The Children of the Mountain King

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The villain of the piece on Work in Progress Wednesday

This week’s challenge is to post an excerpt with your villain. I’m looking for his entry onto the stage; as always, just post your piece into the comments.

I’ve been rethinking To Wed a Proper Lady. It had mired in the last third, and I needed to take a step back. I’ve now done a hero’s journey chart for both protagonists, and mapped the overarching plot line for the series, and one of the things I’ve decided is to introduce my series villain early on. He has been lurking in the background of a number of my books, but it is in Children of the Mountain King that he steps up into the key negative protagonist role. He dies somewhere before the fifth book, but the nastiness he foments isn’t all solved till the end of the sixth.

The Duke of Haverford had been at the ball for nearly two hours, which was unusual enough to catch Sophia Belvoir’s attention. He’d been attending more events in polite Society than usual this Season, the first for two of the duchess’s wards, but this was the first time Sophia had known him to stay beyond the first half hour

He was strolling through the crowded reception rooms, stopping from time to time for a brief conversation, then moving on. After a while, a pattern emerged: all the people he stopped were men, peers, and members of the loose political group that voted with Haverford in the House of Lords. What was his Grace of Haverford campaigning for now?

The Earl of Hamner asked Sophia to dance. She was sought as a partner by husbands and confirmed bachelors who wished to dance without giving rise to gossip or expectations. Twice-betrothed, she was clearly not a wallflower. Twice-bereaved, she was nearly, but not quite, a widow. The never-wed sister of a protective earl, she was off-limits for seduction, but at twenty-five she was too old to expect a proposal of marriage. Being outside the expected categories for high-born females was a sort of freedom, she had discovered.

When Hamner returned her to the matrons with whom she’d made her debut, she was the only one not to blush and turn away as Haverford paused in front on them. His attention was on Hamner, another of his acolytes, and not on the ladies, but they fluttered as if a fox had strolled into the dovecote.

Not far from the truth, though if the elderly rakehell was on the hunt tonight, it was for naïve politicians and not the young wives of other men.

Sophia, protected by her virgin status and her relationship with the evil old man’s wife, curtseyed and said, “Good evening, Your Grace.” He cast a wintery eye in her direction. He had no time for women who did not conform to his expectations, and she was surprised even to receive a stiff nod. “Lady Sophia.” She had heard the man had charm; had even seen him executing it. Clearly the elderly spinster sister of the Earl of Hythe did not warrant his further attention. “Hamner, a word, if you please.”

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Dancing and other moves in WIP Wednesday

The chair of the panel I was on last week writes television scripts. “These people all write full books,” he told the audience in his introduction. “I just write a few words and somebody else makes the pictures happen.” In a novel, we need to describe the action in a way that lets the reader see it. They make the pictures happen, but we provide the raw material in our words. This week, I’m inviting you to post excerpts that describe activities — fighting, riding, dancing or whatever else your characters are involved in. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, and describes a dance.

At last, it was time for their dance; a country dance in the long form, which was fortunate, for they would have time for conversation in the privacy formed by the music and the concentration of the other dancers. First, though, James could take his turn with her in the patterns of the dance, his hand holding his hers, his gaze fixed on her fathomless brown eyes. A pattern of two couples followed, a swapping of partners, and then back to circle with Sophia before they separated once more, each to their own row.

The couple leading the line wove in and out of the dancers before promenading back up the middle of the rows, and setting off the patterns again: each couple meeting and circling, two couples, swapped partners, and back to Sophia again before the lead couple danced away down to the other end of the rows and the next couple began the sequence over again.

In their turn, he and Sophia would find themselves odd pair out at the end of the rows, and would stand aside for several minutes. Meanwhile, James enjoyed Sophia’s grace, the fleeting touches of her hand, even the sway of her body against his when they linked elbows in passing. Under the blazing candlelight, he could not tell whether the flecks in her pupils were green or gold, but her hair certainly glinted gold as the well anchored curls in her coiffure bounced with the vigour of the dance.

At last, came their turn to lead the line, and then to circle around to the back, there to stand and rest for a few minutes. James kept his eyes on the other dancers, rather than allowing them to feast on her as he would prefer.

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Expect the unexpected on WIP Wednesday

 

I love twists and turns. One of my favourite plotting mechanisms is to think about what might possibly go wrong, and then make it happen. How about you? Do you enjoy surprising your characters and your readers? Show me an excerpt in the comments!

