One Hour in Freedom is still free. Sale ends soon.
Lion’s Zoo
Today is release day for The Darkness Within.
Cults in history
Let’s define the term cult. I’m using it to mean a relatively small group led by a charismatic and self-appointed leader.
Some of them grow, develop, transcend the need for the single leader, and become religions. Some of them make no particular impact on society as a whole and fall quietly apart when the leader dies. Some explode spectacularly when their beliefs lead them to break laws. My cult is based on historical precedent.
As to the reactions of my cult members to the corruption of their leaders, that, too, is based on historical precedent. Those who have been forced to see that their cult beliefs are untrue will, according to their natures and the reactions of those closest to them, go down fighting, adopt the beliefs of their invaders or rescuers, give up all beliefs and become determined cynics, or choose to die.
Whatever support is offered, whatever the evidence that they have been lied to, ultimately, each person makes their own choice about how to respond.
My cult might appear extreme on the surface, but a brief examination of cults in history will show cults with far more bizarre beliefs—and practices—than those adopted in Famberwold’s “Heaven.”
Were there cults in Regency England? I’m sure there were, just as there were in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century England. By the definition above, we could include the Quakers (mid-17th century) and the Shakers (mid-18th century), both of which sects went on to become religious sects within Christianity.
In 1837, not many years after this book is set, John Humphrey Noyes wrote to a friend, “In a holy community,” he wrote to a friend, “there is no more reason why sexual intercourse shall be restrained by law than why eating and drinking should be, and there is as little occasion for shame in the one case as in the other.” This was in the United States, and he went on to found a religion that included, among its beliefs, that John Humphrey was perfect and without sin.
And the rest of the nineteenth and the twentieth century produced many other cults, some even more bizarre.
We cannot expect to know how many charismatic leaders preached in their own backyards, developed a small group of followers, and were never heard of beyond their neighbourhoods.
As for violent or abusive cults, I cannot point you to solid evidence. Lots of gossip and even court cases, but at this distance, we don’t know how much was lies by critics for political gain—or neighbours for straightforward social or financial gain, for revenge or out of mass hysteria.
The Hellfire Club of the 18th century also doesn’t quite qualify. Their quasi-religious ceremonies (if they really happened) were theatre, not something the men involved really believed. The Cult of Reason (the Marquis de Sade was a proponent) and the Cult of the Supreme Being (Robespierre’s personal favourite) in post-Revolution France certainly had true believers, but they, too, don’t quite qualify, because even their believers knew they were manufactured religions.
The Marquis de Sade certainly taught a cult of the body, a veneration of the physical, and the sexual as channels of transcendence, and may well have been an influence on a young Famberwold.
None of these are as compelling as actual court, newspaper or survivor accounts and I cannot point you to any. However, absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence. We know that violent or abusive cults in modern times have only come to light when someone in their ranks speaks out, often after many years of abuse.
And that is in recent times. We are talking about early nineteenth century England, before the birth of the investigative journalist, at a time when the Government feared revolution and had the power to quash reports, and when any survivor who spoke of what they had been through was likely to face social exclusion.
So why not? My cult is possible.
I choose to believe that my cult is depressingly likely, but that its downfall is equally likely. And in that, this is a hopeful story. If such evil exists, it will ultimately overreach, as evil inevitably does. And then, if those who value goodness band together, evil can be overcome. The darkness will end. The sun will rise again. And in the morning, life—and love—will be worth having.
Questions are all that stand between us and the abyss
The Great Day of His Wrath 1851-3, John Martin
My beta readers are split on their opinions of The Darkness Within. Three think it is amazing. Two have been made deeply uncomfortable. They all agree it is not a traditional Regency, but I knew that.
The comments are all helpful, particular those about what people didn’t like. I’ve been rewriting the blurb to warn those who probably shouldn’t read this, and writing an author note to address some of the questions raised.
The question the process left me with was why I wrote this, and why now and why this way?
As you know if you’ve been following me for a while, I write by the seat of my pants, following the idea that next occurs to me. I can blame the plot elves, but the truth is that my muse responds to what is happening around me, in my own life, that of my friends, and in the world at large.
The Darkness Within takes place largely within a cult that isolates itself from the world, where the leader and his most senior disciples practice mind control, where dissension and doubts are socially unacceptable, and where happiness is mandatory.
