Sedition: A Novel [NOOK Book]

Overview


The New York Times Editors? Choice ? Publishers Weekly Starred Review ? Longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize

"[E]xtremely impressive.... [A] wonderful read from a born storyteller."?Chris Cleave, New York Times bestselling author of Little Bee

"A tale of seduction, sex, love, death and music.... A subversive and thrilling gothic tale, it will keep you up all night. It?s the sort of novel you say you?ll read for only 10 more minutes because...

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Sedition: A Novel

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Overview


The New York Times Editors’ Choice • Publishers Weekly Starred Review • Longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize

"[E]xtremely impressive.... [A] wonderful read from a born storyteller."—Chris Cleave, New York Times bestselling author of Little Bee

"A tale of seduction, sex, love, death and music.... A subversive and thrilling gothic tale, it will keep you up all night. It’s the sort of novel you say you’ll read for only 10 more minutes because it's already way past your bedtime. Two hours later, your light is still on."—Andrea Wulf, The New York Times Book Review

An unforgettable historical tale of piano playing, passions, and female power

The setting of Sedition by Katharine Grant: London, 1794.

The problem: Four nouveau rich fathers with five marriageable daughters.

The plan: The young women will learn to play the piano, give a concert for young Englishmen who have titles but no fortunes, and will marry very well indeed.

The complications: The lascivious (and French) piano teacher; the piano maker’s jealous (and musically gifted) daughter; the one of these marriageable daughters with a mating plan of her own.

While it might be a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a title and no money must be in want of a fortune, what does a sexually awakened young woman want? In her wickedly alluring romp through the late-Georgian London, Italian piano making, and tightly-fitted Polonaise gowns, Katharine Grant has written a startling and provocative debut.

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
02/01/2014
In the bustling, gritty, wheeling and dealing London reminiscent of Daniel Defoe's and James Boswell's worlds (though several decades later), four city men concoct a scheme to win titled husbands for their daughters. Capitalizing on the newly invented pianoforte, they arrange a concert to showcase their girls before an audience of peers who owe them money or favors or both. It is a perfect scheme. But these clever kings of commerce reckon without the interference of the pianoforte maker disgusted at subjecting his precious instrument to amateur hands, the French music instructor, or the girls themselves. Led by the daring, disturbing Alathea, the daughters turn the tables and take their lives into their own hands. VERDICT Drawn in by the compellingly edgy language, the beautiful evocation of emotions through music, and the passionate relationship between Alathea and the piano maker's talented, harelipped daughter, the reader is ultimately frustrated by the brevity of the novel, this first adult work by the author of the award-winning "De Granville Trilogy." A longer book that allowed greater development of secondary characters would have strengthened the emotional and narrative impact. Still, fans of Grant's YA fiction may be curious to check this one out; devotees of Defoe or Georgian London might also enjoy. [See Prepub Alert, 10/28/13.]—Cynthia Johnson, Cary Memorial Lib., Lexington, MA
The New York Times Book Review - Andrea Wulf
Grant, who has written several books for young adults and children, is clearly having fun with her first adult novel. A tale of seduction, sex, love, death and music, Sedition pulsates with pain but also with a wicked sense of humor that sometimes arises from the smallest details…The darkness of Sedition is its driving force. A subversive and thrilling gothic tale, it will keep you up all night. It's the sort of novel you say you'll read for only 10 more minutes because it's already way past your bedtime. Two hours later, your light is still on.
Publishers Weekly
★ 01/06/2014
The first novel for adults from British YA author Grant is a witty, dark, and sophisticated tale set in 1790s London. Four men, wealthy but not well-bred, meet in a coffeehouse to discuss finding upper-class husbands for their five daughters. A concert on the still-new pianoforte, they decide, will display the girls perfectly to London’s elite. Piano-maker Vittorio Cantabile soon delivers the expensive instrument, along with a French music teacher. The aptly named Monsieur Belladroit begins a program of instruction and seduction, but is surprised when one of his charges, Alathea Sawneyford, makes the first move. Alathea, whose sexual boldness has unhappy roots, finds an unexpectedly deep connection with Annie, Cantabile’s hare-lipped daughter, like her, already an accomplished musician. Music provides the story’s intrigues as well as its moments of joy, but even art’s power to transcend human limits can’t produce a happy ending. Grant eschews period clichés in favor of sharp, unsentimental storytelling that evokes the era with zest and authenticity. Her London, like her characters, is both flawed and fascinating. The novel’s epigrammatic voice—“London was never so lovely as when you were about to leave it”—is another of its delights, detached in tone but delivering what are often dark ironies with memorable brevity and cleverness. Agent: Georgina Capel, Capel & Land. (Apr.)
From the Publisher
“A tease of a novel. . . . I found myself irritated enough to throw the book at the wall several times, but then intrigued enough to read the whole thing twice. . . . [E]xtremely impressive. . . . [A] wonderful read from a born storyteller.” –Chris Cleave, New York Times bestselling author of Little Bee

