Author: judeknight

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 8

Chapter Four

Haverford House, London, June 1812

Eleanor had withdrawn to her private sitting room, driven there by His Grace’s shouting. Her son, the Marquis of Aldridge, was as angry as she had ever seen him, his face white and rigid and his eyes blazing, but he kept his voice low; had even warned the duke about shouting.

“Let us not entertain the servants, Your Grace, with evidence of your villainy.”

Unsurprisingly, the duke had taken exception to the cutting words and had shouted even louder.

Could it be true? Had Haverford paid an assassin to kill the sons of the man he insisted as seeing as his rival? An assassin with a pistol in the woods who had been caught before he could carry out his wicked commission.

His Grace’s jealousy made no sense. Yes, James was back in England, but what did that matter to Haverford?

He had been furious when James and his family attended their first ball, and beside himself with rage when Society refused to accept that the prodigal returned was an imposter. She expected him to continue to attack the new Earl of Sutton with words. Even his petition to the House of Lords to have James’s marriage declared invalid and his children base-born was typical of Haverford. But to pay for an assassin?

He had failed. She would hold onto that. And Aldridge was more than capable of holding his own.

As she sat there with her tea tray, sheltering from the anger of her menfolk, she gave thanks that her son had not been ruined by his father’s dictates over how he should be raised. She had been able to mitigate some of the damage, but more than that, his younger brother Jonathan and his older half-brother David had been his salvation, giving him the confidence that he was loved and the awareness that he was not the centre of the entire world.

Aldridge’s fundamentally loving nature helped, too. He was a rake, but not in his father’s mould. Rather, he loved and respected women, even if he did treat them according to the stupid conventions applied to aristocratic males. And he was a good son.

Putting down her tea, she fetched a little box of keepsakes from her hidden cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. Anthony George Bartholomew Philip Grenford, his full name was, but he had been born heir to his father, and therefore Marquis of Aldridge, and by Haverford’s decree no one, not even Eleanor, called him by anything but his title.

Even so, the cloth rabbit had not been the first time she secretly defied her husband. She had been sneaking up to the nursery since Aldridge was born, despite the duke’s proclamation that ladies of her rank had their babies presented to them once a day, washed, sweetly smelling and well behaved, and handing the infants back to their attendants if any of those conditions failed or after thirty minutes, whichever came first.

It was not enough for Eleanor, if she had grown bolder and bolder and slowly taken control of her life, it was for their sweet sake.

Hollystone Hall, December 1791

Eleanor poured tea for Tolly Fitz-Grenford, wondering if he would agree to her plan. After Haverford had exiled David and sent Aldridge off to school, she had pleaded with him to bring them both home, but he had laughed at her; pointed out that she had no power over him. In fact, he declared, her open defiance was enough to cancel the agreement they had made before Jonathan’s birth.

So, she had then packed her bags and retreated to this lesser estate, the one place in the vast Haverford holdings that belonged to Her Grace and not His Grace.

“There, Tolly. Milk and no sugar. Is that not correct?”

Tolly took the cup. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”

She smiled. “We are brother and sister, Tolly. Will you call me ‘Eleanor’?”

Tolly’s face heated. As Eleanor knew, his relationship to the duke was not precisely a secret, but he had never been acknowledged. The father they shared had brought the son of a favourite mistress to be raised on the estate, and had even kept on his half-brother’s tutor to train Tolly in the skills he would need to serve the duchy. Still, he had not been encouraged to show any familiarity, and the duke liked Tolly no more than Tolly liked the duke. “His Grace…”

Eleanor scowled. “I do not mean to concern myself ever again with the opinions of His Grace, except as I must for my safety and that of my children and the servants. Will you not call me by my name, Tolly, when we are not in company? Will you be my friend? For I stand in great need of one.”

Tolly leaned forward to pat her hand. “I will always stand your friend, Eleanor,” he told her.

“Good, for I need your help. Can you find me information with which to blackmail Haverford?”

