The May Queen

By Deborah Ballou

"The spirit of the age" is filling the English-speaking world and Londoner Amelia Holton wants nothing more than to fill her little red notebook with her poems and musings on the exciting world around her.

Modern poets like John Keats, William Wordsworth and the notorious Lord Byron have already led the way to a new form of literary expression, and she longs to follow them.

But young ladies in 1831 must marry, and so she follows another man from busy London to the remote Kent countryside where she will find herself crowned by ancient tradition the May Queen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452069739

Deborah Ballou

Im the kind of person that dresses in costume to go to the Renaissance Faire, says Deborah Ballou. I used to dress up in similar garb to teach Shakespeares plays to my high school students. They said it was a little embarrassing but they also seemed to enjoy that unit, and I sure enjoyed teaching it. Now Mrs. Ballou hopes that her readers not only enjoy the story shes written, but also will learn something about the pre-Victorian world of poetry ("Those poets were the rock stars of the day.") and the holidays of Great Britain that are still celebrated today. Mrs. Ballou lives in northern California with her husband where they are enjoying their empty nest. I miss my wonderful children, but I do get much less side-tracked from my writing. In fact, I have three other novels in process, so keep a look-out. Her website is www.DeborahBallou.com.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Author’s Note

A Word About The Poets and Writers in

The May Queen (In order of mention)

Partial Bibliography

About the Author

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"You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

Tomorrow ‘ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year;

Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest merriest day,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May."

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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Chapter One

Midsummer's Night - 1831

The bonfire was burning less brightly than before and someone in the crowd on the other side threw a huge log into its midst. There was a scattering of sparks and a cracking of wood. Heat surged toward Amelia and she smiled. Although summer was approaching, nights were still chilly and the heat was a welcomed addition to the celebration.

The flames were beautiful and fascinating. They spoke to some primitive part of her—dangerous and deadly, yet life-giving as well.

But were those three betrothed couples, who could be seen scandalously stealing kisses in the fire’s glow, still planning on jumping now that the flames had grown so much higher? Amelia secretly hoped that they would, yet her stepfather’s influence through the years also brought a thought for caution. As exciting as this Midsummer celebration was, she did not really fancy seeing anyone catch fire and burn to death.

But would they jump? Would they?

The stones loomed nearby. To Amelia they seemed to be watching. To be listening.

To be approving.

Come on! Come on! someone taunted.

Jump! Jump! the crowd yelled. Jump!

One of the couples smiled conspiratorially at each other, gripped hands, and ran. Amelia held her breath, willing them to jump high and far. Cheers went up all around as they landed together on the far grass, tumbling with a laugh into each others arms. The other two couples soon followed, each succeeding without incident and each bearing a look of satisfaction and confidence. If the old wives’ tales were true, they would all have fruitful marriages.

Amelia looked over at her uncle and aunt, whose family she was staying with in Avebury, and smiled broadly. She knew it would be rude to take her notebook and pencil out of her pocket, but her poet’s heart was yearning to commit wisps of her thoughts to paper. She knew how fleeting poetry could be. It had to be captured and then reflected on at leisure.

At twenty-one, she, too, should be among the women planning to marry—perhaps jumping the Midsummer fire with her intended—but she had not been blessed with either great beauty or an influential family. Even with the added advantage of being in the company of her older brothers’ friends from time to time, there had been no offers forthcoming, and the circles she moved in, though varied, were small. Still, she was relatively content. She would not be the first daughter to be her parents’ companion in their later years. She loved them both very much and enjoyed their company as, she believed, they enjoyed hers. She had long devoted herself to being an obedient child of God. She did not lack any physical necessity or any intellectual stimulation. A good and satisfying life.

As long as she could keep writing her poems. That was as necessary to her as breathing. She felt a hunger to write. She did not even care if anyone ever read her poems or heard them or liked them, though that would be wonderful, of course.

But she must write. She must.

The nearby stones reflected the high, Midsummer moon, and she smiled. They know, she mused, what transient creatures we are. A hundred years from now they will still be here, but I will not. We sons of man must make our mark while we can.