On the surface, everything looks fine. Bland, as one of my beta readers pointed out, but fine. But underneath? The darkness within, as the title says.
When everyone agrees about everything, some of the people are either lying or having their minds controlled. It’s unhealthy. It’s scary. It’s not sustainable.
I was not aware, while I was writing, that I was making a social comment on the condition of a world that appears to be fracturing into disconnected realities, some of them less fact-based than others. Looking back, I see that I was.
I was also talking about what happens when a reality that has become divorced from the world at large collides with unpalatable facts. Some people need to be held accountable. Some can change. Some simply can’t live without the reality they believed in.
We can’t afford to become so rigid in our thinking that we are threatened when others believe differently, especially when our sense of community and the respect of our friends and family depends on a belief that is plain wrong.
We need to remain curious, to ask questions, to keep learning. And if, like the people in my fictional community of Heaven, asking question is likely to get us into deep trouble, there’s another question we should be asking.
Who is profiting from keeping us ignorant and obedient?
In The Darkness Within, it is the One. He is the best dressed, the best housed, and he’s making a mint. Even more, he is in command. Everyone believes him. Everyone adores him.
No wonder he doesn’t want anyone asking questions.
Tea with Rosa Gavenor
Rosa Gavenor waited for the butler to return and conduct her upstairs to the duchess who had commanded her presence. The double duchess, they called her in the ton, for she had been the wife of the Duke of Haverford for long enough that her son was a man entering his middle years when he inherited the title.
The duchess married again shortly after the end of her period of morning, becoming the Duchess of Winshire.
Rosa had been raised in isolation as the daughter of a gentleman who was librarian to a baron. She had never met even a single duchess, let alone a lady august enough to be chosen as wife by two dukes, one after the other.
This was without a doubt the most scary thing she had done during her visit to London.
She had been nervous about the visit, but determined to be a credit to her beloved husband. She had the wardrobe to look like a prosperous gentleman’s wife. She had purchased several afternoon gowns, two carriage ensembles, and a ball gown in Liverpool, at the same modiste who made her wedding gown and the other clothes that Hugh had ordered for her before they were married.
Hugh said what she had would be inadequate for a month in London, and appealed to the Countess of Ruthford, wife of Hugh’s beloved colonel, whom everyone except his wife called Lion.
Lady Ruthford agreed, and offered to take Rosa to her own modiste. Before the shopping trip was over, Rosa and Dorothea, the countess, were firm friends.
Then came the invitations. Hugh was far more popular, and have deeper connections into the upper reaches of the ton, than Rosa had realised. She had her own connection, of a sort, too. The Marquess of Raithby recognised her as a sort of a sister, since her aunt had been his father’s long-term mistress, much loved by both the marquess and his children.
Rosa very quickly found other married women she liked, and soon had invitations that did not depend on Hugh’s connections or those of the marquess. While much of the ton was as standoffish and smug as Hugh always said, he was correct, too, that people were people, no matter their status in life. She could ignore the self-centred and cruel, and enjoy those who were prepared to be friends.
What sort of a contact would the duchess prove to be? It didn’t matter. Hugh was doing business with the Duke of Haverford and with the Earl of Sutton, Winshire’s son and heir. As his wife, Rosa must make a good impression, or at the very least, not make a bad one.
Knowing how important this meeting was did not make the waiting any easier. It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an age before the butler returned, and invited Rosa to follow him.
The elegant and expensive decor was unusual for an English house, reminding Rosa that the duke had spent many years in the east. She did not have time to examine it, though, for the butler hurried up the staircase and along a wide hallway to an elegant parlour.
As soon as she saw the duchess’s smile, Rosa knew her worries were for nothing.
“My dear Rosa… may I call you Rosa? I feel that I know you, with what my god son, dear Raithby, has said. Come and sit down, my dear. Tell me all about yourself, and how I can help you and your dear husband.”
Rosa’s love story with Hugh (aka Bear) Gavenor is in Grasp the Thorn, free this month.
First kiss (or at least the preamble) on WIP Wednesday
The Darkness Within will be ready for beta readers tomorrow or the next day. Meanwhile, here is a excerpt.
His hands were stroking her, but instead of being soothed she found herself crying, great noisy gusts of tears. He lifted her in his arms and she found herself sitting on his lap, weeping into his shoulder. He murmured to her, over and over, variations of, “I will keep you safe, Serenity. I will never let him touch you.”