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Spotlight on No Lady for the Lord

She was only supposed to care for his wards…not fall in love with him.

 He was a carefree rogue…

Lord Ronan Brockman had a perfect life. Handsome, wealthy, and beholden to no one, he was charmed. But that was before he was unexpectedly named guardian to two young girls—and before he met their fascinating governess. Acting on his attraction to the witty beauty would be utter madness. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be enough to dissuade him from pursuing her…

She can never let her guard down…

Mercy Feathers knows more about responsibility than a rogue like Ronan could ever fathom. But to her great consternation, despite his many flaws, she wants him with an all-consuming passion that’s as shocking as it is forbidden. It’s just her misfortune that there’s only one way a relationship with him could end—and it isn’t with happily ever after…

Is their love enough?

Can Ronan and Mercy overcome all that stands between them—including the ghosts of her past—and take a shot at true love? Only if they’re willing to open their hearts and break a few rules…

Secrets, scandals, and sigh-worthy romance.

This sweet, wholesome historical romance by a USA Today bestselling author will have you cheering Ronan and Mercy on as you escape into the past to cheer them on to their much-deserved happily-ever-after.

If you enjoy reading lovable rogues, class difference, and opposites attract clean historical romances with a pinch of mystery and inspiration, a dash of humor, and soul-searing emotion, then you’ll adore Collette Cameron’s captivating DAUGHTERS OF DESIRE (SCANDALOUS LADIES) SERIES. Settle into your favorite reading nook with your favorite beverage for a page-turning, entertaining Regency world adventure you can’t put down.

Amazon – BN – Apple Books – Kobo – Google Play – Goodreads – BookBub

Though this book can easily be read as a stand-alone, most readers prefer to read the series in order.

DAUGHTERS OF DESIRE:

  1. A Lady, A Kiss, A Christmas Wish
  2. No Lady for the Lord
  3. Love Lessons for a Lady-Coming Soon!
  4. His One and Only Lady- Coming Soon!

 

CHECK OUT COLLETTE’S OTHER SERIES:

  • Castle Brides Series
  • Heart of a Scot Series
  • Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series
  • Seductive Scoundrels Series
  • The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses
  • The Honorable Rogues®
  • Wicked Earls’ Club

Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B092KJW3B1

BN – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/no-lady-for-the-lord-collette-cameron/1139200201?ean=2940162366768

Apple Books – https://books.apple.com/us/book/no-lady-for-the-lord/id1562251100?ls=1

Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/no-lady-for-the-lord

Google Play – https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=GxsoEAAAQBAJ

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57510907-no-lady-for-the-lord-daughters-of-desire-scandalous-ladies-series

BookBub – https://www.bookbub.com/books/no-lady-for-the-lord-by-collette-cameron

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A 15 foot wave of beer

The Horseshoe Brewery, St Giles

St Giles was one of the roughest parts of London in 1814. Its residents were poor–labourers, piece workers, criminals, prostitutes, and others down on their luck. That luck was about to get a lot worse near the Horseshoe Brewery on 17th October 1814.  The brewery stood on the corner of Great Russell Street and Tottenham Court Road, and produced more than 100,000 barrels a year of dark porter.

When a storehouse clerk, George Crick, inspected the 22 foot high fermentation vat in the afternoon of that day in October, he noticed that one of the 700-pound iron hoops that held the vat together had slipped off. His supervisors said it was nothing to worry about, and told him to write a note asking for it to be fixed. At 5.30, George heard an explosion. The hot fermenting ale had burst free with such force that it tore the vat to splinters, knocked down the brewery’s back wall, and set off a chain reaction among the other fermentation vats and barrels in the building. Workers climbed on tables, and scrambled up walls. But several needed to be pulled free from rubble or rescued from the surging liquid.

An engraving of the event made at the time.