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"Ancient Watchers," Amelia began. She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, then continued:

"She danced among the standing stones,

Who watch all souls who pass beneath

With somber, silent, ancient groans

And whispers through the heath.

No satin shoes. No fan to hide

A modest blush. No brocade gown.

No vestige of her former pride

So widely spoken of in Town."

She paused in the reading of her latest poem and glanced at her stepfather. He had lowered his paper and was staring at her over the rim of his glasses.

"Her hair unclasped. Her white arms high,

Like suppliant ash stretched toward the sun.

A love-lost madness in her eye,

She breaks the dance to run.

‘You cannot run from what is past,’

The towering giants seemed to roar,

‘Nor call the die back once it’s cast.

His love, once lost, will come no more.’"

Amelia finished with a satisfied smile and looked eagerly at her stepfather and her mother, who smiled and clapped a hurried little clap of approval.

Hmm, Mr. Holton noised, appearing stern and displeased over his glasses.

At least he put down his paper to listen, she comforted herself. Don’t you like it, Father?

Still he hesitated, glancing at his wife, whose usually pleasant continence, Amelia noticed, now held a subtle warning. Amelia saw her stepfather’s back stiffen at this feminine presumptuousness and his brow creased.

I would, he began, if I were prone to liking such modern, romantic drivel, which I am not. You’ve been reading that fellow Wordsworth again or I’ll miss my guess.

Romantic drivel?

What else? Can you think of even one young woman of your acquaintance who would go mad if she were disappointed in love? Any who would dance through the wilderness without shoes, especially if, as you state, she had once been proud?

"But she’s lost the love of the man she loves. I’m quite sure I would go mad," Amelia argued with a nod of her head that set the curls on either side of her face bobbing.

"You most certainly would not. You might cry a great deal, as women are prone to do, but you would, I am certain, persevere. Any woman of proper upbringing and station would never run mad with love. Think, Daughter. You know I’m right."

Amelia sighed. She thought that perhaps he was. "But the words sound so fine together, don’t they? So sad? ‘His love, once lost, will come no more.’"

Tragic nonsense, Mr. Holton said, pushing his glasses back up on his nose and raising his paper again. Men are not so inconstant nor so hard-hearted, and I’m sure I should know, being a man myself. Providing the lady in question has not dishonored herself in some way that would make her an unsuitable match, a man can forgive much. He glanced meaningfully at his wife, then back to his daughter, giving the newspaper a final shake to close the matter.

But Amelia persisted. "Well, I like Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry. And poor Mr. Keats as well. ‘Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.’ How can you disregard such utter beauty?"

"Easily. I find most irrelevant nonsense easy to disregard. ‘Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is man.’ Now that’s worthwhile."

I like Pope well enough, but he has less soul, less fire. . .

Stop, said Mr. Holton. "You will not draw me into another argument on the merits of the moderns, Amelia. I’m reading the Times."

Yes, Father. No one, not even her oldest brother, Roger, challenged Mr. Holton’s reading of the Times.

I rather admired your poem, Mrs. Holton said quietly. You have foreseen the consequences of being prideful and spurning a man’s love, a custom which is sadly so popular among young women today. Rejecting a suitor that one means to later accept merely to gain some sort of advantage is a dangerous, not to mention an unladylike, fashion. Better to say yes or no as one means it.

What if one isn’t sure?

Then say that, too, Mr. Holton put in from behind his paper. Men appreciate such forthrightness.

As long as you say it carefully, Mrs. Holton added with a smile. Honesty does not excuse wounding someone’s pride.

Yes, Mother. Oh, may I borrow your lilac beads to wear to the Sidley’s party this Friday?

Of course.

I must change for shopping with Auntie, she said, gathering her notebook and papers from the tea tray. Are you sure you won’t come with us?

Not today, dear. Now hurry along.

"How can her mind turn so swiftly from one topic to another?" Mr. Holton muttered when his step-daughter had left the room.