Mine is from the start of To Mend the Broken-Hearted, the second book in the Mountain King series. My hero, Val, is a recluse after some terrible experiences at war and at home. His seclusion is about to end.

Val heard Crick before he saw him. “My lord, my lord,” the man was shouting, his voice high with barely suppressed panic. Val excused himself from a discussion about clearing a blockage in a stream that was threatening to flood the young barley, and took a few paces to meet Crick as the butler came hurtling across the field, careless of the new shoots.

“My lord, we’re under attack. They’ve captured the house, my lord.”

Val took the man’s arm and led him to the side of the field. “Take a deep breath, Crick,” he soothed. “All is well. We are in England. For us, the war is over.”

Crick pulled his arm free and so far forgot himself as to seize Val’s shoulders. “No, sir, you don’t understand. Soldiers on horseback. A lady with a sword. Another lady in the carriage. I tried to stop them, sir, but they forced their way into the house. They made Mrs Minnich take them to the family wing. We have to marshall the tenants, my lord, and rescue the servants.”

Being addressed as ‘my lord’ gave Val pause. Usually, when Crick had one of his episodes, he reverted to Val’s former rank. Always, in fact. When Crick called Val ‘major’, the whole household knew to hide anything that could be used as a weapon.

Barrow and his gangly young son had followed and were listening. Val met Barrow’s concerned eyes. “A carriage and some horsemen went down the lane a while back,” Barrow disclosed. The lane was out of sight from here, but Barrow explained his knowledge by fetching his son a clip across the ear. “The boy here saw them when he went to fetch the axe, but didn’t say nothin’”

Young Barrow’s observation suggested some truth to Crick’s fantasy, but it couldn’t possibly be the invasion Crick imagined. What would be the point? “I’ll investigate,” Val decided.

Crick and Barrow protested him going alone. “Five men, my lord,” Crick insisted. “Foreigners, they were, and the lady, too.”

Val’s troops were a half-mad butler, a burly tenant farmer, and his fifteen-year-old son. Val would do better alone. “You shall be my back-up,” he told them. “Stay at the edge of the woods where you can see the house. If I don’t come out within thirty minutes and signal that everything is safe, ride to the village for help.”

Crick argued, but Val was adamant. Still, as he crossed the open ground to the house, his skin prickled with the old familiar sense of walking into enemy territory.

He diverted his path to pass the stables. Sure enough, a strange carriage stood outside the carriage house, and through the open door of the stable block he could see two strangers, one with a fork of hay and one with a bucket, heading towards the stall. They stopped when they saw him, and stood waiting for him to approach.

Val saw why Crick had identified them as foreign. The olive skin and the beards would have been enough, without the red tunics that flowed loosely to mid thigh, the loose black trousers gathered into knee high boots, the bushy sheepskin hats. They did not put down their burdens, which argued for peaceful intentions, but the weapons in their belts, their alert stance, and their wary eyes suggested that ‘warrior’ was the correct identification.

“Who told you to make free with my stables?” he demanded.

The man with the hay fork used his head to indicate Val’s elderly stable master, who appeared from the aisle the men had been heading into. “Is it a mistake, my lord?” Greggs stammered. “Only, Mrs Minnich said I was to let them have what they needed.” His eyes lit and he smiled blissfully. “Such horses, my lord! I have never seen such horses in my stables. No, not in all my years.”

The man with the hay fork bowed. “Lord Ashcroft, I take it. I regret the necessity to trespass on your hospitality, your lordship.” The English was perfect, but Val could not place the accent any more than he could the clothing.

“You have the advantage of me,” he pointed out.

The thick brows drew together over the eagle’s beak of a nose. “The advantage, sir?” He cast a glance at his companion, who did not quite shrug.

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Tea with James (Part 2)

 

Eleanor could not take her eyes off him. She had seen him, of course, since he returned to England; not just at that memorable ball when they stood face to face for the first time in nearly thirty-five years then passed without a word, but also in the distance on the street, in the park, even at other social events that they accidentally both attended at the same time.

She had not stood close enough to catalogue all the ways he had changed and all the ways he was still the young man — almost a boy — that she had loved and lost.

“James,” she said again, her vocabulary deserting her.

His eyes were the same warm brown, but the face from which they smiled had matured into a shape far distant from her memories. His height had not changed, nor were his shoulders broader. Indeed, if she ignored the maturity lines, and the wisdom and knowledge in his eyes, she would not believe him to be nearly sixty. He had been a handsome youth, almost pretty. The prettiness had worn into something sharper, something stronger.