The first death was a 14 year old servant girl, who was scouring pots at a pump when the wall of the Tavistock Arms fell on her. The 1.3 million pints of beer in the first vat, augmented to 3.23 million pints by the rest of the burst containers, flooded from the building in a wave 15 feet high. The flood swept away everything in its path. It inundated basements causing the tenements above to collapse.  In one of those basements, five women were holding a wake for a two year old boy who had been killed the previous day. All five drowned. In all, eight women and children died.

Hundreds of people gathered the spilled beer in containers, or simply drank what they could on the spot. As the flood subsided, spectators came from all over London to see the sight of the disaster, and the local watchmen made a bit of money charging a penny or two to see the damage the flood had done.

That part of St Giles reportedly stank of beer for months afterwards.

Note to self. To Claim the Long-Lost Lover is set in London in the last months of 1814.  Mention the smell in the scene I set in St Giles towards the end of November.

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Inner dialogue, ghosts, and imaginary mentors in WIP Wednesday.

To Claim the Long-Lost Lover has gone to the editor, and I’m about to work on the second half of To Tame the Wild Rake. But first, I’m looking at what comes next. Either Chaos Come Again or The Darkness Within, and I’ve already started The Darkness Within. In The Darkness Within, my hero has an inner dialogue going on with someone called Sebastian. Sebastian harasses, advises, and goads him. Max thinks he is being haunted. It could be a ghost. Or it could be a memory. Or perhaps my hero is unbalanced. I think I’ll leave it up to the reader to decide.

If your protagonist talks to herself or to a dead aunt or to anyone else invisible to all the other characters in the story, please share an excerpt in the comments. Here is mine.

“Stedham was looking for a home; a purpose,” Max told Sebastian. The lieutenant had tried being a steward on an estate, and moved on. He had worked for a while in a lawyer’s office, and a few months more as secretary to a Member of Parliament. The last address the sister had for him was a vicarage, and the last contact a cryptic note from the vicar. Max was heading there now.

“Paul hasn’t been able to settle since he returned from the wars,” the sister had told Max.

Her husband’s estimation was harsher. “He cannot stick to anything. Some of those ex-military men are like that. They need the adventure, the thrills, and they’re no use in ordinary life. He should join up again.”

Max didn’t agree. “Stedham was a good soldier, but he wasn’t made for that life. Not really,” he told the man, but he might as well have talked to the wall.

“You don’t know him like we do,” the brother-in-law said.

“That man wants his wife to himself,” Sebastian commented. “I know jealousy when I see it.”

Max thought the ghost might be right. Sebastian usually was right about the darker emotions. “Stedham needs a place to belong, but his sister’s home wasn’t it.” Stedham could hardly have missed the lack of welcome. Was that why he stopped writing to his sister? But he’d only stayed with the pair for the first two months after arriving home from France in 1814. He’d continued to write faithfully, week after week, until a few months ago.

“No one belongs,” Sebastian argued. “Belonging is an illusion, and the ones you love most are the ones who most hurt you.”

Max ignored the oblique reference to Sebastian’s death.

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 7

A Haverford townhouse in Brighton, May 1812

Eleanor opened the secret compartment of the escritoire that travelled everywhere with her. She didn’t bother with Tolly’s notes, but she did bring out the box of wooden toys that David had carved for his half-brothers. Aldridge’s soldiers were particularly fine, the paint barely flaking. David had made them for Aldridge’s twelfth birthday, and Aldridge never touched them again after Haverford threw David out.

Four-year-old Jonathan had been grief-stricken, though not as broken-hearted as Aldridge. Not that Aldridge spoke of it, then or later, but she’d seen the change in him; seen, too, the devastation he’d suffered when he and David met again, just a few years ago, only to be split even more decisively. That time, he’d admitted to Eleanor that he blamed himself: for Haverford’s actions when he was twelve and David seventeen, and for the mistake that nearly cost David the life of the women he and Aldridge both loved.

