Author: judeknight

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An odd snippet of history

I’ve started thinking about my newsletter story for February. My inspiration this time is the Seekers song, The Carnival is Over.

When I looked up the lyrics to see if I’d remembered them correctly, I found out that Tom Springfield, who wrote the lyrics, had adapted a tune to a Russian song, written in the late nineteenth century, about a Cossack revolutionary and robber. In the original, the Cossack Stenka Razin is wedding a Persian princess, captured during a raid down through the Caspian Sea. After one night, his followers accuse him of allowing his woman to make him soft. So he picks her up and throws her into the Volga River in order to keep peace within his band.

What a chilling little tale as background to a lovely song!

See a video clip of the Seekers singing The Carnival is Over. For the original lyrics to the Stenka Razin song and a translation, scroll through the Wikipedia article, here.

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Gossip on WIP Wednesday

Drawn and engraved by Robert Cruikshank 

The gossip trope that often appears in Regency novels has been given a wider audience by screening of Brigerton. As one of the perpetrators of The Teatime Tattler, it’s one I’m fond of. You can do a lot with gossip, and–of course–it’s not just specific to the Regency!

So this week, I’m sharing an excerpt in which my hero of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover goes seeking gossip about his beloved. I’d love you to share an excerpt from your work in progress where you use gossip to further the plot.

Nate found that Sarah’s interest in finally choosing a husband had caught the attention of the bored young men who inhabited the clubs, moved in packs to entertainments in both high and low society, and whiled away their hours by wagering, gossiping, and competing within their set: corinthians, dandies, young blades.

“The Winderfield Diamond?” said one rakish gentleman, when Nate managed to bring her name into a conversation over brandy. “Nothing there. She looks lovely, I’ll grant you, but not safe. Even before those terrifying cousins arrived, a man’d risk his future offspring getting too close. Seems very sweet, right up until she freezes you into an ice block.”

“And her sister!” His friend shuddered. “Cut you into little strips with her tongue, that one.”

“Anyway,” Rake One commented, “she’s looking for a groom. Don’t know why this season, when she’s turned down more proposals than any other female on the Marriage Mart. Truth to tell, I only chanced my arm because of that. I usually leave the virgins alone, but I thought she’d decided on spinsterhood.”

“Anyone would have,” his friend commiserated. “Did myself.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t like men.”

“Then why is she getting married?” the first rake asked.

They considered the perplexing conundrum of a woman who did not find their advances appealing while Nate thought about how satisfying it would be to punch them.

Someone sitting nearby interrupted their silence. “Bit of a honey pot all around. Looks, money, connections. A man could do worse. And if she doesn’t warm up in bed, that’s what mistresses are for.”

“Good luck with that,” another opined. “She’s already turned away don’t-know-how-many fortune hunters. The war office should hire her mother and her aunt. Their intelligence gathering is impeccable.”

The topic drifted and circled, but kept coming back to what gossip had gleaned about Sarah’s intentions and expectations. Nate didn’t have to say a word. He sat and sipped his brandy, and before an hour had passed, he had a list of eight men that, the company agreed, the Winderfield Diamond was considering.

Other conversations added two more, and rounded out a picture of a settled man with interests beyond fashion, gambling, and sports. Of the seven landowners, four were peers and three untitled gentlemen. The three younger sons all had independent incomes from their own successful enterprises, one as a Member of Parliament in Commons, one an architect, and one a barrister. Nine of the ten preferred country to London living. Four were widowers, two with children.

One factor they had in common was that all had a name as philanthropists, in some measure. That was another thing Nate had learned about the Winderfield family in general and Sarah and her twin in particular; they not only supported good causes, they actively worked in charitable ventures as diverse as barefoot schools, orphanages, and support for military widows and their children.

Most of the useless fribbles who gossiped in his hearing were contemptuous of such efforts. “Not going to be able to make silk out of that kind of sow’s ear.” The young viscount expressing that opinion was only saying what his fellows thought. “They’re born in the gutter and they belong there. Don’t have the brains for anything else, and will rob you soon as look at you.”

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Tea with Lord and Lady Gamford

“How kind of you to invite us, Your Grace,” said the Marchioness of Gamford, with a graceful curtsey. She was a tall woman, but the husband bowing beside her was even taller. So this was a godson she had not seen since his uncle sent him overseas more than seven years ago, in part to separate him from his bride.

They’d been wed as children. Eleanor would have prevented such an early marriage, had she any sway with the father of either bride or groom. But those two best friends had made up their mind, and would listen to no one. Not their wives. Not their brothers. And certainly not the children themselves.

