A Debutante, Improperly Announced
It has come to our attention—via whispers, raised eyebrows, and one passive-aggressive note left under the cake tray—that the publication of this authoress’s debut has caused ripples.
We have received the veiled threats (and a few hand-delivered ultimatums) with the grace one reserves for bridge invitations from women one secretly despises. Each name has been noted. Each slight lovingly catalogued. Some have already been assigned characters. Others—well. Let’s just say your fate lies somewhere between an inconvenient duel and a scandalous elopement with someone morally suspect.
Yes, it is true:
A Dramatic Debut is no longer a rumour.
It is a published work.
With pages. And feelings. And the sort of impropriety that leads one to read by candlelight long past midnight.
And on Monday the 17th of June, it shall make its entrance into society. (Unchaperoned. Naturally.)
If you’ve ever longed to:
Be publicly humiliated by someone far too handsome
Pretend a single glance didn’t ruin your whole week
Find yourself dramatically backlit while refusing to apologize—
Then this book was written for you.
To those loyal few who have followed my scribbles, survived my metaphors, and indulged my obsession with brooding men and inconvenient emotions:
Your support is deeply appreciated, and hereby imposed upon once again:
Pre-order the ebook or order the physical copy on Monday 17th June (and claim plausible deniability if you faint in chapter twelve)
Leave a review on Amazon (ideally glowing, but I accept vaguely threatening admiration too)
Tell your friends. Or enemies. I’m not particular.
Let us make this launch improper.
Let us whisper it behind fans and shout it across the ballroom.
And let those who doubted us find themselves fictionalized with startling accuracy.
Yours in ink, lace, and petty vengeance,
Miss L. E. Watson
Writer, Romantic, Walking Cautionary Tale
Composed in a fit of inspiration (and possibly revenge), with ink-stained fingers and one eyebrow permanently arched, by Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson— authoress, semi-professional scandal magnet, and confirmed threat to polite society—on the 9th of June, 1835. At present, she may be found pacing dramatically, refusing to sit still, and muttering editorial corrections to herself in public.
A Dramatic Debut, Indeed
It is done.
My first novel — the work of countless stolen hours, ink-stained nights, and one particularly dangerous incident involving a cup of tea and a stack of annotated proofs — is now available for public consumption.
A Dramatic Debut has officially stepped onto the ballroom floor.
One might expect the band to strike up a waltz. A flutter of fans. A whispered, “Have you read it yet?” from the ladies lining the wall.
Instead, I find myself in the oddest of silences.
Make no mistake — I am proud. I have embroidered these pages with scandal, sincerity, and the particular ache of a girl who wants more than the world tells her she is permitted. The debutante ball was thrown. The gown selected. The invitation posted.
And yet, the universe chuckles at our careful preparations.
For my mother — a lady of considerable social intelligence and famously strong opinions — has found herself otherwise occupied. Perhaps her invitation is still en route.
Mercifully, my gardener — a man of tremendous talent when it comes to shaping a hedge, and clearly excellent literary taste — has provided the most enthusiastic feedback of anyone I know.
How humorous life can be. A useful reminder to never take oneself too seriously — and as I hope you all know, I rarely do.
There is a particular stillness to releasing something you love into the world and discovering that the reply is not applause, but the sound of your own voice echoing back. One does not ask for adoration, of course — only... perhaps a murmur. A nod. The quiet dignity of being seen.
Because creating is, I suspect, always a little lonely. One spends months building a secret world, only to realize that the unveiling is not a thunderclap — but a whisper. If you are lucky, a whisper that finds another ear.
And if you are especially lucky, a scandal.
Now, whilst unarguably a lady of considerable virtue, I regret that though imbued with charm, wit, and a constitution seemingly powered entirely by spite and Darjeeling, I fear I was not left suitable room for that all-too-important fruit of the spirit — patience.
Though I cannot in good faith pretend to have ever tried to exercise this specific muscle (small as it may be), I daresay the universe — by virtue of blessing me with a love of writing — harbours grand plans for me to finally use it.
So, to those of you who have noticed — who’ve read, or plan to, or whispered to a friend, “You know, I think you’d like this” — you are, quite sincerely, the reason I shall write another.
And to the rest of you:
I shall see you at the next ball.
A Dramatic Debut is available now for Kindle pre-order via Amazon.
The paperback — naturally — arrives on June 17, in time for the height of the season.
She stood at the threshold not of a ballroom, but of destiny —
A debutante no longer,
but an authoress at last.