“I waited,” she said, not knowing the words were in her mind until she heard them leave her tongue. “I told them if they dragged me to the church I would refuse Haverford at the very altar. Then they told me you were dead, and it didn’t matter any more.” It didn’t matter now. More than thirty years had passed. She had two sons. He had married a woman he loved and had ten children with her. How could she possibly care what he thought about the actions of that girl from so long ago. But somehow, it did matter that he knew she had tried to be faithful to their love.

His gaze had not left face. “Winshire had reason to believe that I was dead. My captor said he would kill me if Winshire did not pay the ransom he wanted.”

“Georgie explained.” She flushed, suddenly aware that she was gawking like a giddy girl. “Please, Lord Sutton, do have a seat.” She arranged herself in the chair closest to the tea makings. “May I pour you a cup.”

James’s lips curved, just a little. “Thank you. Black, please. No milk, cream or sugar.” As he took the chair opposite, he added, “Are we to be formal, then, Eleanor? Or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”

No. Never that. For James to address her as Haverford’s duchess struck her as a perversion of all things righteous and good. Floundering to regain her balance, she thought again of his wife. She had suffered decades of marriage to a monster, but he had loved and been loved, and she was glad of it. “I was sorry to hear about the death of Lady James. When Georgie told me she had died, I so wanted to write, but…” Unable to find the words to explain the social constraints she would have needed to ignore to write a condolence letter to her first love on the death of his wife, she gestured meaninglessly with one hand.

He seemed to understand. “Thank you.” He put out his hand to receive the cup she passed and her hand touched his. Even through two layers of glove, she felt a jolt, as if all the barely contained energy that gave him such presence and power had discharged up her arm and through her — through her torso. She snatched her hand back, and only his quick reflexes allowed him to take a firm grip on the cup in time to prevent more than a slight slosh into the saucer.

It was a relief when the door opened again, to let in Grace and Georgie. The flurry of greetings gave her time to calm down.

James said, “I will leave you ladies to your meeting and walk on to my own. The carriage will wait for you, my ladies. Your Grace, thank you for sparing me a few moments of your time.”

Eleanor curtsied and allowed him to bow over her hand, very properly not touching it. “It was a pleasure to see you, my lord,” she managed to murmur, her voice creditably even.

But one thought beat persistently in her mind all through tea with her friends, the ride home in the unmarked carriage she had borrowed from her son, her entrance into his private wing — yet another anonymous veiled lady visiting the wicked Merry Marquis — and her retreat to her own side of the house. Her attraction to James Winderfield, Earl of Sutton and future Duke of Winshire, was as potent as it had been when she was an innocent girl.

It was foolishness. She was married. They were enemies by her husband’s decree. James was a widower famous for still loving his deceased wife. Foolishness or not, he was still the only man who had ever made her heart race and her body melt. And nothing could ever come of it.

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First impressions on WIP Wednesday

 

We try to make an emotional connection between our protagonists and our readers as soon as we can in the story. We also need to show the character flaws that make our protagonists interesting. Balancing these two, especially when the characters have personality aspects or life histories that are going to upset some readers, is crucial. So we try to show them doing something nice early on. I’ve just been reading a book where the hero is a drunken cad when he is 20, and frightens heroine, who is only 15. He goes on to turn his life around, and comes back to court her. Ella Quinn manages the empathy by starting the story before he got drunk, making the reasons for his state of mind clear. You could say the story has two sets of first impressions — those the protagonists make on the reader, and those they make on one another.

How about you? What first impression do your characters make? Pick an excerpt that shows the first appearance of the hero or heroine, or what one of them thinks about the other on first meeting.

Mine this week is a newly written passage from To Wed a Proper Lady, which comes immediately after the rescue of the little boy that has already been published as part of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (you can read it here).

“Oh my,” Felicity said. Sophia had not even noticed her until she spoke. All of Sophia’s attention was on the rider. Oh my, indeed.

“So that is what all the gossip is about,” her sister added. “No wonder he has ruffled the feathers of the biddies and the sticklers. He looks very exotic, does he not? And yet, he speaks like one of us and has the most elegant manners.”