“Grant . . . is clearly having fun with her first adult novel. A tale of seduction, sex, love, death and music, Sedition pulsates with pain but also with a wicked sense of humor that sometimes arises from the smallest details. . . . The darkness of Sedition is its driving force. A subversive and thrilling gothic tale, it will keep you up all night. It’s the sort of novel you say you’ll read for only 10 more minutes because it's already way past your bedtime. Two hours later, your light is still on.” –Andrea Wulf, The New York Times Book Review

"Sedition could easily have dissolved into semi-kinky melodrama, a chronicle of Belladroit’s conquests. Thanks to author Katharine Grant’s sly writing, it never does… A thumping debut filled with sex, manipulation and a dash of romance. Wickedly dark and provocative, Sedition is a bold reminder that the thirst for power and status remains unquenched over the ages." –BookPage Top 10 pick for April

"This is one of those precious novels. The kind that bookworms burrow inside to devour with relish from cover to cover. The kind you’ll secrete behind all the other books on your shelves in case friends steal it and somehow "forget" to give it back.... Not a dull or superfluous page. . . . Grant at times writes like Jane Austen on crack cocaine or Dickens sating himself at an orgy – drawing freely on the literary posturing of past greats, but entirely, refreshingly modern, entirely herself…. She makes you gasp and laugh and re-read. . . Her style is a triumph of wit and brio." –The Scotsman (UK)

"A witty, dark and sophisticated tale set in 1790s London… sharp, unsentimental storytelling that evokes the era with zest and authenticity. [Grant’s] London, like her characters, is both flawed and fascinating. The novel’s epigrammatic voice—"London was never so lovely as when you were about to leave it"—is another of its delights, detached in tone but delivering what are often dark ironies with memorable brevity and cleverness." –Publisher’s Weekly (Starred)

"Sedition … is as dark and deceitful as it is gloriously bawdy, the beautiful bastard child of Choderlos de Laclos's Les liaisons dangereuses and Sarah Waters's Fingersmith." –The Observer (UK)

"[A] fun, lascivious gambol through the lives of women and men with decidedly carnal appetites… intriguing… the plot and characters are handled with grace and precision. Suggest to fans of Sarah Dunant and Sarah Waters." –Booklist

"A fast paced, sexy, historical read about the intriguing tutor/student relationship. . . . Grant’s girls are vividly described: funny, witty, melancholy, rowdy, elegant and kick-ass, each learning the skills to be the mistress of their own destiny." –Marie Claire (UK)

"The grooming of five young Englishwomen for the marriage market goes wildly off the rails in a debut that, although Austen-ish in outline, takes some surprisingly saucy turns. . . .Grant’s atmospheric evocation of London, seething with crime and grime, includes unexpectedly libidinous developments…fresh and spirited… [a] cleverly seductive romp..." –Kirkus Reviews

"Grant has rambunctious fun… but she studs it also with high seriousness… The final set piece, the concert itself, plaits together comedy and tragedy with sly skill… there is phrase making here of high order, wise and funny arrangements of words that linger in the imagination." –Jonathan Barnes, author of The Somnambulist, Literary Review (UK)

"‘Seduction’ would be nearer the mark. . . . Packed full of colourful characters and with an unexpectedly poignant coda, this is an original, winningly-imagined tale of the ties that bind (and some very naughty pianoforte lessons)." –Daily Mail (UK)

"[Grant’s] girls are wonderfully drawn. Spiteful, cliquey, and a curious tumble of innocence and hormones, they drive the plot in ferocious and unexpected directions . . . .She manages to be carnal without being graphic, detailed without being anatomical… Sedition is not just about sex, although it is good on female passion. It is about the power of music and cultural clashes: old blood against new money; new musical genius against conservative sensibilities. Grant captures a dizzying sense that this is a world being remade simultaneously by bankers and Bach…. The plot grows, like the music, to a staggering climax, and Grant happily subverts the cliches of the heaving bosoms and seductive Frenchmen. She writes as Alathea plays the piano - with wit, verve and not a little mischief." –The Times (London)