The friends’ deaths a few days later, in an ill-fated curricle race, had allowed the families to keep the newly weds apart. Somehow, they had survived their separation with their marriage intact, and in love, unless Eleanor was very much mistaken. Which she was not. Not even a fool could miss how Lord Gamford hovered over his wife, seating her as if she were made of delicate porcelain, and Lady Gamford, in turn, looked up at him as if he had hung the moon and stars, all for her delight.

“It is very kind of you to come, my dears,” Eleanor replied. “I do hope you will call me Aunt Eleanor, for I am godmother to Hal, here, and hope to be friend to you both.”

“Please call me Willa,” the marchioness requested, lowering her lashes, shyly.

She served them each with their preference of tea, and before long, they were chattering like old friends, and Eleanor was delighted to have her curiosity about their courtship satisfied without any vulgar questions.

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To find out about Hal’s meeting with the grown up Willa, read “The Marquis Returns” in Chasing the Tale. This collection of elevenshort stories is currently USD 99c, but will go up to $2.99 shortly.

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Happy New Year

Every Saturday at 1pm Eastern US time, the Bluestocking Belles host a one hour discussion on the Belles Brigade Facebook Group. We take it in turns to lead, and I have January, so hosting a conversation about the new year seemed inevitable. The thing is, 2020 sucked in multiple ways for many many people. And 2021 has started in a way that has prompted all sorts of jokes. You’ve heard the one that goes, “They told me to cheer up because things could be worse. So I cheered up, and things got worse.” Or the conversation between 2020 and 2021. 2020: I’m the worst year anyone alive has known. 2021: Hold my drink.

Sure enough, in the week after I set up the event for yesterday and promoted the topic, things got worse, with a tragedy in my family, bad news on the Covid front, and the sad situation that unfolded before our eyes in Washington on Wednesday.

So I decided to take a different approach. Rather than focusing on the year as a whole (the one that’s been or the one that’s started), I asked people to think of one thing last year that gave them joy, and one thing they hope for, that they can remember at this time in January 2022.

I thought I’d share with you my answers, and I’d love to hear yours. Please put them in the comments.

A number of things have given me joy this year, but the one I’m choosing to focus on is finding and buying the townhouse that we intend to have as our home for the remainder of our lives or for as long as we can continue to live independently, whichever comes first. We’re doing a lot of renovation, but it is going to be perfect for us. On the book front, I’m grateful that my plot elves came back to work part way through the year, and the long gap in publishing that resulted from their silence ended on 15 December. I’ve two books finished and coming to a store near year in the first third of the year, two more heading towards their beta read, and several others planned.

In January next year, I want to be looking back at plans come to fruition: a finished house and garden, the completed four books in The Children of the Mountain King series 1, another Golden Redepenning, and three books in the Lion’s Zoo series all ready to publish in 2022, when I get the rights back to House of Thorns.

Your turn.

 

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Fact, Historical fiction, Fantasy

As the eighteenth century ended in revolution and war, fashions changed. Woman began wearing the simpler style of women’s clothing, known now as empire line, after the empire of Napoleon Bonaparte whose wife Josephine popularised the fashion.

But in the court of Queen Charlotte, queen of Great Britain, the hoops of her youth still prevailed. Which led to the bizarre fashion pictured above — an empire silhouette for the bodice, with a hoop, petticoat, and overskirt below. As if hoops weren’t enough to handle, the poor debutante of the time also had to handle a train, plus between three and eight ostrich plumes in her hair. Probably not pinned in place by a tiara, since tiaras were only for adults, and the girls being presented to the queen for the first time were generally too young to be regarded as adults. (Old enough to marry, though, since the purpose of their debut was to signal their availability as brides.)

All of which is by way of saying that, in the first episode of Brigerton, I picked up six historical errors before the first titles. The non-court style dress, the lack of ostrich feathers, the presence of the younger children in the audience at court… it goes on and on. By the time Anthony Brigerton dropped his pants, quite unnecessarily, since unbuttoning his fall would have been sufficient, I had quite sensibly given up.

The story Julia Quinn wrote was Fiction. The Shondaland version was Fantasy — a delightful froth with a mashup of fashions, practices, and historical miscellany. I loved it. I recommend it. It’s a delightful romp. And I hope it will lead to a greater interest in the genre I love. But if you’re going to watch it, leave your historical research knowledge at the door.

 

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Settings on WIP Wednesday

Once upon a time, authors might devote pages to descriptions of the setting. Even back in the day, did readers peruse every detail? I’m not sure that they did, and I’m certain they wouldn’t today. The trick is to establish setting and background in as few words as possible. Do you have a bit you’d like to share in the comments? Mine is from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, and introduces the reader to the home of my villainess.

In the half light just before dawn, the last of the club’s patrons stumbled out of the front door, those employees who did not reside in their place of work left through the back door, and the building slipped into its usual early morning slumber.