Eleanor ran her hands over the scarred and dented head of the push-along toy David had made Jonathan so he wouldn’t feel left out when Aldridge got his present. The stick to push it had long since gone. It had been Jonathan’s favourite toy for years, till the pegs that made the legs move broke so they dangled, and the paint was completely worn away. A few specks of the bright colours it had been painted remained in the cracks. Eleanor kept it as a memento of the happy times with all three boys, when they stayed at Haverford Castle, and the duke did not.

Perhaps it could be repaired? If Jonathan ever married and had a son, she would like him to have it.

She chuckled at her own hopeful dreams. Certainly, nothing in his letter indicated the approach of that day! And, to be fair, he had no need to wed. He was a second son, independently wealthy, and could please himself. She just wished he would do it in England.

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A prayer-poem for Sunday

St. Francis of Assisi

Would I might wake St. Francis in you all,
Brother of birds and trees, God’s Troubadour,
Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;
Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men,
Come, let us chant the canticle again
Of mother earth and the enduring sun.
God make each soul the lonely leper’s slave;
God make us saints, and brave.

Vachel Lindsay
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Paradise is a garden

The Paradise Garden at Hamilton Gardens

Creative inspiration is a strong and wonderful thing. Artists — storytellers in particular — are often asked where their ideas come from. The answer ‘everywhere’, though true, is unhelpful. What questioners really want to know is ‘why did this idea strike you at this time’.

The Greeks credited the muses — nine goddesses who inspired the arts. The Jews spoke of Holy Wisdom. My friend Caroline Warfield calls inspiration the girls upstairs. I tend to blame an infestation of plot elves.

Stories and the elements that enrich the weave of a story are all around us all the time. Most people notice one or two of the hundreds of possible ideas that pass them every day. An author might pick up a dozen. Knowing what to do with them matters more.

Several years ago, Caroline and her beloved visited New Zealand. On the day they arrived, we had lunch at Hamilton Gardens, which has more than a dozen themed gardens: Japanese, English cottage, Chinese, Maori vegetable, formal Italian.

We were both writing novellas for the coming Belle’s Christmas collection, Follow Your Star Home, and in the Mughal garden, I found a unifying idea that later became the inspiration for the title of the book, the name of the kingdom my hero and heroine rule, and one of the locations for the story. My photos of that garden also appear on the cover.

The hero and heroine were the parents of the lead characters in my current series, The Return of the Mountain King, and the novella is now published as a prequel. It is called Paradise Regained. I’m currently publishing the companion volume, about the girl James left behind when he left England, on Mondays. It is called, of course, Paradise Lost. Once I finish the fourth novel in the series, which will be within the month, I’m going to write a happy ending for my poor duchess, call it Paradise Attained, and publish it in a volume with the other two novellas.

Paradise is a garden

The garden we found in Hamilton was a chahar bagh. The term means ‘four gardens’. It’s a quadrilateral layout, with the quarters divided by walkways or flowing water into four smaller parts and a pavilion at one end raised on a terrace. One of the world’s most famous tombs, the Taj Mahal, was originally a chahar bagh, though only two of the gardens remain.

Gardens divided by watercourses first appeared in Mesopotamia, and were later adopted by the followers of Islam. It may have been the Islamic influence that fixed the shape to four, referencing the four gardens of Paradise that are mentioned in the Qur’an. Genesis, too, mentions the central spring that feed four rivers, each flowing into the world beyond. The concept travelled with Islam, so charar bagh gardens are found from India to Morocco.

“In  Chahār-Bāghs,  terraces symbolize  the  cosmic mountains,  the  creation of  the  edifice  or throne  at  the highest level represents the position of God. A great pool is placed in front of the edifice representing the cosmic ocean as the source of all waters which can irrigate the whole garden. The presence of trees, flowers and animals around the edifice complement the figure of the universe” (Farahani, Motamed & Jamei, 2016 — from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/321014499_A_discourse_on_the_Persian_Chahar-Bagh_as_an_Islamic_garden).

The wall is a crucial design feature in making this a Paradise Garden. Indeed, the words para daisa mean walled garden — pairi = around, daeza = wall or brick.