‘Twas your idea to let her visit Avebury last month, Mrs. Holton reminded him. Who has not seen standing stones and been filled with wonderment?

Mr. Holton sighed. She went to visit my brother’s family, not to gape at the stones. We only let her visit for a fortnight, a safe amount of time, I thought.

Everyone went to the Midsummer Festival inside the stones—they always do, I understand—and Amelia was quite aglow about it when she came home.

You mean she was out all night gazing at bonfires and singing and dancing . . .?

She was in very good company, Mr. Holton, as you well know. These old rituals are harmless enough. No one takes them seriously anymore; it’s just for a lark. No harm done, so you needn’t fret.

"No harm done? You heard what she wrote. Broken-hearted women roaming tragically about in mad despair? Such romantic delusions must not be encouraged, Mrs. Holton. Surely you see the dangers in that. Until she’s past this . . . this fanciful period of life, we should limit her exposure. . ."

Certainly not! Mrs. Holton said with determination. Disregarding her husband’s raised eyebrows she continued. I see no danger in fun times and poetry, in letting ones imaginings, especially in youth, explore possibilities which become unthinkable to those of us who are older and, presumably, wiser. What better time to do so? In fact, my sister suggested that Amelia share some of her poetry with others in a literary circle that meets near her home, and I said she could. The realities of living will exert themselves into Amelia’s life soon enough.

"So you approve of this dream-like state she wanders in? Well, I do not. Everything she does becomes an odious ode. What became of sensible sonnets? And what will she make of the swan upping next week?"

Mrs. Holton smiled to herself, not missing the note of reluctant anticipation behind her husband’s gruffness. I can hardly wait to find out. ‘Tis a blessing, Mr. Holton, for us to be given an opportunity to see old things through new eyes.

Mr. Holton made a sound like a snort from behind his paper.

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"There’s many a black, black eye, they say,

but none so bright as mine;

There’s Margaret and Mary. There’s Kate and Caroline;

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,

So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May."

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Chapter Two

A Private Ball

Amelia smiled and waved her fan a little faster when she recognized the man walking toward her. She imagined his dark eyes almost sparkled as he returned her smile with one of his own.

May I have this next dance, Miss Holton? he asked with a bow. Do you remember me? Leonard Blair. We were introduced at your cousin’s ball last month.

Amelia placed her hand in the one he offered. Yes, I believe we were.

The music began as they stepped to the dance floor.

I haven’t seen you since then.

Amelia nodded. Because I was away visiting family for a time. This is my first formal party in two weeks.

They found their place in the set. As they were down the line, it would be awhile before they were top couple. They stepped forward, made a shallow bow, then stepped back.

A pity, he sighed. And how are you enjoying society so far this season?

Oh, marvelously, she exclaimed, then thought to herself that ‘marvelously’ sounded a bit too enthusiastic and not at all mature.

Leonard chuckled. I’m so glad. They stepped forward again, this time to circle side to side in slow, careful steps. You know, of course, he whispered as their shoulders passed, that you are a very lovely girl. You shouldn’t deprive society of such beauty for so long.

Amelia felt her chest, neck, and face grow hot with a blush as she stepped back into line. Leonard Blair had surely meant to compliment her, but he had hit on a sore topic for Amelia. Her looks. She suspected, in fact, that he was making fun of her. Although she always tried to look her best, she knew perfectly well that she was not a beautiful woman. She would acknowledge that although she may have been a homely child, she was not homely anymore, however she was not one to turn heads either. Unremarkable might be as far as her self-critique would go. Mr. Blair’s overstatement of her beauty made his motives immediately suspect and she frowned.

Oh, come now, he teased. No need to frown and blush so, Miss Holton. You know you’re lovely, and you know, too, that you’ve enchanted most of the men here.

Amelia shook her head and frowned even more. I know no such thing, and by saying so you imply that I’m a very vain girl, Mr. . .Mr. . .

Blair, he reminded her, still smiling.

Mr. Blair. You are teasing me in a very ungentlemanly way.