“We must be glad he was there, and in time to help,” Sophia said, struggling to keep her voice calm when the thud of her heart must be audible throughout the village. “Tommy might have been badly hurt.” She managed to drag her eyes away from the retreating horsemen. Undoubtedly, Lord Elfingham had forgotten her already. He did not look back.

She turned towards the Children’s Sanctuary. Felicity fell into step beside her, still talking.

“I must say, he was not at all what I expected. To hear Hythe, one would think him a wild barbarian, uncouth and fierce, without manners or education.”

Sophia repressed a snort with some difficulty. “Hythe has been listening to the wrong Haverford. Our Godmama knew Lord Sutton, his father, when he was only a third son, before he left England to seek his fortune. Aunt Eleanor says that Lord Sutton was married to a Persian princess, and his children were raised as royalty, as well as English ladies and gentlemen. They were, Aunt Eleanor says, given the finest education.”

“His Grace of Haverford has forbidden Her Grace and Lord Aldridge to attend any event at which they might meet Lord Sutton or any of his children. Is that because she and Lord Sutton were once acquainted?”

Sophia knew that look on Felicity’s face. With the least encouragement, she would be interrogating the dowagers and the old maiden aunts, and increasing the storm of scandal around Lord Sutton and his family even further.

“Hythe says that the Duke is incensed at the dilution of another duke’s blue blood.” Felicity gave a little skip at the horror of it all. Hythe did say that, but Sophia was sure Haverford’s virulent enmity was more personal than a distaste for miscegenation.

“Apparently, Haverford believes that English dukes should marry only English ladies of an appropriate rank,” Sophia replied. “Foreign princesses need not apply.”

“If, in fact, Sutton did marry the foreign princess.” The scandalous nature of the conversation was delighting Felicity.

Sophia looked back over her shoulder. The horsemen were visible in the distance, just cresting the hill beyond the village. One of them had stopped — his horse gleaming golden in the sun. It was foolish to think she could feel his intense gaze from this distance. She couldn’t even see his features. But she did see one hand raised in salute before he wheeled the horse to follow his companions.

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Tea with memories of Eleanor

 

Now for something different — the scene is about the Duchess of Haverford, but she only makes a brief appearance. This is an excerpt from the rewrite of what used to be The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. In To Wed a Proper Lady, the Earl of Sutton meets the woman he once loved at a ball, and afterwards thinks about the days of their youth.

The muttering of the assembled guests swelled and then stopped abruptly when the Duke of Haverford crossed the floor, and stopped in front of the Earl of Sutton.

Sutton inclined his head, his face impassive.

Haverford sneered and turned on his heel. Sighting his wife at one side of the room, talking to their hostess, he marched twelve paces and spat out, “Lady Finch, that man is an imposter. The duchess and I will not visit any home where he and his devil-spawn are welcome. Duchess!” He beckoned to Aunt Eleanor, as Sophia called her godmother, and stalked off up the stairs.

The duchess followed, hesitating for a moment as she passed Sutton. Their eyes met. Sophia could have sworn that his had a question. If so, the duchess didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs after her husband. Most of the room watched the earl’s party crossing to Lord and Lady Finch, but Sophia continued to watch the duchess, and may have been the only person who saw her stop at the top of the stairs, to look after the earl.

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“It went well,” Georgie proclaimed, once Drew and the girls had retired and only the older members of the household remained to consider the evening. “Haverford was a horse’s rear end, but that was to be expected.”

Yousef, the head of Sutton’s household staff, had been leaning against the back of his wife’s chair, but he came alert like the old campaigner he was. “What happened?” They had all agreed only the family would attend the ball, the first social outing from the house of Winshire since Sutton and his children arrived in England. Sutton’s closest friend and advisor had clearly been fretting the entire evening.

Sutton answered before his sister or one of the other ladies could. “Nothing much, Yousef. He left when we arrived, after announcing that the Haverfords and Winshires were at odds.” He took a sip of his drink. “I agree the evening was a success, Georgie.”

“Our girls made an impression,” Grace commented. Her smug smile at Lettie hinted at the hours the two women had spent concocting the scene that began the evening: the four Winderfield cousins at the top of the stairs, each beautifully coiffed and dressed in vibrant colours that contrasted and complimented each other.