As a gardener myself, I appreciate the protection a wall can offer a garden, and I also think of Francis Bacon’s quote as I garden.

God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.

Paradise Regained

In Paradise Regained, you’ll find the heroine, Mahjad, relaxing in the chahar bagh her husband built for her as a wedding present. Mahzad and James have called their kingdom, built high in the Kopet Dag mountains between Iran and Turkmenistan Para Daisa Vada — Paradise Valley. And the story is about temptation — particularly for James.

In discovering the mysteries of the East, James has built a new life. Will unveiling the secrets in his wife’s heart destroy it?

James Winderfield yearns to end a long journey in the arms of his loving family. But his father’s agents offer the exiled prodigal forgiveness and a place in Society — if he abandons his foreign-born wife and children to return to England.

With her husband away, Mahzad faces revolt, invasion and betrayal in the mountain kingdom they built together. A queen without her king, she will not allow their dream and their family to be destroyed.

But the greatest threats to their marriage and their lives together is the widening distance between them. To win Paradise, they must face the truths in their hearts.

Find buy links at Books2read https://books2read.com/paradiseregained

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This video shows the Paradise Gardens section of Hamilton Gardens. The chahar bagh is on from 3:12 to 3:46, but the rest are lovely, too.

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Excerpt

The courtyard had been designed to catch and hold the fickle warmth of the mountain sun. Even in early winter, Mahzad and her ladies chose to settle in the pavilion, out of the direct heat, though the children and their nursemaids played on the paving by the cross-shaped pool at the centre of the garden.

James had ordered it built: a paradise garden on the Persian chahar bāgh model, centred on water and divided into four quadrants, each richly planted in vivid colours. It had been her wedding present, and somehow, their tribe had managed to keep it a secret from their queen, though the qaḷʿa, the citadel, buzzed with intrigue until James had brought her here, blindfolded.

It had been full summer, and the garden had been glorious but not as beautiful to her eyes as the face of her husband, eyes alight with mischief, with love, and with a promise for later that night when the court was asleep. They had crept down when the qaḷʿa fell silent, giggling when the patrolling guards politely averted their eyes. Mahzad was confident their eldest son, Jamie, had been conceived that night.

She had been so in love, had been convinced that James had forgotten the English woman for whom he was exiled from his home and had fallen in love with her.

Eleven years and eight children later, her love was deeper and stronger than ever, but she no longer believed that James returned the feeling. He was fond of her, yes. He respected her as his wife and queen, katan to his kagan, but the passion of the soul? No. She reached for it with her own and met only the barrier of blank civility with which he armored himself from the world.

When he was home, he was distant if polite, and he had not been home in more than seven months. His trips away had become longer and longer, his letters home more and more formal. He was about the business of their kaganate, which prospered under their rule, but he had never before failed to be home for a birth of one of their children.

Mahzad dropped a kiss on baby Rosemary’s dark hair, handed the sleeping baby to the hovering nursemaid, and sent one of her ladies to summon her secretary. She had work to do. She was co-ruler of their people and did not have time to waste mourning the fickleness of men.

The messenger was only halfway down the long side of the garden when Patma came hurrying down the steps from the zenana, the women’s section of the palace. Even from the other end of the garden, Mahzad could see that her secretary was agitated about something. She had lost the calm she had adopted as chief of Mahzad’s scribes, her usual elegant glide abandoned for a walk that bordered on a run, her eyes wide with excitement. She was not surrounded by the bevy of undersecretaries who carried her desk and writing tools, prepared her ink, ran her messages, and made copies of lesser documents.

No. There they were, just stepping out of the long doors onto the zenana’s terrace. Patma must have hurried some distance to have so outstripped them.

The secretary did not pause when she passed Mahzad’s messenger, speaking over her shoulder as she skirted a small child pushing a toy pony and hurried up the steps to the pavilion. She stopped at the top of the steps to kick off her footwear before venturing on to the rugs that lay everywhere and then composed herself enough to offer a polite greeting, bowing as she said, “Peace be upon you, my queen.”

