hand into her husband’s rough one and gliding onto the freshly-polished ballroom floor with a grace she could only feign that had long since drawn the last drop of tolerance from Kerri-Leigh Cannon’s heart. It had become naught but a tedious reminder of what her life was and would always remain.

A façade.

     Perhaps it was wrong to not hope for more, and perhaps the thoughts marching through her head only served to set her mind in a state of depression. Whatever the effect, Kerri knew that she could do nothing to change the cause of her immense boredom.

I’m really enjoying this. I’m already hooked. 🙂

     The same old music—Mozart, she supposed—filled her friend Julia’s ballroom with the lilting sound of the violin and piano. The same old people crowded the room, gossiping about the same old scandals and drinking the same old wine—very well, she was certain it wasn’t the selfsame bottle from last week. But the continuity of it all had become an issue in her mind. She wanted a change, something new and exciting. Perhaps if Rhys weren’t gallivanting all through France, something interesting might happen.

     Not that Kerri was going to rely upon her husband’s brother to pull some sort of adventure out of his hat, though heaven knew he was the master at such.

     “You look like a drowned dog. Cheer up.”

   The monotonous voice, she knew, came from the main cause of her boring existence, who glowered down at her with hollow grey eyes that seemed to swallow the world and its worries whole with one swift glare. Marcus Cannon lifted his aristocratic brows while his lips flipped downward in the same sort of frown that Kerri likely wore on her own face.

     With a huff, she pasted on a smile that oozed as much sarcasm as her tone did when she replied, “And you look like an angel, dear. Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.” Kerri stepped back in time with the music, unable to suppress a genuine smirk when her husband then tripped over his left foot.

Great job showing their relationship here. I can really feel the conflict between them.

     Just as she had come to expect, those same grey eyes rolled as Marcus righted himself, continuing their same old waltz. “And your impertinence confounds me,” he grounded out between clenched teeth, his grip on her hand tightening.

     There you go again, Kerr. The reminder of what said impertinence gained her sent a jolt of pain up her back, and, shoving aside the urge to rub the pain from her bruised muscles, she mustered up as much cheer as she could and finished the final step of the dance with a flourish.

     Marcus bowed out, releasing his grasp on her hand with a warning look that sent fear crawling through her heart. Then his stern look was replaced by an expression of perfect calm that could fool anyone. Anyone but Kerri.

     Placing the tips of her fingers gently into the crook of his arm, she allowed her husband to lead her from the center of the room to where one of Marcus’s fellow businessmen Robert Brinson stood with his wife, discussing in hushed tones something that caused Mrs. Brinson to gift her new husband with a gleaming smile.

This is another very long sentence. The recommended length for sentences is a maximum of 40 words (more as a guideline than a rule, though) and this is 57 words. There is nothing wrong with long sentences, except when they dilute the meaning you are trying to convey and cause the reader to lose focus. This is another case where two sentences would be preferred over one. 

     Oh, to have cause to direct a grin like that at Marcus!

     With a glance at the crystal chandelier above her head, Kerri sent up the same prayer she prayed for every couple she came in contact with: that God would bless them with a happiness Kerri’d never had in her own marriage.

I'm really enjoying Kerri's internal monologue 🙂

     Abandoning her husband, Kerri skipped a step forward to Penelope Brinson’s side, hoping that the look on her face wasn’t as desperate as it felt. “Quite an event, wouldn’t you say, Penny dear?”

     Penelope waved her hand through the air with a soft giggle. “Of course! Julia Mallory never disappoints! And for her sweet son Georgie’s eighteenth birthday, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” At the mention of the guest of honor’s name, her bright green gaze drifted across the room to where George Mallory Jr stood, surrounded by debutantes who were hoping for a chance to dance with the “catch of the year.”

     At even such a young age, George had filled out nicely and grown to look almost exactly like his father; from blond waves, to Prussian blue eyes and boyish dimples. It was no surprise that even Penelope herself had once been enamored by the elder of the two, as those fair looks and charming personality could attract even the strictest nun in the convent. But Kerri knew the caliber of demon lurking beneath George Mallory’s handsome appearance. A lying, cheating piece of scum who had broken his dear wife’s heart many a time. Julia had told her the stories, and every time she heard the words, she thanked God that Marcus hadn’t be been unfaithful to her.

     She could only hope that there was no truth in the old saying, “like father, like son.”

     Marcus had moved to Robert’s side and begun some important conversation, so Kerri took the chance to ask Penelope the question that had been bouncing around her mind all evening. Leaning into her friend’s side, she whispered above the chatter, “Have you told him yet?”