"[A] wicked, delicious romp through eighteenth century London, written with the telling wink of an author whose affection for Tom Jones and Tartuffe sparkles throughout. I stayed up far too late devouring this rollicking tale of sex, intrigue, marriage, revenge, and the sordid side of the pianoforte. Bach's wig must be curling in his grave." –Katherine Howe, New York Times bestselling author of The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane and The House of Velvet and Glass

"Katharine Grant has written a provocative story of seduction and romance, lust and violence. Sedition is a tale of 19th-century female insurrection, set to a tune of Bach piano inventions, con brio." –Kate Manning, author of My Notorious Life

"In its fairly irresistible combination of transgressive sex and a richly layered evocation of history, Sedition demands comparison with Sarah Waters' untouchably brilliant novels …. Her imagination is marvellously gothic and the Georgian London she conjures up brims with invention and detail… Grant also has a gift for sly comedy.... Her characterization, too, is superlative…. Quite unforgettable." –The Guardian (UK)

"[A] real page-turner: audacious, fast-paced and sexy. . . . Dickensian in its energy and breadth. Grant’s larger-than life characters are fighting for survival in a world in which social values and morals are in a state of flux, heads are rolling across the sea in France.... The pianoforte at the centre of the narrative is a character in itself, and the music of Bach – ordered and disciplined – is a counterpoint to the emotional maelstrom which threatens to engulf the human characters in this compelling and twisted tale." –Sally O’Reilly, author of Dark Aemilia: A Novel of Shakespeare’s Dark Lady

Kirkus Reviews
2014-02-06
The grooming of five young Englishwomen for the marriage market goes wildly off the rails in a debut that, although Austen-ish in outline, takes some surprisingly saucy turns. Already a successful children's and YA writer, British author Grant now delivers a very grown-up novel set in late-18th-century London. There, new money in the hands of four members of the merchant class is to be spent on piano lessons for their privileged girls, to help them snare husbands from among the aristocracy. Grant's atmospheric evocation of London, seething with crime and grime, includes unexpectedly libidinous developments, especially involving Alathea Sawneyford, the dark horse among the group of daughters. The others are variously distinguished by false teeth, anorexia, disappointing hair and a problematic nose while fair Alathea's only shortcoming is her lack of innocence. At the other end of the social and beauty scales, Annie Cantabile, the long-suffering daughter of a coldhearted musical instrument maker, is burdened by her harelip and unrequited passion for piano instructor Monsieur Belladroit, hired to tutor the debutantes and planning to deflower them all. Grant's tale, though fresh and spirited, sags in the middle before picking up some speed for the concluding concert, where the girls take matters into their own hands. "Girls shouldn't be puppets," asserts this cleverly seductive romp, which conceals, beneath its witty surface, some very dark comments on fathers and daughters.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780805099935
  • Publisher: Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 4/1/2014
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 47,036
  • File size: 656 KB

Meet the Author


Katharine Grant is (as K.M. Grant) a children's book author, best known in the UK for her prizewinning DeGranville Trilogy. Sedition is her debut novel for adults. She was brought up in Lancashire, England, amid the ghosts of her ancestors, one of whom was the last person in the UK to be hung, drawn, and quartered. She lives in Scotland with her husband and three children.
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Read an Excerpt


London, 1794

Late winter dawn. The wet nurse suckles a baby; the monk shivers through lauds; warm cow greets cold milker. Late winter dawn. Thief grins over sleeper; dead coals drop; the hangman, a novice, checks his rope. The day begins to stain.

Midday is different. By midday, the wet nurse is sore, the baby unsatisfied, and the monk willing to trade salvation for a hot dinner and a drop of restorative. The thief counts his takings and dozes. The hangman dampens the fire in the little brick house he has built under the walls of Newgate Prison. He checks tomorrow’s ropes. One is chewed. Bloody dog. The executed don’t pay for rope—a crime in itself. They seldom even tip, and a soggy rope won’t sell as a souvenir. He’s chosen the wrong profession. He’d give it up, except that would prove his father right. And now this: summoned to cut down some wretch who’s hanged himself near the Bank of England. He sticks a knife in his belt and pulls on thick gloves. What a cheek. Death is his job. He feels robbed of his fee.