Why? Because I say you’re lovely?

"No. Because you say I know I am."

Ah-ha. Then you admit that you are beautiful.

Amelia pursed her lips, then remembered her mother’s despair over that ‘unbecoming’ habit.

I am not dissatisfied with my looks, she began, trying to appear pleasant, for besides his teasing, he was a nice enough man. But I sincerely doubt that I have ‘enchanted’ most of the men here. Why, I’ve barely danced with five so far this evening.

Their turn came to step forward, turn, step back, then separate and weave their way down the line to the end.

But I assure you, he continued as they came back together again with a clap of hands and a bow. I’m correct in what I say. I’ve heard several men make comments concerning you, but there is some uncertainty as to whether you would welcome their attention. You seem to be accompanied by that man over there, he said, nodding toward the man in question. I, myself, was sure he was your intended, but I have always been more daring and forward than my fellows. And you, my pretty Miss Holton, were worth the risk of offending your friend. See, even now he looks this way.

Amelia had to laugh. "I’ll agree, you are forward. Indeed you are one of the most forward men I’ve ever met. But you needn’t have been concerned. That’s my brother, Roger."

Your brother? It was Mr. Blair’s turn to frown. But there’s absolutely no resemblance between you.

My step-brother then.

Ahh. Which explains your chestnut tresses and his golden ones. Your rose of a nose and his like a thorn. Your long face . . .

Long? Surely one who speaks so poetically can do better than ‘long.’ Besides, it isn’t long, is it?

What’s wrong with that?

"But it’s not long," Amelia insisted. Though she had been teasingly called Jemimah—the name of their pony—by Roger and Henry when she was little, she had assured herself that she had outgrown that physical fault years ago.

Mr. Blair scrutinized her again, leaning back to get a better view.

Yes, you’re correct, he nodded. "Your face is not long. But it is at least oval, maybe even heart-shaped."

Amelia smiled and blushed again.

I see you like that better. Then I shall have to remember that ‘heart-shaped’ is more flattering than ‘long.’ By the way, who’s that man over there? Your father perhaps?

She glanced in the direction he’d indicated as they again turned between the rows of dancers. You mean the man in the gray coat? The very handsome man in the gray coat, she had wanted say, but knew such forthrightness was not only improper but possibly hurtful.

Yes. I saw you dancing with him earlier.

Amelia felt unaccountably pleased to know that Leonard Blair had noticed her practically upon her arrival, for the gray-coated man had been her second dance.

He’s not my father. He was introduced to me as Anthony Whitley, from somewhere in Kent, I think.

He certainly looks at us as if he’s your father, so disapproving and grim.

And so I must assume that you have gotten that same grim and disapproving look from other girls’ fathers since you recognize it so readily.

Quite so, he smiled. "But as he is not your father, you must concede that he’s another of your admirers. Perhaps he sees our easy manner and disapproves on that account."

Well, it’s none of his concern, she said, dismissing the stern looking Mr. Whitley from her mind. I shall enjoy myself if I choose to, for all his frowning.

Mr. Blair raised one eye brow. You’re not as docile as you appear, Miss Holton.

What do you mean?

I mean that standing there before with your fan waving prettily and the smile in your blue eyes, you appeared to be every man’s vision of an angel come to earth.

Angels, Mr. Blair, are far from docile creatures. Surely your reading of the Bible tells you that.

He seemed momentarily taken back. Quite right, of course. Flaming swords, battles in heaven, delivering holy messages. I had not thought of that, Miss Holton, and now I find it difficult to understand where our convention of equating one’s lady love to an angel could have arisen.

Are you disappointed then?

Oh, quite the contrary. I feared you might be rather boring . . . angels of romance usually are. But you have confidence and spirit. Much more interesting.

I’ll consider myself complimented then.

And blush accordingly, he chuckled, not missing her rise in color.

Amelia decided further comment would only bring another unwelcome blush, so she looked away over his shoulder. Her eyes met those of the man in the gray coat.

