News

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Lessons from the Albatross

I used to live on the same peninsula as this breeding colony of royal albatrosses, (I lived nearly 20 kilometres away at the city end). What amazing birds they are. Pairs return to the place of their choice every two years to lay a single egg and take turns in keeping the egg warm and in feeding the fledgling. It’s a long process. Up to two and a half months from laying the egg to hatching, a further eight to nine months before the juvenile bird takes flight. The young birds will be gone for six years, flying up to 1800 kilometres in 24 hours, never touching land in all that time.

When they do come back to a breeding colony, it’ll be several years before they are ready to breed. They spend a couple of years socialising in groups, in a dance like form of communication. Over time, they’ll show a preference for one partner, and the dance will  become unique to each couple. They don’t stay together when at sea, but every two years, they go home, reconnect, mate, hatch out an egg, and raise a chick. For life. Only if one of the pair dies will they choose another mate.

Albatrosses have traditionally been regarded as harbingers of storm, but also good luck, a guide out of the storm to shelter. Another reason why they’re a good symbol for the Bluestocking Belles’ latest project, Storm & Shelter, which took flight yesterday. Like the albatross, it was around two and a half months in the egg, from signing the group contract to delivery of story for first beta in mid August (unlike the albatross, it has eight parents, including Grace Burrowes, Alina K. Field and Mary Lancaster, who joined us for the project).

Like the albatross — it took a lot of hard work on the part of its parents, and substantial practice, before it took flight eight to nine months after hatching. Yesterday, in fact. It is currently soaring, far from land, to the rarified levels of the book market.

It’s doing well. It has dozens of reviews, has scored well on Amazon for weeks, even edging up to #1 a few days ago, won a Crowned Heart for Excellence from InDTale Magazine, and is on a couple of Listopia lists at Goodreads. It looks like we might just miss lists like the top ten on USA Today or Publisher Weekly (unless we pick up quite a few hundred sales in the next few days, particularly on Apple and Barnes & Noble). But our little fledgling has spread its wings and is on its way. It’s out of our hands, now. It’s over to you, its readers.

Fly, little albatross.

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Buy Links:

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3kgRmLG

Apple Books: https://apple.co/3lZYHja

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/storm-shelter-bluestocking-belles/1137958115?

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3o0z977

Google books: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Grace_Burrowes_Storm_and_Shelter?id=TNMhEAAAQBAJ

Books2Read: https://books2read.com/u/b5k2pO

 

International:

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2T3PbPh

BR: https://amzn.to/3dEnWo0

CA: https://amzn.to/2T82a2u

DE: https://amzn.to/31jPhHe

ES: https://amzn.to/3dF7kNa

FR: https://amzn.to/3dGQf5s

IN: https://amzn.to/3o6c42Q

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Some People Have Dirty Minds!

The Vicar’s Illicit Liaison, The Teatime Tattler April 1815

Dear Reader, The village of Fenwick has been shaken to its core by the discovery that its revered curate, Mr. S., has feet—nay, entire limbs—of clay. First, he allowed his nephew, a bold impertinent boy, to insult our own beloved Mrs. F. Second, as noted in a previous report, he spent much time alone with a female visitor to the village. But now he has taken up with another female, a visitor’s maid. Said maid has been staying all day at the presbytery, purportedly nursing Mr. S.’s wards through the influenza. Today, she sunk so far in depravity as to stay overnight on the pretext that Mr. S. is now ill. This is unlikely to end well.

“Will ye ‘ave anuvver glass, Piety, my dove?” her husband asked. Piety Withers held out her glass.

“Don’t mind if I do, Withers,” she agreed, ignoring the frowning looks Mrs Brewster was casting at poor Withers. The innkeeper’s wife had said, when handing over the wages that Piety had earned, “Now don’t let your husband get his hands on this money, Mrs Withers.”