     Something in Penelope’s eyes sparked to life, and her smile only grew wider. “Yes. I told him just last night. Oh, I wish you could’ve seen his face!” She clasped her hands together in front of her flat stomach and sighed. “I can’t wait to be a mother.” Her voice was soft and gentle, reminding Kerri of how she had sung that last lullaby to Steele before laying him to rest.

     Yes, Penny would make a wonderful mother. And Kerri was glad she got the chance.

     Even still, a sliver of jealousy wormed its way into her heart, and she had to suppress the rising tide of emotion just like she did every night as she walked through the lonely halls of her house, wishing for the sound of pattering footsteps and soft voices coming from ‘round the corner.

     Kerri set a hand on Penelope’s arm, telling herself not to bother giving advice on pregnancy when she wasn’t supposed to know anything about the subject. Sometimes it hurt, having no one to share her pain with, save an often absent Rhys. Yet sometimes it was easier to carry it on her own.

     Penelope’s mouth opened at that moment, something akin to sympathy in her eyes, and Kerri knew exactly what she was going to say.

     So she interrupted before the words could be uttered. “Well, have you any names you like? Robert Jr is always an option, but I find that naming a child after the father only serves to confuse the mind.” Which was why she had named Steele after his grandfather, a man he never would’ve met. “And if it’s a girl, you could name her...hmm...” She tapped a finger to her chin as she thought of a popular forename to precede Brinson. “Maria. Oh, Maria Brinson! I do like that. Isn’t that your middle name?”

     Before Penelope could answer, Kerri continued, the interaction with another human being—who acted like one, that is—scattering her melancholy. “I know. If it’s a boy, you could name him Odysseus!”

     Penelope giggled at that last recommendation. “Actually, Robert suggested the very same thing last night. I really like Maria Elaine for a girl myself, but I suppose we’ll wait until closer to time to pick out the name.” She motioned for Kerri to lean closer and added, “My mother said we ought to name it Cyril, but I detest that name!” The tinge of disgust in her tone elicited a chuckle from Kerri.

     That was what she liked about Penelope; she always knew how to brighten up a dark day. She reminded her so much of her old friend Celine, happy and peppy and full of life, so very different than the company she associated with on a day-to-day basis.

Another great character interaction!

     “And for a girl, it could be Cyrilla!”

     She apparently said that last part a bit too loudly, for Marcus caught her eye and sent her a disapproving glare. Fickle man. Frown too much, talk too much, laugh too much; it all got on his very last nerve.

     Kerri brushed aside his attitude and continued her conversation with Penelope, gladly pushing all else from her world as she imagined that she was walking through Hyde Park, arm in arm with her friend, enjoying an overcast London day.

     Maybe one day, she told herself, as she had every day this past week. Maybe one day.

     Before long, the evening came to an end an hour before midnight as it always did, and, with one last goodbye to her friends and a smile to George, Kerri slid quite stiffly into her husband’s carriage and watched as people and places and the same boring old things drifted away at the same speed they had for the last seven years.

     All was silent as they rode, the quiet actually welcome in Kerri’s mind. But by the way Marcus drummed his fingers against his knee, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, his mind was far from quiet.

     This state he was in was a common occurrence, but she was unaccustomed to the absence of his scoldings, which had become more frequent as of late. Unwilling to dare bring one about, she merely rested tentatively in the silence, staring out of the carriage window as droplets of fresh rain began their descent from the grey clouds above.

     “I have to stop by the office, so I’ll have Bertram drop me off. Don’t expect me in until late.”

     The sound of his flat voice jolted Kerri from her reverie, and out of nothing but instinct, her hands flew up to shield her face, her heart beating at top speed. But Marcus didn’t flinch, and slowly her hands began to lower and her pulse dropped to a normal rate. Then the words registered in her mind, and she blew out a breath in relief. He was going to the office. He was busy. Just busy. Not mad. Not angry. Not even upset.

Very nice subtext here.

     Good.

     Kerri sagged against the red velvet cushion bracing her back, her gaze returning to the window. The drizzling rain was coming down faster now, the large droplets pitter-pattering against the roofs of townhouses and shops and cafés with a rhythm that matched the thumping of her heart. Perhaps now, if Marcus were to be at the office, she could finally visit with Cassandra and Matthias. She had received word not long ago that young Lenny was sick with the pox, and the family’s doctor bills were piling up rather quickly. It would do both Lenny and Cassie good to have some company, even if their pride kept them from accepting what money Kerri offered. It had shocked them enough to learn that she had paid for their groceries last week, despite how she had tried to keep her identity a secret.