Penned with pride, and perhaps the faintest trace of pity (the darkly humourous kind, mind you — the kind reserved for when one understands the world just that bit more clearly) by Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson — authoress, tea enthusiast, and unlikely debutante, whose patience, like her waistline, is largely historical, on the 12th of May, 1835.
A Brief Perusal (And Other Lies I Tell Myself)
“I shall only glance,” she said. “A moment’s perusal at most.”
The infamous last words of any lady about to be the product of her own undoing.
Not, my dear friend, due to finding one’s self in proximity to a gentleman, but something altogether much more alluring…
The scene was set: a gentle spring morning in Norwich, where the mist still clung stubbornly to the cobbles and my intentions were as pure as my coin purse was full. I had no designs upon debauchery, literary or otherwise. Merely a wander. A constitutional. Perhaps, if fate allowed, a brief stroll past the window of a certain bookshop. One must keep an eye on the publishing market, after all.
And then—a bell, a creak, the particular hush of wood and ink and paper. I stepped inside. Just to look.
By the third shelf, I was already in trouble. A new edition of Lady Audley's Secret. A slim volume on ancient poisons. A treatise on astronomy (for I am, as you know, cosmically inclined). A French novel banned in certain circles. And oh—a journal from a naturalist who believed moss had moods. I ask you: how could I leave them there? It would have been cruel.
By the time I reached the rear of the shop, I was rationalizing each volume as essential research. For what, I could not say. But certainly something scandalous and illuminating. Perhaps a heroine with a criminal mind. Or a villain with a library.
At this point, I had collected so many titles that the gentleman behind the counter began offering me knowing looks—the sort that suggest either judgment or shared addiction. It was at that moment that fate intervened again, in the form of a gentleman friend who happened to be passing by (and who, it must be said, is in possession of equal measures strong arms and a tragic weakness for carrying heavy things for women with questionable judgment—not that I have been staring at his arms).
I played it cool. He played along. We pretended I had planned to buy eighteen books. He even added one more to the stack—"for balance," he said, with an entirely straight face. And that, dear reader, is how I ended up parading through Norwich with a man at my side and a library in his arms.
Now comes the difficult part: explaining to my brother how I managed to spend an entire afternoon acquiring the contents of a circulating library, and whether or not this qualifies as a professional expense.
I suspect I shall begin with:
“It was all entirely necessary, dear brother. You see, there was a treatise on moss...”
Penned with the acknowledgement of a lady who may have found herself carried away, but who regrets nothing, on the 4th of May, 1835.
Post-script:
The naturalist’s moss journal is already proving indispensable. My hydrangeas are quite judgmental this week.
A Cautionary List of Gentlemen to Avoid (And the Very Good Reasons Why We Don’t)
In which Lucine advises caution, and readers immediately disregard it.
In which Lucine advises caution, and readers immediately disregard it.
It is a truth universally acknowledged — and universally ignored — that one should avoid certain types of gentlemen at all costs.
Yet here we are: hearts bruised, reputations in tatters, and diaries suspiciously tear-stained.
In the spirit of public service (and not at all from personal experience, mind you), I offer the following advisory:
1. The Poet Who Lives Entirely on Credit
Warning Signs: Quoted Byron within five minutes. No discernible means of income.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: He wrote a sonnet about the way you pour tea.
2. The Brooding One with a Mysterious Past
Warning Signs: Owns more horses than shirts. Cannot explain where he was between the hours of midnight and four.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You are certain, certain, that your affection will heal his tragic soul. (Spoiler: It will not.)
3. The Dashing Officer
Warning Signs: Terribly handsome in uniform. Missing from half the events he promises to attend. Smells faintly of betrayal.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You, too, are not immune to a well-tied cravat and tales of valor.
4. The Man Who Is Technically Betrothed to Someone Else
Warning Signs: His fiancée is mentioned only in passing, usually after two glasses of claret.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: “It’s complicated.” (It is not. It is disastrously simple.)
5. The Intellectual Who Thinks You’re "An Exception Among Your Sex"
Warning Signs: Commends your wit as if it’s a delightful novelty. Brings up Plato at parties.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You laugh, thinking he’s merely awkward. He is not. He is deeply insufferable.
In conclusion, dear reader, I urge you: beware.
And if you cannot beware — at least be well-dressed for your downfall.
There is a great deal of dignity to be salvaged in looking exquisite while making questionable choices.
Faithfully, if not sensibly,
Miss L. E. Watson
Composed on the 26th of April, 1835, whilst awaiting a reply that never came.
