Our heroes and heroines need a past, and in my kind of book, something about that past needs to still bother them.
I love stories where we get an early glimpse of this vulnerability, without lengthy backstory, then more and more comes out as the story unwinds. I was at a crime and thriller conference last weekend, and on a panel with Kirsten McKenzie, whose horror/crime story Painted does this to beautiful effect for both the horror and the crime plot threads. I didn’t finish the book until the trip home, and the others on the panel were all trying to discuss the history that motivated the key characters without giving away the key points. (Sorry, folks.)
Sometimes, readers of a series know at least some of what tears at the hero’s heart or the heroine’s, but we don’t know about the wounds of the other protagonist. Charles, in Caroline Warfield’s Children of Empire has kept his dignity despite his estranged wife’s lies and betrayals. We know this because those lies also hurt Charles’s cousins, each of whom stars in one of the previous two books. We learn more, and from Charles’s POV, but we also need to find out what drives Zambak to the other side of the world, where she and Charles will have to deal with their separate pasts as well as the budding Opium Wars, Zambak’s brother, a callous villain, and small-minded local society.
I could go on — in my favourite books, people all have pasts, and an important part of the story is them coming to terms with who they are because of that past.
This week, I’m asking you to share a passage where your characters share part of their past. It could be highly significant, like the books I’ve mentioned above, or it could be something quite minor. Mine is from To Win a Proper Lady: The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, which I’m rewriting as a novellisation of the novella I wrote for Holly and Hopeful Hearts. In this passage, I hint at a backstory that won’t become clear until book three of the series. Hint. The heroine of To Tame the Wicked Rake: The Saint and the Sinner, is Charlotte Winderfield. The hero is Aldridge.
Charlotte indicated the closed bedchamber door with an inclination of her head. “I take it Grandfather has heard that the Duke of Haverford has run mad,” she said.
“Mad like a fox,” James answered. “He has given up on the claim that my father is not the son His Grace of Winshire lost so many years ago. With our esteemed progenitor and Aunt Georgie both recognising him, that was a lost cause. He thinks to convince his peers that they don’t want half breeds living among them, dancing and worse with their daughters. It will be a simple thing, he thinks, to prove my parent’s marriage a fiction, and all of their children barred from my grandfather’s title.”
“Take a seat, James, and don’t loom over me. You don’t think it will be a simple thing?”
James obeyed, lowering himself into the chair opposite hers. “I think the man a fool for underestimating the King of the Mountains. You have heard our grandsire’s solution for swaying opinion our way?”
She had, of course. That was clear from the way she examined his face before she spoke; a considering look, as if wondering how much to trust him. “It is a good idea for you to marry an English girl with impeccable bloodlines.” With a snap, she closed the open book that was sitting on her knee. “That girl will not be me, James. I mean no offence, but I will not marry you, whatever Grandfather might say. I do not intend to wed, ever.”
“Thank you for telling me. Perhaps, you would be kind enough to help me find a bride that will fit the duke’s requirements and my own?”
“And what might your requirements be?” Charlotte asked.
“Someone I could grow to love. Someone who could be my friend and partner, as well as my wife.”
“You are a romantic, cousin. I warn you, Haverford is powerful. He will make it hard to find a girl from the right family who will accept you, despite our family’s name and your father’s wealth. Finding one who is your match may be impossible.”
James looked down at his hands. If she thought him romantic, she would be certain of it in the next moment. “Perhaps I have found her already. What can you tell me of Lady Sophia Belvoir?”
Haven’t participated in this for a while, but past secrets are all the rage in my new fiction WIP, which (as you know) is something I’ve not tried before: a historical novel for children/young adults set during the Napoleonic Wars, but with a hefty element of fantasy. In this passage, the main character, Rose — a member of a secret force of women with paranormal powers, known as the “Army of the Gifted” — discovers something about her mysterious benefactor, Lady Anstey.
‘And what is an ingeniosissima?’ I asked, remembering what Lady Anstey had called me the day she had first introduced me to the girls.