Slowly, the comfort of being held, and by this man, seeped into her and her tears dried. Perhaps he had given her some of his strength and courage. It came to her that she desired him, and that they were alone together. Her wedding would not happen. She was old and scarred. Perhaps no man would ever want her as wife.
Indeed, who knew what the future would hold? If they succeeded in bringing down Famberwold, would the village continue? Famberworld had always told them that his brother protected them from an outside world that hated virtue. Surely, he was wrong, for he was not a man of virtue. And, certainly, Max did not hate virtue. Far from it.
Whatever happened, Max would be gone. He had come to find Reuben, he had told them. Now he was staying to see them safe, and when Famberwold and his brother could no longer harm them, no doubt he would go, too.
She shifted on his shoulder so that she could see his face. I wonder if you would kiss me, Max? If I asked?
The soft expression he was wearing changed. Astonishment. Alarm. Desire? Oh dear. Did I say that out loud?
“Kiss you?” Max asked
I did say it aloud! She could feel her cheeks heat, and she hid her face in his shoulder, taking comfort from the fact he did not push her away. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I know I am too old, and ugly too, with my smallpox scars. Please forget I said anything. Besides, I am sure that a man such as you is popular with the wives of your village. I expect they are far lovelier than I, and they know how to kiss besides, so are able to please you.”
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him. “You are not ugly to me, Serenity. Those minor blemishes cannot disguise the beauty of your eyes and your figure, the loveliness of your hair. Though it is your character that draws me to you most of all. Your kindness to a stranger. Your patience with the children. The intelligence that had you seeing through the lies Famberwold told, and the loyalty that had you wanting to believe him. The courage that has you helping me, even though coming here was the last thing you wanted to do.”
His mention of courage had her stiffening her spine. “Then, if your wives would not object, would you kiss me, please? I want to know what it is like with a man I desire. Famberwold has given me several kisses since I became Chosen, and they were horrid, but I have seen kisses that…” She could not think of how to explain what she had seen—two people absorbed in one another, taking and giving in equal measure, separating only to kiss again, their smiles speaking of secrets and delights.
“I have no wives,” Max admitted, “and I am certain your kiss would please me, but Serenity, I am not worthy. I have a dark past. I have done terrible things. I will be leaving here as soon as I know you and the children are safe.”
Serenity stamped her foot, but took courage, because his words pushed her away, but his arms still held her. This fact kept her voice calm as she continued to plead. “I am not asking you to stay. I am asking for a kiss. Just one, Max. Please?”
December sale starts early
I’m participating in a couple of promotions this December, and needed Grasp the Thorn set to Free before they started. It took the retailers next to no time to respond, so it is free now. Grab it while you think of it, and while you’re at it, get the rest of the series!
Blurbs and trigger warnings on WIP Wednesday
Folks, for this WIP Wednesday, I want to trial a blurb. I’ve tried to embed a trigger warning (not the note at the end–that’s just a courtesy to people who like ballgowns). Let me know if you think it works. The thing is, I deal with some pretty nasty stuff, but off stage and mostly by implication. Have I gone too far?
The Darkness Within
To save her, he must lose her
Ever since he escaped his childhood abuser, Max has killed for a living — first as a sniper and assassin in the war against Napoleon, and later ridding the world of those whose power on those around them allowed them to commit evil without fear of punishment.
The dead burden what is left of his soul, and he wants to retire, and kill no more. When a search for a missing comrade takes him into a religious community, he feels he has found a home for the first time in his life.
But there are cracks in the innocent surface the village shows its visitors. Max discovers hints at what lies beneath even as he falls for Serenity, who has recently been appointed Goddess-Elect, the designated virgin to take her place as three-month wife of the community’s leader, the Incarnate One.
The secrets of the community put Serenity and others in dreadful danger. To save her, he must lose her, for if he draws on his hard-won skills to stop the abuse he discovers, she will recoil from the darkness of his soul.
Note: This book is largely set within a cult, so is not a typical Regency.
Tea with a worried son
Eleanor knew the signs. Anthony was worried about something. (She was so pleased that he had agreed to allow her to call him by his first name. He had been Aldridge since he was a babe in the cradle, but it made her stomach ache to call him Haverford, which was the proper way to address him, now. Haverford — her son’s father and her husband for nearly forty years — had always insisted on the formal address, and to address the son she loved by the title of the man she ha… that she did not love would be unpleasant, to say the least.)