Out into the mud, he grinds the barrow through sludge and bumps it over knobbles of frozen dung. The February cloud is low and dense. Horses are lost in clammy steam. Urchins use fresh droppings to warm their hands, poor sods. It’s the usual struggle through Cheapside—God alive, why do women have to gossip in gaggles? They part as soon as they recognize him. Bad luck to touch the hangman. Bad luck to touch his barrow. He pushes on through Poultry. Nothing at the Bank, but a hubbub at the top of Threadneedle Street. The hangman hoists his barrow onto the wooden pavement and heads for the crowd. As he reaches the Virginia and Baltick coffeehouse (formerly the Virginia and Maryland), a man barges into him, swears, then kicks at the coffeehouse’s stout oak door until it opens. The man vanishes into a fecal fug and a girl emerges.

It was a month after her mother died that Alathea Sawneyford’s father first took her to the V & B. At the sight of her, Mr. W., the proprietor, sucked in his cheeks. Children irritated customers. But Mrs. W. simply set a small chair below the counter to shield Alathea from the pictures Mr. W. favored for the walls. He called them “artful.” Mrs. W. never thought of turning the little girl away. With no children of her own, she had love to offer—rough love, maybe, but love all the same, and although Alathea has long since outgrown the small chair, Mrs. W.’s welcome has never been withdrawn. Mr. W. can suck in his cheeks all he likes; it pleases Mrs. W. to encourage Alathea to look on the Virginia and Baltick as a haven, and occasionally Alathea chooses to do so, particularly when giving the slip to the stalkers set on her trail by her father. Never certain whether the surveillance is for her protection or his, it’s nevertheless always a pleasure to identify the wretch so keen to be unidentified. As Alathea closes the V & B door, she spots today’s tail—a poor specimen, exuding furtiveness. He might as well carry a sign.

Alathea sees the crowd and makes her way over, reaching the front at the same time as the hangman. A young woman is swinging from a gantry. She is quite dead. Alathea pokes the corpse with one finger. “Wire,” she says, with a nod toward the girl’s neck. The hangman bangs his barrow down. Unasked, Alathea holds the dead legs firmly and nods again. The hangman climbs onto his barrow, levers the wire from the gantry, and lowers the body. The crowd shuffles forward to have a look. Alathea settles the girl’s skirts and contemplates her face.

“Desperate, your friend,” the hangman says.

Alathea doesn’t contradict, though she’s never seen the girl before and wonders about desperation. The girl’s hands are quite relaxed, her fingers spread as if to press a final chord on a keyboard. There is certainly evidence of pain in the bloated cheeks and bulging lips, but to Alathea physical pain is something to be squeezed out and wiped away. Despair, being more entrenched, is more worthy of note. She bends as though to look for signs of it but instead removes the corpse’s shoes and tries them on. They don’t fit so she returns them. “Pity,” she says. Then, “Kiss her.”

“What?” says the hangman.

“Kiss her,” Alathea says. “Like this.” She kisses the hangman full on the lips. It’s not the unexpectedness he remembers, it’s the feel of her tongue. He feels it from top to toe.

“If a hangman kisses a suicide, God forgives both,” Alathea says. “Do it.” Before the hangman can refuse, Alathea is gone, and though their acquaintance has been short, he feels her loss like a view suddenly revealed and as suddenly cut off. He rakes the crowd with his eyes. She is nowhere to be seen. A gloomy day seems gloomier. As he trundles the corpse to its paltry grave, the only thing that cheers him is a notice tied to a horse post just outside the Bank. It’s a call to arms, brothers. Tax the rich! Power to the people! He counts six signatures. That should be six hangings this year at least. If all done at once, the authorities may ask for a discount. He’ll be damned if he gives one.

ONE

Upstairs at the V & B, three men were in close conversation at a small round table. Their coats steamed and their faces were shadowed, Mr. W. favoring cheap tallow over expensive wax candles. Nor could the V & B steal light from neighboring shops, situated as it was between Gadhill the barber, who kept his lights low, and what had been the gunpowder office, now a storing, roasting, and grinding shed for the beans Mr. W. insisted, for quality’s sake, must be kept in the dark. Even when a few rays of sun managed to twist down the street, the crust on the V & B’s windows was as good as plate armor.

The men were waiting for the fourth of their party and looked to the door as he stamped in clutching Spence’s Penny Weekly. A coffeeboy fed up with the V & B’s poor gratuities and spoiling for a fight called out “Good news then, Mr. Brass?” since it clearly was not.