“Peace, most excellent of scholars,” Mahzad responded, inclining her head as she waited for the younger woman to burst with whatever news she carried.

(The original version of this post was written for Highlighting Historical, Caroline Warfield’s blog, in 2019.)

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Reunited on WIP Wednesday

Morland, George; The Soldier’s Return; Lady Lever Art Gallery; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-soldiers-return-102607

A lot of my short stories and novellas use the childhood sweethearts reunited plotline. It’s fun, for one thing. It lets me use more mature characters, for another. And, in shorter fiction, it gives credibility, since the romance can continue from where it left off once they are reunited, rather than needing to develop from first attraction to happy ending in just a few thousand words.

Here’s the opening of my next newsletter short story, due to be sent out in the next few days. If you have a reunion scene, please feel free to share it in the comments.

At first, Magda thought it a prank. There Luke was, stretched out prone across the vegetable garden between the onions and the cabbages, crushing the spring carrots. At any moment, he would leap up laughing, as he had once before, long ago, when they were children.

Perhaps not a prank, then, but a humorous reminder of the years of their friendship, long ago, before the earl’s younger son was sent away to join the army a month from his eighteenth birthday. He’d been gone for fifteen years, until she spied him in the tavern this afternoon, drinking with their old friends from the village, Will from the tavern and Ned from the forge.

After Luke left, Will and Ned had not been able to stand out against their parents and maintain—at least in public—their friendship with the witch’s by-blow granddaughter against the steadfast enmity of the wives of both the squire and the earl.

They were sisters, Luke’s mother Lady Compton, now the Dowager Countess, and Lady Frederick Barlow, widow of the squire who had preferred to ignore Magda’s existence and mother of the squire who, even today, made her life as difficult as he could.

Despite their parents and the two ladies, Will and Ned watched over her from a distance, keeping the squire’s sons from any but the more the subtle forms of persecution. Several times they had risked their own necks, or at least the displeasure of the two most prominent families in the district, to protect her from unpleasant advances and outright assault by nasty friends visiting the young gentlemen of those families.

Old friendship, too, must have been the reason why Will employed her as a cook, once he took over his father’s tavern. A job meant wages so she could look after Gran, and save a nest egg to escape from this place.

Luke was still lying on her carrots. Perhaps he did not realise she was there. “Luke?” Though she supposed, now that she was no longer fifteen nor he eighteen, she should call him Lord Lucas. Or Major De Grenville, perhaps. “Major De Grenville?”

He did not move. Did not spring to his feet, his sea-blue eyes dancing, asking her to share the joke. Now that she was closer, she saw the bruise on his cheek, and a trickle of blood, dried now, that had meandered down his neck from the hair at the back of his head.

She leaned closer; skimmed her fingers over the matted evidence of an assault or fall. Though if a fall, he must have descended from a height head first, for the lump was high up in his hair and had split with the force of the blow.

Magda felt for the pulse in Luke’s neck, and released a breath she had not been aware of holding when it throbbed, strong and even, under her fingers. She pressed his left shoulder with her hand and spoke to him again. “Major De Grenville?”

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 7

“Your Grace, enclosed please find reports of the interviews I conducted on your behalf into the journey of the boy David. He seems a nice lad. I will look forward to hearing how he goes on. Sincerely yours, Tolly.

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Gerald Ficklestone-Smythe
Manager of Cowbridge Mine, Llanfair

The boy was gone when I got back from the funeral. Little bastard. I told him I’d kick him to next Tuesday if dinner wasn’t on the table, but nothing was prepared, and he was nowhere to be found. And he’d let the fire go out. He’ll come back when he’s hungry, and I’ll have the skin off his back, see if I don’t.

Where else is he going to go? London? To the duchess? My slut of a daughter told the boy to go to the duchess when she was dead, but he is stupid if he thinks she’s going to want her husband’s by-blow, and so I told him when I took the money she’d left with his mother. I had a right to it, didn’t I? I took his mother back after the duke had finished with her. I gave her a home. I even let her keep the boy.