The club comprised two houses thrown into one in a street of four-story terraced houses. Behind, the areas that serviced the public rooms had spread to include the building’s neighbours in the parallel street, but that was not obvious from the front. There, apart from its double width, little set the building apart from its neighbours. Perhaps it was a little tidier; its window-sills and doors newly painted, its bricks scrubbed and firmly set in newly pointed mortar. Only the discreet brass sign beside the door identified it as very different from the family homes and boarding houses that surrounded it.

Heaven and Hell, the sign whispered, engraved into the brass in discrete italics, only an inch tall. To read it at all, even in the light of the lamp that had hung just above it all night, one needed to climb the steps from the street. No one came to the building without a personal referral, but occasionally, first-time visitors needed reassurance that they were in the right place before they were emboldened to knock on the door.

A glimpse through the open door as the porter allowed entry  would leave a passerby with an impression of light and gilt. Members, or those referred by members, were surrounded by opulence as soon as they stepped inside. Opulence and decadence. In Heaven and Hell, nothing was forbidden. Everything was available for a price.

The woman known as La Reine, the ruler of the brothel Heaven that occupied the two upper floors of the main house, retired to her personal sitting room in a penthouse suite above the mean street behind the club. It had been a profitable night, at least upstairs. Supper was laid ready, and when her business partner joined her, she would find out how things went in Hell, the gambling establishment on the lower two floors.

 

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Tea with hopes and dreams

Her Grace had never bothered with New Year resolutions. Her father had refused to countenance the practice within his household. Instead, he held to the Christmas Octave, to be commemorated with all due solemnity. Once she married, her husband saw the changing of one year to another as an opportunity for even more excess than usual, and his celebrations had no place for a mere wife.  She spent her Christmas and New Year ensconced in whatever of the ducal estates pleased His Grace, her company comprising the servants and whichever of Haverford’s indigent relatives lived there by his miserly favour.

In time, especially after she had given the duke his heir and a second son as a spare, she built her confidence and her own life. Her Christmas parties had become famous, lasting for three weeks from before Christmas until the Feast of the Epiphany, six days after New Year’s Day. She had never seen anything particularly significant about the first of January. It was, after all, just another day.

For some reason, this year felt different. No. What was she if she could not be honest even if only to herself? This year was different because at long last she knew that her cage would soon open, and she thought — or at least she hoped — that old wrongs might at last be righted.

Sitting in her parlour, she sipped tea as she considered the coming year. The long war was over, the Emperor Napoleon confined to St Helena’s. That was cause for hope, surely? The country faced serious problems: poor harvests, unrest among the working poor,  a huge population of ex-soldiers and sailors released from the forces and thrown onto the streets to cope with the aftermath of injuries both physical and mental. But the war was over. Her eldest ward had wed during the year, and was expecting a happy event. Eleanor had hopes that Matilda’s younger sister, Jessica, might find a match in the coming season.

And as she thought about all that she was thankful for on the wider stage of Great Britain and the more personal canvas of her family and friends, the duchess conceded that she was still avoiding thoughts about the key change that gave a lift to her heart and a smile to her face.

“I feel guilty,” she acknowledged. “I am rejoicing in another person’s pain, and I should not, even if he well deserves it. And yet…”

And yet it was unavoidable. The Duke of Haverford was dying, rotting from the inside, his manifold sins of lust come back to destroy him. In the past eighteen months, his periods of madness had increased in intensity and duration, until he could no longer be released from the careful stewardship of the custodians her son had appointed. The doctors warned that the next spell, or the one after, or the one after that would carry him off. A vein would burst in one of the lesions in his brain, or his damaged heart would fail, or some other physical manifestation of his moral perfidy would carry him off.

“It will be a release for him,” she assured herself, well aware that it was her own release she yearned for. She had been a faithful wife to a faithless and cruel man. Was it any wonder that his demise was an event awaited with anticipation?

Never mind that James was back in England, that they were friends again, that he looked on her with a warmth in his eyes that set her tingling. He had said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say. But deep down, she hoped.

 

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Broken families on WIP Wednesday

I’m beginning to get my first comments back on the beta draft of To Mend the Broken Hearted, so I thought I’d give you a piece. Val’s sister-in-law and Ruth’s cousin have stolen his little girl as revenge, and Ruth was captured when she went after them. Ruth’s family and Val’s comrades from the army have banded together to get Ruth and Genny back.

This story is about family. Val’s family is broken, but with Ruth’s help, he’ll rebuild what he can. Her family is split in two, with half left behind in the East. Another kind of break. Still, love binds them together.

Do you write about families? Born, made, or cobbled together? Share an excerpt in the comments.