Mrs Brewster could keep her nose out of Piety’s business. It made Withers happy to have cash in his pocket. Dear man. So what if he could never hold down a job or retain possession of as much as a farthing? He was fond of Piety in his way, and never raised a hand to her, unlike some husbands she could name.

Why, look how he had insisted on buying her a drink as soon as she handed over the carefully counted coins that she’d deemed sufficient to content him? He’d praised her for her industry, assured her that all of his friends were jealous of him for having such a lovely wife, and invited her to celebrate their good fortune at the Queen’s Barque Inn. Little did he know that she’d kept at least two-thirds of the windfall and hidden it where he’d never find it. Not that she felt guilty. He’d soon drink or gamble the rest away.

“I’ve a bit of a worry, darlin’ Piety,” Withers declared, wrenching her from the sad direction of her thoughts. She donned an expression of interest and waited to be told what concerned him.

“This business with the vicar and the skirt from London,” he said. “Young Alice was readin’ a bit from the London papers this afternoon, she was. Says that there maid Conroy is havin’ it off with vicar.” Withers shook his head. “Should ye be workin’ there, darlin’?”

Piety’s eyes flashed. “That is just not true, Withers. Miss Conroy has been looking after the vicar while he was sick, and anyone who says different is making things up and has a nasty mind.”

“But it was printed in the paper, my dove.” Withers didn’t read, and was inclined to invest anything in print with the same reverence owed to Holy Scripture.

Piety snorted. “The Teatime Tattler, I suppose. Someone here in this village has been sending gossip and scandal to that terrible paper, and if I find out who it is, I shall pull their ears for them, and so I will. Making such trouble for that dear lady. Mr Somerville, too, after he worked himself into his own fever running around in the rain seeing to the sick. They should be ashamed!” She shook her fist.

Withers nodded. “If you say so, my dove. But ye’ll not be stayin’ there after dark.” He nodded again, firmly, satisfied that the problem was solved by his decree. “Shall I walk ye home before I go out fishin’ wiv Billy and Si, Piety, darlin’?”

Piety downed the last of her cider and stood up. Fishing, my left foot. If the boat left the dock, she’d be surprised, and certainly she did not expect the cronies to bring home anything more than their empty flasks and a headache each. Still, she gave Withers a peck on the cheek. He was, after all, not the world’s worst husband.

Who is the snooping reporter?

As told in Storm & Shelter in eight original novellas, refugees—the injured, the devious, and the lonely, lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers—all sheltered at the Queen’s Barque Inn. Now concern is buzzing in Fenwick on Sea and across these United Kingdoms, as scurrilous gossip about the goings on during the recent storm spread through the reports in that scandal rag, The Teatime Tattler. Who is the snoop?

You can help

Correctly identify the reporter and be entered to win a $100 gift card and other great prizes. There are details and instructions for entering here: https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/storm-shelter/wanted-the-snooping-teatime-tattler-reporter/

Clues

There are clues in every story in Storm & Shelter. Find more clues by following on to each stop in our Snooping Reporter Blog Hop. The next stop features Grace Burrowes’ pony, who has a strong opinion about the identity of the reporter. https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/storm-shelter/wanted-the-snooping-teatime-tattler-reporter/who-has-been-telling-tales/ 

Local prize

Comment on this post to go in the draw for winners’ choice of any Jude Knight ebook.

About the book

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Buy it for 99 cents until April 17

https://books2read.com/u/38Rr8w

International Buy Links:

Amazon AU |BR |CA |DE |ES |FR |IN |IT |JP |MX |NL |UK

Angus & Robertson

 

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Mistakes and consequences on WIP Wednesday

I always enjoy stories in which the narrative drive comes from decisions made by the main characters—a choice that goes badly wrong (or beautifully right, as the case may be). So that’s this week’s topic. Feel free to add an excerpt from your work in progress into the comments.

My contribution is an excerpt from the story I’m writing for next month’s newsletter. I set a contest at a Facebook party asking commenters to give me an image as a basis for April’s story, and the painting above was the winner.