The duke owed me that money. Yes, and more. Made a harlot out of my daughter, and turned her off with a measly few hundred pounds. Wouldn’t pay more when that ran out. Then, when my daughter lay dying and couldn’t keep house for me anymore, that pernicious swine sent his wife to steal the boy I raised, promising him I don’t know what.

Now the bitch is dead, and the boy can’t be found, but where could he have gone? He has no money for the coach fare, and it’s a long walk to London, especially with winter coming on, and the Black Mountains between here and England.

He’s no fool, the boy. He’ll be back.

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Jeremiah Penchsnith
Captain of the Merry Molly, Bristol

We didn’t find the lad till we was near Avonmouth. ‘E was ‘id in the coal, but we saw ‘im when ‘e tried to escape over the side. ‘E fair wriggled when we caught ‘im, begged us to let ‘im go. But ‘e owed us ‘is passage, and so I told him.

If we let away every lad who wanted a free trip over the Bristol Channel, we might as well set up as a ferry, and that’s what I said.

Give the lad credit, ‘e worked ‘ard. Four trips ‘e did wiv us, not counting the first. And then he left us in Bristol. I’d’ve kept ‘im on, I would. Good worker, that lad. I ‘ope ‘e gets where ‘e’s going.”

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Maggie Wakefield
Farmer’s wife, Ditchford Frary, East Cotswolds

He was a mystery, young David. Turned up in a snow storm, he did. Bessie the dog found him when Matthew went out after the sheep, huddled up in the midst of the flock where they’d taken shelter in the lee of the old stone wall.

Matthew brought them all home: boy and sheep, the boy limping along on a stick because his ankle was swollen to twice its size. “I’ve a lamb for you to warm by the fire, mother,” Matthew said, and then stood aside. Just a sprain, it turned out to be, but a bad one. I would not turn man or beast out in weather like that, let alone a boy, and no more would Matthew, so of course we let David stay.

Where did he come from in that awful weather? Wales, he said, but that couldn’t be, could it? Wales is a long way away, across the wolds and then the water. And mountains, too, they say.

David was a good boy, so perhaps he was telling the truth. He made himself useful until he could walk again. He was a good hand in the kitchen, and he read to me and Matthew at night, which was a great blessing, for our eyes are not what they were. Not that I’ve ever read more than enough to piece together a few verses from the Bible. Not like David. It was a treat to listen to him, and I was sorry when he left.

But he had people waiting for him, he said, so off he went, off to London. We got him a lift as far as Oxford with Jem Carter. I hope he made it to his people. A fine boy like that? They would have been missing him, I’m sure.

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Sir Philip Westmacott
Gentleman, London

My tiger? He’s taken off. Ungrateful brat. Good boy with the horses, too. But there you go. That’s what I get for taking a boy off the streets. I found him in Oxford, you know. Oh yes, I told you before, didn’t I. He made sure I got back to my inn after a rather exciting evening. Didn’t rob me, either, though he could have. I was somewhat—er—elevated.

I told him to come back in the morning for his reward, and he was waiting outside in the stable yard when I woke. And all he wanted was to come to London with me. I bought him a suit of clothing, of course. Couldn’t be seen with him in the rags he had. Not livery. Not in Oxford. But I thought silver blue, to set off his dark hair. It would have looked stunning against my matched blacks.

We arrived late at night, and in the morning he was gone. Ungrateful brat.

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Henry Bartlett
Gatekeeper, Haverford House, London

Of course I didn’t let him in. A boy like that? Tidily dressed enough, and nicely spoken, but what child of substance is allowed to walk around the streets? But he wasn’t a street urchin, neither. He asked if he could send a note, and he wrote it right there on a piece of paper I found him. Never was a street urchin that could read and write.

Anyway, I sent it in to the duchess. Told him he’d have to wait, but it wasn’t but an hour before Her Grace’s own maid came down to fetch him, and the next thing I knew, he was part of the household.