“Keeping young Jamie in reserve was a good idea, Patience.” Georgie raised her glass to Yousef’s wife, who made a return salute with her teacup. “It worked just as you suggested,” Georgie continued. “They are intrigued. If I had one person ask me if the heir was as good looking as Drew, I had twenty. And I told the biggest gossips in the ton how glad I was that you were so wealthy!” She grinned at her brother. “When Jamie arrives back from the errand you sent him on, make sure he knows not to be alone with any marriageable female, anywhere, at any time.”

The others continued to dissect the evening, prompted by questions from Yousef and Patience. Haverford’s claim that Sutton was an imposter could be ignored, they all agreed. If recognition by his father and sister was not enough, at least a dozen people at the ball last night had known him as a young man. Sutton did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting back to the encounter with Haverford and the glimpse he’d had of Haverford’s duchess.

The old man, he’d called him when he was twenty-four and a fool. “You can’t marry her to that old man,” he’d screamed at Eleanor’s father when his own suit had been rejected because she was already promised. Haverford was thirteen years his senior, and that seemed old to him then, especially compared to Eleanor’s seventeen. The man would be in his seventies now—an old man in truth, gnarled and bent as an old tree, the once handsome face withered and twisted into a peevish mask.

Eleanor, though… Sutton would have known Eleanor anywhere, as soon as her lovely eyes met his. Through a long and happy marriage to the mother of his children, the bittersweet memory of the young Eleanor had lingered in a corner of Sutton’s heart, and seeing her had brought all those memories flooding back.

She was older, of course, though if he’d not known she was approaching her fifty-second birthday he’d have guessed her no more than forty. Time had delivered on the promise of great beauty and grace.

From what his sister-in-law said of her—they were dear friends, it seemed—time had also honed the strength under the softness that made her submit to her father rather than run away with Sutton. His Eleanor had become the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame known for her works of charity, her kindness to those who fell afoul of Society’s censure through no fault of their own, and her generosity to her husband’s poor relations and a whole tribe of godchildren.

Such a pity that the feud with Haverford would mean they could not meet. He would have liked to know the woman his Eleanor had become.

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Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have some one for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”

This is a new scene I’ve written for To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel form of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, which appeared in Holly and Hopeful Hearts. Holly and Hopeful Hearts was the story of the duchess’s house party. Buy it and the eight great stories it contains at most online retailers.

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First seven sentences in WIP Wednesday

The journey begins with the first step.

I’ve typed THE END in Unkept Promises. I’ve also written the first paragaphs in To Mend the Broken Recluse, so I’m thinking about ends and beginnings. This week, how about putting seven sentences in the comments. You choose what they begin: the book, a chapter, a new scene.

Here’s mine.

The crows rose in a flock over the tower on the borders of Ashbury land, a cacophany on wings. Val straightened and peered in that direction, shading his eyes to see if he could tell what had spooked them. It was unlikely to be a traveller on the lane that branched towards the manor from  the road that passed the tower. After three years of repulsing visitors, the only people he ever saw were his tenant farmers and the few servants he had retained to keep the crumbling monstrosity he lived in marginally fit for human habitation.

He bent back to the plough, but called the team to a halt again when a bird shot up from almost under their hooves. Sure enough, a lapwing nest lay right in the path of the plough. Val carefully steered around it. He knew his concern for the pretty things set his tenants laughing behind his back, but they didn’t take up much room, and they’d soon hatch their chicks and be off to better cover

Okay. That’s eight sentences, but I won’t count if you don’t.

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What Ash Wednesday has in common with creating characters

Outward signs. We burn last year’s palms from Palm Sunday and mix them with consecrated oil mixed with incense, also from last Easter. Inner meaning: we burn all the failed attempts of the year to make a new beginning.

I have been thinking about outward and visible signs of what is inward and invisible. Rituals, actions, habits, practices. They all hint at inner beliefs and motivations. This month, I’m slaving over the backstory, character, and inner motivations of characters for the next four books (one novella and three novels, one of which I need to have completed by the end of May). They’re all crowding my head with scenes that are giving me glimpses of my character’s inner self. But, I have to ask, do they show the character’s true self? Or do they show the mask they display to the world? To write them, I need to know both.

I’m religious, which (to me) means that I love the rituals and practices of my church. I’m also (I hope) a person of faith. I believe, and I try to act accordingly. The books I enjoy, and the books I try to write, are about characters with depth. I want the words I use on the page to hint at dimensions to the character that I don’t spell out in words; not just the rituals and practices, but the beliefs and motivations. And I want them all to be different — not the same hero and the same heroine in book after book with just the physical appearance and the name changed.