George was right about Arthur. That burned worse than Millicent’s own stupidity in allowing herself to be abducted. Her hurt pride, thought, was nowhere near as strong as her anger at her kidnapping, imprisonment and then, adding insult to injury, abandonment.

She hadn’t seen Arthur for three days. Not since the rain started. Not since she threw her chamber pot at him and assured him that he would never be safe in her company. 

“But I mean to marry you, Millicent,” he stammered.

As if that forgave all his crimes against her! “I will never wed you,” she promised, though he had already explained that his mother had a cleric that was willing to perform the marriage ceremony even if the bride had to be gagged.

“When I escape,” she told him, “my brother will have the marriage annulled, if you survive your maiming.” She stamped a foot. “I told you that I released you from our betrothal.”

Arthur pouted, then must have realised that the childish expression did him no favours, for he struck one of his attitudes, his chin up and his chest out, his profile to Millicent as he emitted a loud sigh. “Mama explained that many females are overwhelmed by their emotions as they face marriage. I shall overlook it. Mama says that experiencing the marriage bed will probably help to bring you back to yourself. You do not need to be afraid, Millicent. I shall be gentle.”

Even when she thought Arthur the romantic hero he resembled, Millicent had been disturbed by his repeated references to his mother’s wisdom. Now, she wondered how she could have been so infatuated with him.

“You shall not come near me, then, for I will never submit willingly,” she declared.

Arthur had been at a loss for an answer, eventually concluding that he needed to consult his mother. “I shall probably not be back until morning,” he said. His lip curled as he cast a glance at the chamber pot, which had a large wedge out of the rim from where it hit the door frame as he ducked. “You can probably still use that if you need to.”

Three days later, he still hadn’t returned. Surely, he didn’t mean to leave her here? The cell he had locked her into was just above the river bank, and with the constant rain, the water had breached its confines yesterday afternoon and was now lapping just below the sill. 

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A Lonely Vicar for Valentine’s Day

Welcome to my stop on the Valentine’s Day Flash Fiction blog hop for 2021

Thank you, Tanya Wilde, for sharing your book, A Promise of Scandal, and for your Valentine’s gift of a story.

Here’s mine. [UPDATE: GIVEAWAY OVER but the story is still here.]

A gift on Valentine’s Day

When the knock came, Barney Somerville was writing a sermon for St Valentine’s Day. On Holy Love, not on the romantic love his younger parishioners giggled about and hoped for. He was not qualified to speak about romantic love, and was not likely to become so.

As curate for his father in this isolated parish, his only income was a stipend barely sufficient to clothe and feed him, supplemented by the generosity of those parishioners who could spare a couple of cabbages or a cod or two from a good catch of fish.

Love outside of marriage was against his calling and his morals. And marriage was beyond his means.

Just as well he had never met a woman he would care to spend the rest of his life with.

The knock disrupted his mournful musings, and was followed by another before he could reach the door. He opened to a woman he didn’t recognise. Unusual, but not improbable. He had only been in the parish for six months, and perhaps she lived in an outlying hamlet and had been unable to attend church. Or perhaps she was a traveller, passing through.

Certainly, she was dressed for travel, as were the infant perched on her hip and the boy behind her on the path, head down, kicking at pebbles. The two children were dressed in clothes that had been inexpertly dyed a deep mourning black.

He had time to make that assessment and open his mouth to ask how he could help when she demanded, “Are you Mr Somerville?”

“I am. How—?”

She interrupted. “Mr Barney Somerville?”

“Yes. May—?”

The woman thrusted the infant at him. “Then these are yours. Boy! Carry the bags for your uncle!”

The boy looked up, disclosing the countenance that had been hidden by the cap. Barney didn’t have time to take in more than the dark skin and angry eyes before he had his arm full of little girl; a blond moppet who stared solemnly into his face then gave a deep sigh and tucked her head into the crook of his neck.