Gregory Brass turned on him. “Good news? Can’t you read, boy? Votes! Tax! We’ll all be ruined. Spence and his like should be hanged for traitors. Hanged and then quartered.”

The coffeehousers were momentarily distracted from bills of lading and tide calendars. “Spence’s already in prison,” said somebody mildly.

“Prison! Bah!” Brass banged his fist on the counter. “A public lynching’s the thing. That’d teach him. I mean, the poor can’t eat the vote or fornicate with it, so what use is it to them?”

Laughter. Brass whipped off his wig. “You think it’s a joke?” He squared up.

Archibald Frogmorton rose, grasped his friend’s arm, and would not be shaken off. “For God’s sake, Brass, stop brawling and come and sit down. I’m not bailing you from Newgate again.”

This last remark had some effect. Brass followed Frogmorton and threw himself into a chair. “It’s a disgrace, I tell you.” He waved the penny weekly in Frogmorton’s face.

“Enough.” Frogmorton seized the newspaper, folded it, and used it as a wedge to stop the table from rocking. “We haven’t got all day. Let’s turn to the matter in hand.” Brass, still muttering, subsided. Chairs were pulled in and coffee called for.

The four men’s chief interest was cloth, liquor, furs, leather, timber—anything that could be bought low and sold high—but it was domestic husbandry, not trade, that had drawn them here today to sit at a private table rather than the long trestle in front of the fire. Archibald Frogmorton, Gregory Brass, and Sawney Sawneyford each had one living daughter and Tobias Drigg, at forty-three the youngest of the men, had two. With Marianne Drigg eighteen at her last birthday and the other girls close behind, the time had come to find the girls husbands. Trade in its own way, though the four fathers were not after money: they wanted grandchildren of a certain kind and were willing to pay.

Worldly success offered acquaintance, not friendship, with the rank of people these men had earmarked for their daughters: landed people, titled people, “the quality,” as Mr. Drigg’s father-in-law called them. Yet no matter how large the profits engineered by these four—and the profits were substantial—and no matter how significant Archibald Frogmorton’s elevation to Alderman of the City of London, commercial gratitude was laced with social distaste. True, the Duke of Granchester did inquire after Georgiana Brass’s health and Everina Drigg’s talents, but these were simply polite precursors to inquiries about the ducal investments.

The water urn blew its lid. The coffeeboys cheered. “The girls must all be wed this time next year,” Frogmorton declared, frowning at the noise.

“Yes, yes, that’s right. By this time next year,” Drigg agreed. Drigg’s fatherly affection did not blind him to the fact that his daughters were too like their mother for complacency. Currently, Marianne and Everina were soft and plump. Soon they would be tough and fleshy—more likely to pick up a butcher than a baronet.

“Wed this time next year,” echoed Sawney Sawneyford softly. He was the only widower among the four, and his tone was both agreement and disagreement, a confusion he cultivated. Marriage talk unsettled him. The others saw silken grandchildren behind unassailable social ramparts. Sawneyford saw his daughter sweating under Tamworth-pink flesh. Was that worth a coronet? Was it worth a rampart? Was it worth a dead candle? Sharp against his buttocks were three diamonds he liked to keep secreted in the lining of his coat: tiny things, the first gems he had ever touched. His eyes swam. Diamonds suited Alathea. What was he doing here? He didn’t want Alathea to marry at all.

“This year’s all very well, but we mustn’t sell the girls short.” Brass, still prickling, purposefully irritated Frogmorton, who had suggested no such thing. Brass was conscious of being the handsomest, his nose less bulbous than Frogmorton’s and his ears neater, his eyes less fishlike than Drigg’s, his chin round against Sawneyford’s rapier. He had a powerful physique that always needed feeding, not necessarily with food. Losing his temper whetted his appetite for his new French belle amie. He drummed his fingers.

“Apply your minds, gentlemen,” Frogmorton said. “Our daughters need some very particular attraction, an accomplishment beyond the accomplishments of others. All are pretty.” He gave a superb smile. Having fathered a beauty, he did not have to worry about Everina’s unfortunate teeth, Georgiana’s hiplessness, or Alathea Sawneyford’s—what was it? He felt a clogging in his throat. That girl. He tried not to think of her. “As I say, they’re all lookers in their own ways, but that’s not enough. All young girls of a certain age are lookers.” He wiped his forehead. The fug made him sweat. “Most girls can draw and some can sing. It strikes me that we must find our daughters something else to make them enviable and envied—something spectacular.”