At that, the girls all looked at me with the same awed expression they had worn the first time I had met them. They physically stepped back, as though I might harm them somehow by my proximity.
‘It means “the most powerful”,’ Mary explained. ‘It is a term used to describe a Gifted who has more than one power.’
‘You mean most Gifted don’t?’ I vaguely remembered Mr Cloudesley saying something of the sort, but I had never really thought about it. Ellen smiled shyly.
‘Frankly, no. It’s very unusual. Throughout all history there have only been a handful of them. I only know of one other who is alive now, apart from you.’
‘Who?’
‘Lady Anstey,’ Elizabeth replied.
I blinked. Lady Anstey could certainly block my ability to read her thoughts, but I had never seen so much as a hint of her having any other power. She had never even tried to read my mind, although I recalled she had claimed to be capable of it.
‘What powers does she have?’
The other girls glanced at each other.
‘She doesn’t use them any more,’ Ellen said, at length. ‘Some say she’s lost them.’
‘There was an incident about a year and a half ago,’ Mary continued. ‘Lady Anstey was working for the War Office – she has done for many years, you know, through Lord Anstey – and they sent her on a mission to Ireland.’
‘She nearly failed,’ Elizabeth put in. ‘And she nearly died. Everyone who was with her did, so we never did find out what happened – whether the others were killed in action, or whether she killed them herself by accident.’ She was silent for a moment to let that grim thought sink in. ‘For months after she was very ill. Since that time nobody has ever seen her use her powers.’
‘Do you think she really *has* lost them completely?’
Mary shrugged. ‘She won’t admit to it, but I think she must have done. I don’t think she’s gone on any missions again. It was after that she formed the Army of the Gifted. I think perhaps she wants us to take up where she left off.’
‘I wonder what happened to her?’ I mused.
But none of the girls could tell me, because nobody but Lady Anstey knew the answer.
I am intrigued, Jaqueline. Write faster!
Since you brought it up, here’s a bit from the Renegade Wife when the past begins to surface:
“He is a bright boy. You must be proud of him.” Rand gripped his glass. Should I mention his illness? He had no idea how comfortable Charles might be with the subject.
“I am. He endures his illness with courage and grace.”
Rand relaxed somewhat. “I wasn’t sure—that is, Catherine told me. I’m so sorry, Charles. It must be devastating for you, and for Julia.” He meant every word and was distressed to see Charles stiffen.
“I manage. I have no idea about Julia,” Charles said through tight lips.
Rand raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen Julia in two years. She hasn’t seen Jonny in longer. I have no idea how she ‘manages.’” He leaned toward Rand. “Don’t look at me like that, Randolph Wheatly. We separated less than a year after we married. It happens. If you had stayed, you might have delighted in my misfortune.”
Charles glared at Rand, who could think of nothing to say. When the silence became painful, Charles sank back in his chair. “Don’t worry. Though it seems unlikely Jonny will ever be duke, know that he is loved. I love him as if he were my own.” His voice rose when he continued, and an emotion Rand couldn’t identify gave force to his words. “He is my own. Don’t try to say otherwise.”
“What are you implying, Charles? Of course he’s your son. You were eager enough to bed his mother.”
“I didn’t touch Julia until our wedding night. Jonny came into this world six months later. What do you think I’m implying?”
Something uncurled in Rand’s chest. His cousin was many things, some unpleasant, but he wasn’t a liar. Rand’s dearly held belief that Charles seduced Julia while he knew—he had to have known—that Rand still held hope of a betrothal crumbled into dust.
“But who then?” Rand’s confusion muddled his thoughts and thickened his speech.
“You dare ask me that? You’ve seen my son. The family resemblance is unmistakable—and thank God for Jonny’s sake.”
Awareness, when it finally came, left Rand breathless. He shook his head. “Not me, Charles. I am not that boy’s father.”
Such a moving piece. They both care so much.
Poor, poor Charles 🙁