His sister’s children. He clutched the little one close. Annabel. Her sunny little darling, his sister had called her in her letters. He had still not replied to the last one, dated only two weeks ago and delivered yesterday.

“I am feeling somewhat better this past week, Barney. Perhaps my little brother has been praying for me. Perhaps I will not need, after all, to burden you with my treasures, though it feels wrong to call them burdens when they have been my greatest blessings. My clever lad, with the heart and soul of a hero, and my sunny little darling, his sister.

When you wrote to say you would offer us all a home — you cannot know how it eased my mind, dear brother. I hope I will be able to come, but Barney, I am so grateful to know you are willing to have the children should anything happen.”

Tears in his eyes, his mind a whirling blankness, he could barely muster words of thanks to the woman, who was announcing that she had delivered the children, as promised, and must hurry to rejoin her husband, who would have procured a change of horses by now. “We want to be in Yarmouth by nightfall. You! Boy! Be good for your uncle, hear?”

She was through the lych gate and on her way down the lane before Barney had wrestled his grief into submission enough to speak again.

“You are very welcome, Daniel,” he said to his nephew. “Are you hungry? Come inside and I will see what there is to eat.”

Something to eat. A place to sleep. He had five spare rooms with bedframes and mattresses, left by the previous incumbent, although he had no idea of their condition. He had been using only the one bedchamber. Would there be sufficient linen and blankets to make up beds for a boy and a little girl? Surely.

He should send for Mrs Withers. She was paid five shillings a month to come daily to cook and clean, but turned up four or five times a week and usually limited her culinary contributions to heating a pie or a stew gifted by another parishioner.

He managed to occupy his mind with such practical necessities, while underneath the grief raged howling. His sister was dead. Dead to him, by his father’s decree, more than a decade ago, when she married against their father’s will. But he had known that she was still living in the world, and just these past three months they had found one another again.

Now she was gone. She who had been a little mother to him when he was not much bigger than Annabelle, his friend and confidante when he was Daniel’s age and she a girl on the threshold of adulthood. She had given him a card each Valentine’s Day until her father exiled her, made with her own hands, and he had drawn her pictures of hearts and written inexpert poems praising her chocolate cake and her roast lamb.

They would never meet again in this life, and all that was left of her sat at his kitchen table, eating day old bread and cheese, toasted over the kitchen fire. Her last Valentine’s Day gift to her little brother.

He left Daniel to supervise Annabel and went upstairs with some sheets he had found to make their beds. Silently, he addressed his Maker. “I don’t know how to do this, God. Raising two grieving children on my own? Father won’t increase my stipend. He is likely to demand I hand them over to an orphanage, and that I will not do. I cannot believe You expect it of me.”

The turmoil within stilled. Barney took the warmth that spread in its place as an answer. “They will stay with me, and I will trust you to look after us,” he said.

He hoped, though, that God planned to send them some help.

***

Six weeks on, a sullen and angry Daniel has annoyed half the parish and Barney is more frazzled than ever. Then a storm comes, and with it the miracle he didn’t quite like to pray for.

Read Barney’s unexpected romance in When Dreams Come True, a novella in Storm & Shelter, currently on preorder at the special discount price of 99c.

Storm & Shelter

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

A collection of eight all-new novellas. See blurbs here. One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming stories.

Books2Read link

 

Download Chasing the Tale

GIVEAWAY OVER–It’s still available here.

Escape into another place and time just long enough for a lunch or coffee break in eleven short stories from the imagination of award-winning author Jude Knight. Nine Regency plus one colonial New Zealand and one Medieval Scotland.

Go in the draw to win a gift card

The contest was open for long Valentine’s day—from sunrise on 14th February in New Zealand (noon on February 13 U.S. EST) until midnight on 14th February in Hawaii (or 5 AM February 15 U.S. EST). When the contest ended, we collected all comments on all 15 blogs in the hop.