Fortunately, Anthony and Cherry, his wife, were not keen on such formality when family were alone, so she could save the hated title for formal occasions, and even then found ways to address her beloved son without naming him. No doubt, in time, the memories would fade. Should she be fortunate enough to live long enough, Haverford past would be forgotten, and Haverford present would own the name, even in the mind of his predecessor’s widow.
Which was not to the point, but she was doing her best not to question the dear man, and thinking about something else was helping. She offered him another cup of tea, but he shook his head. He did take another shortbread biscuit. Anthony was very fond of shortbread the way the Scots made it. “Mama,” he said, as soon as he had swallowed, “did you know the Earl of Beckworth and his younger brother, Benjamin Famberwold?
“Yes, my dear,” Eleanor was pleased to be able to reply. “An unconscionable pair of rakehells. Even worse than your father, who at least felt a sense of duty to his estates and his country. That pair of reprobates cared for nothing and no one except their own pleasure. There were a number of very unpleasant incidents with innocent girls. No one was safe from them. They were, if you can believe it, worse than Richport, for he at least leaves innocent ladies alone, mostly.”
She frowned, slightly. “Although, perhaps I am being unfair. As I remember it, the younger one had a religious conversion, and convinced his brother to give up his evil ways. They retired to the country to live godly lives, or so we have been told. Certainly, I have not heard a word from them since. Except…” she paused to catch the elusive thought she had glimpsed from, as it were, the corner of her mind’s eye. “That’s it. Beckworth took a wife to the country, and has remarried twice since. Country marriages, I believe. A baronet’s daughter, and the spinster daughter of a viscount.” She frowned, and then brought the rest of the thought to the surface. “A lady in her thirties who had had a single Season in Town, where she did not take. I have heard of no children. Does that help, dearest?”
“It is of interest, Mama. It seems that the religious conversion was not to anything resembling Christianity, and the earl’s lack of children has been countered by a multitude belonging to his brother, who had more than fifty wives, many of them at the same time. I’m telling you in the strictest confidence, of course. We are trying to untangle the legal and moral mess, which also includes depravities I have no intention discussing with my mother, up to and including wholesale murder. Beckworth was in it up to his eyeballs, but the new Beckworth, whomever he may be, does not deserve to have his father’s and uncle’s scandals hanging over his head, and nor does Beckworth’s widow.”
Eleanor nodded her agreement. “Both brothers are dead,” she deduced.
Anthony nodded. “the Famberwolds made the mistake of tangling with one of Lion’s Zoo,” he said.
The former Aldridge, now the Duke of Haverford, is on a Parliamentary committee making enquiries into the scandalous goings on at a village called Heaven, a month or two after the events covered in The Darkness Within, Book 4 in Lion’s Zoo, planned for publication in December 2023
Tea with Mrs Moriarty
This was not the first time that Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, had sat down to afternoon tea with Mrs Moriarty. The young woman was the daughter of an excellent family, but had been ruined—by the rules of Society, at least—several times before she was out of her teens.
She had hidden in the slums to escape from the murderers of her parents. That was the first count against her. Eleanor had heard the cats among her peers saying, “Of course one cannot blame the child, but she survived on the streets for two years. Heaven knows what she did to feed herself. Any proper young lady would have been dead in a week.”
Eleanor, of course, admired Mrs Moriarty for her courage and her resilience.
The second mark on her copybook was her uncle, who had taken her from the slums and, instead of retrieving her reputation and seeing her reestablished in Society, had taken her to Spain to follow the army. Rumour had it she had been a spy and worse. Those who raked for scandal never worried about whether rumour was correct or an outright lie.
Then, when she turned up in London again this summer, she was somehow involved in a vast criminal enterprise. It did not matter to the gossips that she and her husband had been instrumental in bringing down said criminals. Ladies, they said, did not involve themselves with such things.
The final count to her demerit was that her husband was a commoner, a former street boy and current Supervisor with the Thames River Police. A wife took the status of her husband, and so Mrs Moriarty could safely be ignored.
Not by Eleanor, she could not. Eleanor found her to be an estimable young woman.
“Let me pour you a cup of tea, my dear,” she said to her guest, “and tell me more about your place for an agency of hired guards. Moriarty Protection, I think you said.”
Eleanor’s guest is the heroine of One Hour in Freedom, published yesterday.