You’re right, she said quietly. Mr. Whitley doesn’t look at all happy. And I don’t like the way he’s singled us out in particular. How very disagreeable.

Shall I ask him to stop?

Oh, goodness, no, she gasped. "You can’t do that. He really hasn’t done anything, and what if that is his usual appearance?"

You’re right, of course, but I thought I would be gallant and offer.

The music ended and Mr. Blair escorted her to where Roger stood, greeting him with a civil nod then leaning in to whisper a farewell. Remember not to stand too close to him, Miss Holton. It’ll scare off any but the bravest of men.

Having fun? asked Roger when Mr. Blair had gone. The boredom in his voice was unmistakable.

I am, but you are not. Why don’t you ask someone to dance, Roger?

He surveyed the room quickly, then, without looking at her, replied, Just a bunch of fish at this one, I’m afraid, yourself excluded, of course.

Roger, really, she objected, glancing around them to make sure no one could have overheard. "Look over there. Near the punch table. She’s a pretty girl."

You mean the young lady talking with that fellow with whom you just danced?

"Yes, her . . . and that’s not why I point her out. She really is pretty, you must agree, and not a fish at all. And there’s always Margery. Margery would dance with you."

Margery. Margery. Why is everyone so preoccupied with Margery? Mother mentions her to me at every opportunity, always with adulation and subtle recommendation. We don’t have one thing in common, and I don’t intend to marry a cousin, if that’s why everyone’s always pushing us together.

She’s not really your cousin, you know. She’s mine and Henry’s. You’re not at all related to one another.

Roger groaned. If that were all that there was to consider, I would do just as well to marry you. But I’ve know you both since you were obnoxious little girls. He sighed and looked over to where Margery stood with Mrs. Holton and their aunt, Mrs. Hudson. She smiled and waved timidly across the room, engendering another fatigued sigh from Roger. It’s true we’re not related, but she very much seems like a relation and, for that reason, she’s a frightful bore.

"But you know how she feels about you. She’s really quite fond of you, and she’s so sweet. She’d be such a good . . ."

Cousin. She’d be a good cousin, and that’s all.

Amelia sighed. Very well. There’s always that other girl.

She turned your friend down for the last dance.

Did she? Good, she thought to herself, then said, "Perhaps she was momentarily fatigued. But she looks quite recovered now and will surely dance with you. You’re so much handsomer than Mr. Blair."

Roger’s glum expression brightened just slightly. Do you really think so?

Amelia smiled. Yes, but I’ll never repeat it, I assure you.

The music began. Very well, he said, and left her side to try his luck.

Excuse me, came a voice beside her, and she found Mr. Whitley at her arm. He was smiling this time—a forced smile, it was true, but one that quite improved his appearance. Despite the fact that he was as old as her stepfather, he really was very good looking. This dance? he asked, his hand extended.

Amelia gave him a polite nod and allowed him to lead her to the floor. She was curious about him, even more so now that she had noticed his unusual attention towards her and because he was requesting another dance so soon after their last.

Mr. Whitley, she began, deciding the older gentleman needed to be brought to task for his inexplicable behavior. I hope you do not find me impertinent, but I really must ask you to enlighten me on a point of etiquette. I couldn’t help noticing a while ago that you seemed, well, rather more concerned than is proper for someone of our limited acquaintance as to my dance partner—

I apologize for staring, he said simply. I know it must have been uncomfortable for you and the young man. But since I am very seldom prompted to stare, I don’t consider it one of my greater faults. His tone was arrogant and, to Amelia’s mind, not at all apologetic. You bear a strong resemblance to someone I once knew, he explained. She had your same soft brown hair and honest blue eyes.

Well, thank you, Amelia said, then was not sure his remark was intended as a compliment for her or for the woman he had once known. She frowned and blushed a little in her sudden confusion.

Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll not embarrass you with further flattery. In fact, I have quite surprised myself in doing so this time. I don’t think I’ve offered a truly sincere compliment to any woman except my wife.

You are married then? she asked, hoping the relief in her voice was not apparent.

"A widower,