The winner of the gift card to the value of US$75 was Traci Bell. Her comment on Alina K. Field’s blog was the one drawn at random from the 300 comments across the 15 blogs.

Next up, Riana Everly

Thank you for joining me today. Your next stop is the lovely Riana Everly, author of romance and historical romance with a Canadian twist. Enjoy!

 

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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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Work in progress on Wednesday?

I haven’t forgotten you, I promise. I have To Wed a Proper Lady nearly ready to put out to as an advance reader copy, and I expect it to publish on time on 15 April. I’m working on getting the back matter of Paradise Regained up to date, and then I’m going to make it permafree as an introduction to the Children of the Mountain King series, and I’m writing a Paradise Lost companion piece to give away in my April newsletter.

But, in other news, I’ve just got back from a family holiday in Bali, and I have two and half weeks to pack up my house for moving, and less time than that to find a place to move to.

So, apart from what I’ve just listed above, the writing is going on the back burner, and I’m not going to be much around on the blog or online. Wish me luck, folks! See you mid-April.

 

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: My One True Love

The second story in the Bluestocking Belles collection, Fire & Frost, is Rue Allyn’s charming My One True Love.

Major Arthur Trevor PenRhyddyrch, Earl of Trehallow, returned to Wales from war and found his best friend gone. No one would speak her name let alone tell him where she might be. Then he found her in the frosty London fog of January 1814 only to lose her in the next moment.

When Miss Mary Percival Cummins saw Trevor in the fog, she ran. She knew he would hate her once he heard what others said, and the memory of their friendship was too dear for her to survive knowing he despised her.

But fate and the Duchess of Haverford had different plans. Her Grace knew, if they did not, that these two friends deserved the happiness of finding their one true love.

An excerpt

Trevor blinked. Percy had used his given name. Without any hesitation or prompting. Nor was she subdued and reluctant as she had been when the evening started. What had changed? He doubted anything in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had inspired his love to drop her unnecessary shame. He did agree, however, that Kean’s performance was inspiring. Perhaps she was simply transported out of the personal darkness that suppressed her naturally buoyant and intrepid spirit.
Regardless of the cause, he was pleased and happy to see again the inner fire that had always shown bright and strong in his best friend. Pray heaven they encounter no one rude enough to cause his love to sink back into unwarranted guilt. He helped her rise and escorted her from the box. Jessica had been correct. It seemed the entire audience had come for refreshments and to discuss the performance thus far. Everywhere he turned he heard Kean, Kean, Kean as well as stellar, immortal, truly gifted, and many other accolades. No one spoke Percy’s name. No one noticed her enough to turn aside and give the cut direct.
Her Grace had been right to insist that Percy attend tonight’s performance.

Meet the heroine.

She did not want him knowing where she lived. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her fingers clenched in her lap.. She dared not look at him. One glance at the concern in his deep brown eyes, might have her betraying all good sense and throwing herself into his arms to weep out her troubles. He would feel honor bound to solve all her problems. She could not allow that.
“For the coachman,” he continued.
“Haverford House,” she blurted. She did not have to go inside, and if Trevor insisted on seeing her as far as the foyer, she would let him. The footmen were all familiar with her comings and goings. No one would question her if she left through the kitchen the minute Trevor left through the front door.
But Robert Burns had been right in his poetic address To a Mouse,. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.” Her plans went awry the moment she crossed the threshold. There, in the midst of the foyer, stood Jessica and the duchess herself.
“Trehallow, my lad,” the duchess said. Jessica followed, crossing to where Trevor and Percy stood just inside the now closed front door. “What a pleasant surprise, and you’ve brought our Miss Cummins back home with you. We had begun to worry about you, dear.” The duchess—who did not prevaricate–lied through her teeth. “Go on up and change. We shall wait dinner until you come down.”
Jess took Percy by the arm and compelled her to walk to the stairs. There she spoke a few quiet words to a nearby footman. Percy was being whisked away up the stairs before she could blink. What was Her Grace thinking?
“You will join us for dinner, Trehallow. I insist,” Her Grace decreed.