Every strategy had risks, as the duke said when he summed up the discussion that followed. “We don’t have any idea where in the house our ladies are being kept. If we break in, they may be hurt before we can get to them. If we wait until morning, or whenever Wharton chooses to emerge, our ladies may be suffering right now, and we’ll be standing by while it happens.”

Val had been examining the house from where they stood in the cover of the stables. “What if we could get in from the top? Find an empty room in the attics and enter that way? If we could get even a couple of people inside, and they could find our ladies…?”

“It would be a tough climb,” Rutledge mused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the idea.

“I could do it,” Drew offered. “It’s our best chance, Kaka. If we can find our ladies and take out their guard, we can defend them while the rest of you make a full on assault.”

The duke gave a sharp nod, and Drew fell into a quiet conversation with one of his warriors, while the pair of them removed their gloves, their jackets, their boots and their stockings. “Kaka, we’ll ascend between the porch pillars and the side of the house, then walk that bit of pediment, climb up where that wing meets the main house, and make our way to the roof. We should be able to drop down to that bit of roof by the gable there,” he pointed to each feature as he named it. “The window is slightly open, so there may be someone inside. We’ll make a decision on whether to enter or keep looking once we’ve got up there. Once we’re inside, watch for us to signal that we’ve found the ladies.”

The duke nodded again. “And then we’ll attack. We will be ready, my son.”

Val watched in agonised envy as Drew and his companion ascended the house face, taking it in turns to lead, the lower one often offering a foothold for the other, who then would pause to reach back for his partner. I should be doing that. But even when he had both hands, he couldn’t climb the way those two did.

“They are quite mad,” Jamie murmured in his ear. “Back at home, they used to climb rockfaces for fun. Still do. The pair of them are making a list of all the mountains in Wales and Scotland with climbs they consider worth doing.”

Around them, the men dispersed, one group to each face of the house, to choose windows to break through when the signal came. Val stayed, watching the climbers approach the attic window.

They were almost there when the window opened wide, and someone leaned out of it. Val stepped out of the shadow, staring. “Ruth!” It was. She and Drew were embracing through the open window, and then she stepped back out of sight and returned to help Genny climb out of the window into Drew’s waiting arms.

He settled the child on his back, clinging like a monkey, and Ruth followed her out the window. “What is she doing?” Jamie asked. “Ah! I see.” Ruth had taken off her pelisse and her shoes and stockings. She looped her skirt up between her legs and bound it in place by tying her pelisse around her waist by the sleeves. She used her sash to tie Genny to Drew’s back.

Val waited, his heart in his mouth, and Drew led the way down, Ruth following, and his friend bringing up the rear, helping Ruth whenever she had trouble making progress. Never had five minutes moved so slowly, but at last Drew set one foot and then another onto the ground, and Val was there to untie his little girl and take her in his arms.

 

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Spotlight on Short Stories

I occasionally hear people say that they don’t like short stories. I love them. I acknowledge that they’re a different art form to a novel, or even a novella. But when life is rushed and there’s little time for reading, there’s nothing like the mini-escape — the micro-holiday — of a shorter form of fiction.

Even novels are only part of a story–they have a beginning and an ending, which real life lacks (even conception and death being but punctuation points in the larger story of a community or a family). In a novel, though, the author has time to draw out the motivations and history of the main participants, maybe to follow several plot lines, to allow characters to develop and change, and to solve complex problems and untwist complicated knots. This gives novels their fascination, and the larger and more complicated the novel, the more some people seem to like it. A series with an overarching plot is a wonderful thing, allowing three, six, ten–even fifteen (in some cases) individual full stops within a larger story that spans the entire series.

Novella–that is, 20,000 to 40,000 words of story–are animals of quite a different description. When writing them, I’ve found it best to limit the cast of characters and reduce the plot lines to one major and maybe one minor. Novellas still allow for a problem to be solved, a character to grow, a relationship to be formed.

Short stories, though, are vignettes–paintings of a moment in time. The past is hinted at; character development is minimal; motivations are brushed on in broad strokes; only the main characters stand out and the rest are reduced to background. The shorter the story, the harder the craft of making a satisfying read. And I do love a challenge.

A well crafted short story may leave you wishing it was longer, but is also satisfying. The end is leaves you free to catch that bus, pick those children up, pack up that lunch and return to your desk, turn off the light and go to sleep. Short stories are fun.

So what do you say? Short, novella, short novel or long novel, series or stand-alone? Or (my answer) “Yes, please,” to all.

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This Christmas, I have a novella and a short story in the Belles’ 2020 Christmas collection Holiday Escapes, published in November and comprising four novellas and two short stories. I’ve also just published eleven short stories in Chasing the Tale. I hope you enjoy them.