He seems a pleasant enough lad; always polite. But it just doesn’t seem right, raising the duke’s bastard under the same roof as his legal sons. The duke agrees, or so goes the talk in the servant’s hall. But the duchess got her way, this time. And we’re all to treat the boy as if he were gentleman. Her Grace has hired him a tutor, and word is he’s off to Eton in the autumn. And the little Marquis follows him around like a puppy dog.

What will be the end of it, do you suppose?

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Why I write — and why historical romance

At the weekly book talk that my Bluestocking Belles’ sisters and I hold on Facebook, today’s topic was ‘Why do we do what we do’. That is, why do we authors write and sell books.

Great topic, so I thought I’d answer it again here.

Why do I write?

I write because otherwise the stories build up in my head and if I don’t shape them and form them into a completed story, I’m afraid my head will explode. This happens. When for some reason I can’t write, I begin to have really weird vivid dreams that wake me up, and snippets of story also attack me during the day when I ought to be doing something else. I

It is true that when the writing is going well, I also have vivid and specific dreams in which my subconscious minds solves plot problems. I also either can’t get to sleep or wake up from sleep with a section of story that I just have to get down. And I think in story all day long, even when I should be doing something else.

On the other hand, when I’m not writing, I also get jittery, anxious and bad tempered. Writing keeps me even.

If you think it sounds like some sort of addiction, you are probably right.

Why do I write historical romance?

I write what I love. I have written in a number of genres, but the first fiction book I published was an historical romance (Candle’s Christmas Chair), and I wrote that while waiting for beta reading feedback on the first novel I’d finished in nearly forty years, also historical romance (Farewell to Kindness).

When I started Farewell, I had collected more than 40 plots, most of them historical romance and all of those regency. Regency romance is one of my favourite genres for my own reading. I find it absorbing when it is done well. And when it isn’t, I’m inspired to do better. I find the Regency era fascinating, and a great medium through which to think about issues and challenges that face couples, families and our society today.

Here’s a blog I wrote five years ago about the ten reasons I read (and write) historicals. Still true.

The other reason for sticking (mostly) to Regency is commercial. I haven’t finished the Regency series I’ve started, and I owe those unwritten books to my readers before I wander off into another genre. Furthermore, I’m (somewhat) known under my Regency pen name. If I write speculative fiction or contemporary mysteries or even in another era, do I need another pen name? Will I need to find an entire group of new readers? Will I upset my current readers? (Genuine questions. I don’t know.)

Why do I publish?

I write for myself, in other words. But, as Caroline pointed out in our chat, I revise, polish and publish for readers.

Readers are an essential part of what makes my story into a book. As long as it is only in my head and even as long as I am the only one that has read it, it doesn’t truly exist as a book. It’s just a story I’m muttering to myself. A book has readers. The reader brings her (or his — I’m an equal opportunities romance writer) experiences and emotions to the story, interprets the characters and events through her filters, and get stuff out of the story that I didn’t know I put there.\

Every book is a collaboration between the writer and the readers, and they make the magic together.

I sell my books because the money I earn funds covers, professional copy editors, subscriptions to all the services that allow me to produce and market my books, research materials such as course in Regency London and books about Napoleonic France, and a myriad of other expenses. If I didn’t sell my books, I couldn’t afford to write them.

And I sell my books in the hopes that I will one day sell enough to make a surplus. We are now living on retirement income, so a bit of extra income would be much appreciated.

So that’s why I write

How about you? If you’re a reader, why do you read the books you choose to give part of your life to? If you’re a writer, why do you write?

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If you’d like to join the Bluestocking Belles and chat about books and writing, we meet every Saturday at 1pm. (New York time — it is currently at 5am Sunday morning for me in New Zealand. Roll on daylight savings changes at both ends!) The post in which we chat in the comments is always pinned to the top of the group, which is: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BellesBrigade We’d love to see you there.