The Strategic Deployment of Fans (And Other Weapons of Courtship)
(A Treatise on Flirtation, Subtlety, and Blunt Force Charm)
(A Treatise on Flirtation, Subtlety, and Blunt Force Charm)
Once, a fan was a simple accessory.
Now, it is a battle standard, a communication device, and, in extreme cases, a lethal weapon.
Consider:
A slow wave: Come hither, if you dare.
A quick snap closed: You have precisely three seconds to explain yourself.
A fan flutter against the bosom: I might swoon. But not for you, sir.
The Codex of the Fan:
(Compiled by Anonymous Ladies of Discretion and Great Mischief)
Covering one’s face entirely = I see someone at this party I should not like to see me.
Peeking over the top = I see someone I would very much like to see me.
Dropping the fan deliberately = This is an ambush. Prepare yourself accordingly.
Fanning vigorously in one’s suitor’s direction = You are tiresome and also probably sweating.
Slowly tapping the chin with the closed fan = Considering your offer of marriage. Outcome: grim.
Historical Fan Offenses:
The Dual-Engagement Debacle:
A young lady dropped her fan at the feet of two different gentlemen within the same hour.
Both proposed.
(She accepted neither, citing “emotional exhaustion.”)The Accidental Duel Incident:
One careless flick of a fan led to two gentlemen believing they had been promised marriage.
Swords were drawn.
The lady in question married a third man entirely.The “Mistook the Fan Flutter for Indigestion” Scandal:
Tragic. Hilarious. Still whispered about in Charleston.
Other Weapons of Courtship (Secondary Class):
Handkerchief: Best if dropped dramatically. Bonus points if scented with heartbreak.
Glove: If tossed, marriage proposals must follow. (Or lawsuits.)
Eyebrow Raise: Lethal if executed with precision.
In Conclusion:
The next time you see a lady with a fan, know this:
She is not cooling herself.
She is declaring war.
(And heaven help you if you do not understand the terms.)
Drafted on the 23rd of April, 1835, after precisely three too many glances across a ballroom.
Musings on Love Letters (and the Scoundrels Who Write Them)
Ink fades. Scandal does not.
Ink fades. Scandal does not.
There is no craft so deceptively charming — nor so treacherous — as the writing of love letters.
In my experience (and I confess it is extensive), a man with a pen is a dangerous creature.
He may commit all manner of affection to paper — sighs, sonnets, illicit confessions — without the slightest intention of honoring a single word beyond the sealing of the envelope.
Beware, dear reader, of the following signs:
Excessive metaphors involving stars, seas, and eternal devotion: If he must cross oceans for you, why has he not yet crossed the parlor floor?
References to your incomparable beauty: Flattery ages like cream on a summer's day. Beware the man who praises your eyelashes with more ardor than your mind.
Unsealed letters: A gentleman who entrusts declarations of undying love without the courtesy of a proper seal is either reckless or calculating — and neither bodes well.
Permit me to suggest the correct course of action upon receiving such a letter:
Read it twice.
Smile faintly.
Place it carefully into the fire.
If the writer was sincere, he will arrive in person.
If he was merely amusing himself, let him have the ashes.
As for me, I have retained precisely two letters:
One, because it was penned with such wit I could not bear to destroy it.
And the other, because the author spelled my name incorrectly — and I find that sort of insult too delightful to burn.
(Scoundrels, after all, are far more entertaining when properly archived.)
Yours, Most Faithfully and in Fury, Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson
Composed on the 19th of April, 1835, drowning in a sea of torn paper, ink stains, and rather less dignity than a lady should like to acknowledge.
The Parlour Door Opens
Proof of Life, at long last.
A most thrilling parcel arrived this morning. Not a love letter (though one can always hope), but something altogether more daring—a proof. Bound, printed, and quite real, A Dramatic Debut now sits atop my writing desk, its ink still smelling of potential and its pages filled with secrets.
The moment felt like a scene from one of my own stories: heart racing, fingers trembling, and the distinct impression that something long imagined had finally stepped into the light…
It is not yet in its final dress—no embroidery, no gilded trim—but it is real. Tangible. Held in the palm like a promise.
To those who have written kind letters, who have whispered encouragement at gatherings, who have said “I see myself here”—this volume is for you. And to those who still wonder if they might ever belong in stories such as these, I say: the parlour door is open. Come in. Sit down. The tea is hot and the tales have only just begun.
Yours (most dramatically),
Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson
Authoress, Observer, Chronicler of Affairs (Scandalous and Otherwise)
Penned — if one may call it that — on the 14th of April, 1825, whilst fending off unsolicited advice, balancing a fourth cup of sherry, and questioning every decision that led to this moment.