There was talk, none of it conclusive. Finally, Drigg coughed. “Do you think we could perhaps make something of the rivalry between the harpsichord and these newfangled pianofortes?” The others looked at him with surprise—even Sawneyford. Drigg liked the attention. “It’s the talk of St. James’s Street, and the pianoforte, I’m assured, will soon be a feature in every home. If our girls were to master it before other girls, they would be at a distinct advantage.”

Brass was openly derisive, which made Drigg more determined than was wise. He had no idea of music. There had been none in the Foundling Hospital in which he and Frogmorton, the latter superior because his mother had left him with a name grander than her own, had been raised. There had been none among the lighters on which Drigg spent five years coal heaving before he pulled a drowning Frogmorton out of the low-tide slime of the Thames, a rescue that set him on the road to riches. When he spoke, as he did now at some length, about the differences between harpsichord and pianoforte, his opinions were at least secondhand. He knew he was overpersuasive, goaded by Brass’s sneers. But he did not stop and Frogmorton, initially sceptical, was soon quite taken with the picture Drigg painted. Encouraged, Drigg began to elaborate until somehow the notion of a concert party at which the girls would perform in front of potential husbands took shape.

After a while, Frogmorton raised his hand. “You speak of a grand pianoforte, Drigg. It will be large, I assume. Our girls must be seen. Will they be visible behind it?”

“Everina certainly will,” said Brass with a snort.

Drigg snorted back. “Georgiana may vanish entirely. Mrs. Drigg wonders if she’s quite well.”

“Mrs. Drigg can save her wondering. Georgiana’s well enough to bang a few keys.” Brass was not worried about his daughter. Skinny and fey she might be, but she was musical. He was certain of that. She must be or what was the use of her?

“Do you think it a good idea, Sawney?” Frogmorton asked. The others stopped talking. Sawney utterances were rare enough to be overvalued.

“Your plan seems good enough.” Sawney picked at fraying cuffs.

Our plan, Sawney. It’s all of ours,” rapped Brass. He thought, why does Sawney wear rags? He could buy a whole tailoring business. Or get that disturbing daughter to do some mending.

“We have a plan,” repeated Sawney. “Why not?” Alathea already had a pianoforte but he kept that, as he kept many things, to himself.

“Well then,” said Frogmorton. “Are we agreed on the principle?”

Nobody demurred so he turned to Drigg. “We must purchase an instrument,” he said. “Drigg, you can see to it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Drigg said, suddenly alarmed. “It’s a big purchase. We should all go.”

“Nonsense,” said Frogmorton. “If we go as a group of City men, we’ll be fleeced. You must go alone. Don’t you agree, Brass?”

Brass, keen to increase Drigg’s alarm, agreed. “Then we can blame you if it all goes wrong.”

“Sawneyford?”

Sawneyford didn’t care who bought the thing, or if nobody bought it.

“That’s settled, then,” said Frogmorton.

More details were hammered out. Since the Frogmortons’ Manchester Square house was the grandest, the pianoforte was to be delivered there, and through the pianoforte dealer, Drigg was to employ a tuner-teacher. Frogmorton would pay this music master every week and the full bill would be divided among them at the venture’s conclusion. The girls would be chaperoned by Mrs. Frogmorton as they took lessons and when the music master was satisfied the girls were ready, invitations would be sent out and the girls would perform.

As the clock struck three, the men’s minds turned to their offices. Clerks would be waiting. They pushed out their chairs, found their coats, and went to the counter, where Mrs. W. noted down each man’s dues. She accepted few notes of credit but she trusted these four to pay at the end of each quarter. So far, prompting had not been necessary and Alderman Frogmorton could be relied on for a good tip.


Copyright © 2014 by Katharine Grant

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  • Posted April 4, 2014

    I received a wonderfully written story with engrossing character

    I received a wonderfully written story with engrossing characters ARC goodreads giveaway Sedition: A Novel by Katherine Grant.
    Four fathers get together and come up with the perfect plan to marry off their daughters, a piano concert performance. Mr. Drigg's purchases a pianoforte from Mr. Cantabile who recommends Monsieur Belldroit. The instructor, Monsieur Belldroit, doesn't only want to help the young ladies with their pianoforte lessons. 
    Read the captivating, entertaining, humorous, engaging characters, well written, highly recommended story Sedition: A Novel by Katherine Grant.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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