This is a really nice “pet-the-dog” moment for Kerri. I’m really starting to like Kerri, as you have shown that she isn’t just a self-centered aristocrat who feels sorry for herself. These different sides of her really fleshes out her character. Again, great job. 

     If only Marcus would pay his workers more than minimum wage, perhaps Kerri wouldn’t have to dip into her own bank account to ensure that said workers survived the next week. But her husband was as stubborn as a bull, and her opinion was not worth the time it took for him to say no.

     The time it took to make their way to Marcus’s office on the other side of town, however, ticked away slowly, allowing the downpour of rain only to grow. With one glazed over glance at his wife, Marcus quickly jumped from the carriage and darted through the rain to the small building across from the East River that had been his office for the last thirteen years.

     Kerri could do naught but watch as he slammed the door shut, disappearing behind the thick brick walls that housed not only his papers and ledgers but also his heart. Oh, how she knew that fact well. All too well. Work had owned her husband from before she even knew his name. And she had learned quickly that there was no way to buy him back.

     Tonight he seemed rushed, in a way foreshadowed by some sort of deep distress. He had likely lost the last card game, probably managed to hurt his pride in the process. But he would find a way to make up his losses. He always did.

     Leaning forward, she shoved the thoughts and worries aside, tapping on the fogging glass window to garner Bertram’s attention, whose dim eyes seem to light up with understanding. Poor man. He was likely glad that she wanted to stop soon, rather than continue on to the house in the rain.

     She honestly thought that dear old Bertram ought to retire and return to his home of Ohio, where his granddaughter would gladly take him in, but Bert insisted upon staying on, even if his wages were dwindling down by the moment. Even if Marcus treated him like some slave owners treated the Negros, like a dog, an inanimate possession. Even if his family lived states away, awaiting the returning of sons and brothers from the war. What did he have in New York keeping him?

     A debt, he would tell her. A favor to return. And Kerri would only wonder what the late Mr. Cannon had done that Bert would remain loyal to his family even fifteen years after his death. Especially when Marcus didn’t the (take out 'the') deserve the loyalty all of his servants—and even she—had for him.

I think you have some kind of talent for writing characters. You can establish who they are in such a short amount of time, while really helping me understand if I should like this character or not. You set up Betram so well in such few words!

     The carriage made a sharp turn, hitting a rut in the road that tossed Kerri from her seat. She righted herself as the tenements—the slums of New York City—came into view. The rain seemed to coat the trashy apartments and run-down buildings in a foggy liquid paint, glossing over what society never seemed to notice, or at least didn’t care about. But Kerri knew that if she had been born in New York, she would’ve found the slums her home years ago.

     Which is why she thanked God that she called Knoxville, Tennessee her birthplace, even if her friends now fought against the folks she had once called neighbors and still called family.

     But the names Johanson and Cannon protected her from being called a Rebel. And in her heart, she was just as much an abolitionist as John Brown. Perhaps not as crazed, but still…

     The carriage pulled to a halt and, with Bertram’s help, Kerri and all her flounces and hoops exited the vehicle and entered the chilly spring night rain.

     She hiked her skirts and bounded up the steps to the tenement Matthias Castor’s family occupied and Marcus’s money paid the rent for, pushing past the umbrella Bert offered and knocking upon the door to the building.

     A small, grey-haired woman peeked out from a crack in the wood, her curious and slightly disdainful gaze sizing her up in one quick glance. She pulled the door wide open, allowing access for those stupid hoops Kerri just had to wear. “Who be ye ‘ere to see?” Her scratchy voice rang with a deep Irish accent that reminded Kerri of Cousin Riordan from back home in Tennessee.

     “Cassandra Castor. She here?” Kerri stepped to the side, her dress hem brushing against scraps of fabric, crumpled sheets of paper, and a dirty plate or two. Lissa would faint at the sight of a room like this, for her dear maid cleaned even the doorknob to the attic! How the young girl managed to keep up the whole house without several extra pairs of hands, she would never know.

     “She is. But Lenny be a-sleepin’,” the woman replied, waving her hand dismissively towards the staircase at the opposite side of the room.

     “Thanks, ma’am. We won’t be long.” Kerri grabbed Bert’s hand and led him up the battered stairs, avoiding an occasional fork and the rat droppings on the steps.

     Poor, dear Lenny. She could only pray that he was doing at least somewhat better than when she’d heard he was sick.

     And that melancholy wasn’t contagious.