My husband has been watching best man speeches on YouTube. (No, I don’t know why, but he has.) The jokes and male-to-male insults of a best man speech are a ritual that indicates the support and affection of the selected friend for the groom. Outward signs with inner meaning.

At Mass today, they had the ashes ceremony for those who missed it last Wednesday, on Ash Wednesday. That day marks the beginning of a period of fasting, abstinence, and prayer in preparation for Easter, more than six weeks away, and the ashes are meant to remind us of the shortness of our lives (‘for you are dust, and to dust you shall return’, says the priest as he marks the forehead of each believer with a cross made from a mix of ashes and oil). They also call to mind the ancient practice of wearing sackcloth and ashes for remorse or mourning. Outward signs with inner meaning.

Oddly enough, one of my characters is a widower who may or may not be called Ash. That’s his name, in the notes about his story that I made close to six years ago; a shortened form of his title. However, in the last month I’ve given him a backstory that includes an unfaithful wife, a manipulative older brother, and a couple of daughters, one (and possible both) of whom is definitely his niece, rather than his own child. This means he hasn’t been Earl of Ashbury for very long, so he might think of himself as Val or Fort. I’m still working on it. Inner motivations. He’s a grumpy devil, and a recluse. He arrived home after his brother’s death three years ago to find that his brother’s widow has sent both girls off to boarding school, washed her hands of them, and departed for parts unknown. He has left them there, figuring they’re better off without him. I’m also still working on his heroine, but I need to know her a lot better before she turns up at his house with a carriage full of children, including his own two, refugees from the cholera epidemic sweeping the school.

I know that he will refuse her admittance and she will demand it, and refuse to move on since two of the girls (including his niece) are showing early signs of the disease. I know she shows her anxiety in contempt for his reluctance, not realising he is already thinking about how to help her. I know that he’ll marshal his pitiful complement of servants to look after the well girls and join her in nursing those who have become ill.  Outward signs with an inner meaning.

I know those things, but I have a lot more work to do before I start to commit the random scenes swirling around my brain onto a page.

I wonder if the whole story could happen around an Ash Wednesday?

by

Tea with Sophia Belvoir

“So tell me, my dears,” Eleanor said, as she poured tea for the two Belvoir girls, “what do you know of this duel? I understand you were present at the time of the challenge!”

Felicity’s eyes shone with excitement. “Mr Winderfield was given no choice, Aunt Eleanor,” she insisted. “Mr Andrew Winderfield, I mean.”

“You probably know more than we do,” Sophia ventured. “After all, Aldridge was second to Weasel; that is, Mr Wesley Winderfield.”

The duchess shook her head. “Aldridge would not discuss dueling with his own mother, Sophia. Especially since he knows I disapprove of the way His Grace encourages Mr Winderfield — Weasel, I should say, for clarity — to behave towards his cousins. I have heard he shot before the end of the count!”

“The scoundrel,” Felicity said. “He has had to leave town, of course, and Lord Aldridge says he will never be his second again, so he had better not go around any more insulting people’s mothers.”

“And quite right,” Eleanor agreed. “The Winderfield brothers are among your admirers, are they not?” She was looking at her tea cup, so could have been referring to either sister.

Sophia, who was still smarting from her brother’s lecture about not encouraging the possibly base-born sons of the Earl of Sutton to dangle after Felicity, said, “We see them from time to time at Society affairs. But we leave for Bath this week, Aunt Eleanor, so I imagine we will not come across them until next Season, by which time this controversy about their birth should be resolved.”

The duchess, whose spy network in Society must be the envy of governments everywhere, did not comment on what she must know: that ‘from time to time’ meant nearly every event she and Felicity had attended all Season, since she first met Lord Elfingham, the older brother, in a small village in Oxfordshire. He had snatched a child from the path of two runaway carriages and ridden away with her heart. If he was courting either of the sisters, it would be Felicity, of course: the younger, prettier, more vivacious one. Sophia had no intention of discussing any of that.

Perhaps Aunt Eleanor understood, for she changed the subject. “I hope you will be back in London for the meeting of our philanthropic committee in September, my dears. I think you will like what I have in mind.”

***

Sophia will be part of the organising committee for Aunt Eleanor’s house party, which was featured in Holly and Hopeful Hearts. Watch this year for To Win a Lady, the novel-length form of my novella from that collection, starring Lady Sophia Belvoir and James Lord Elfingham.