And her determined hero.

He and Percy walked in silence nearly half the length of the promenade, the only sounds coming from the crunch of straw on the frozen ground beneath their feet and the low murmur of the other couple’s voices.
He wanted to ask her what happened. Why she had become this silent almost shy person, when that was so alien to the lively, curious, intrepid Percy he remembered. But he could not find the words.
“How have you been, Percy?” was all he could manage.
“Well enough with the duchess’s patronage.”
Was she completely dependent on the duchess? That would not sit well with the Percy he had known. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ passings. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”
She shrugged. “I prefer not to speak of it.”
So she would not talk about her family. “How did you come to know the Duchess of Haverford?”
“Jessica and I were at school together. She insisted I come to her and the Duchess after… after my father died. Mother was too ill to travel, so I came by myself. Her Grace has been all that is kind and helpful. Mother remained at Cummins house under the care of my cousin Donald. I hoped she was well cared for, since I could not be there to see to her comfort myself.”
Which implied that, without the Haverford’s help, Percy might not have been able to provide for her mother at all.
“I am very sorry I was not there to help, Percy. But surely your cousin gave you and your mother a home?”
Percy looked at him, her expression hard, her lips pressed together. “As I said earlier, it is not a time I care to discuss.”

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Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Is it ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? Or ‘out of sight, out of mind’?

You may have noticed I haven’t been around much. We’re selling our house and buying a new one, and my life is teetering on the edge of out of control. I’ve been proofing the Bluestocking Belles’ next anthology, Fire & Frost so we can get the ARC out. Add to that, I’ve other books to finish, grandchildren to cherish, and a day job.

Furthermore, we’re off on a road trip (organised months ago) a week today, so things are unlikely to improve for a while.

Received wisdom in the writer community is that we need to be constantly engaged on social media to keep people thinking about us, and buying the books we’ve written so we can afford to pay our bills for the books we want to write. If that’s true, I’m in trouble!

However, I won’t disappear entirely. I’m still promoting the Bluestocking Belles’ next anthology, Fire & Frost. I’ve written a short story for my newsletter, and will get that out before I go away. I’m about to put up the publication date for my novel The Darkness Within. (I’ll do a preorder on Smashwords which will feed back to the retailers it serves, but leave Amazon till I’m confident, because their punishment for getting it wrong is a year without preorder, and my life could spiral completely out of control at any moment.)

I also need to decide whether I’m going to publish something on 15 December. I’ve done so every year since Candle’s Christmas Chair came out in 2014, and I hate to miss a year. Options are a version of Chasing the Tale, my collection of newsletter subscriber short stories, and Paradise Regained, the prequel to the series I’m publishing next year, Children of the Mountain King. Let me know what you think!

Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt from the next newsletter subscriber story, which may (or may not) be called The Delinquency of Lord Clairmont. My heroine has waited years for her husband to return to England. When she learns from the gossip columns that he has done so, but is remaining in the south instead of coming home, she decides to retrieve him.

She would not apologise for making sure he came home to lands and investments that were more profitable and in better heart than when she took them over. Surely, even the most selfish of men must see that she had a vested interest in securing the future of her children.

Which brought Seffie to the reason why she, Anna, and the servants were about to descend from their coach at a manor owned by one of Clairmont’s dissolute friends. Children. She would be twenty-four in a few days, and she was not waiting another twelve years for her errant husband to at least make the attempt to get her with child. Not another year, nor a month.

Given what she’d heard about the nature of the parties held in this rather pleasant-looking country manor house, Clairmont may have one or more other entertainments already at hand, but Seffie was prepared to do whatever she needed to oust them and take their place. Surely a man whose name had been linked with women all round the world would not refuse to bed his lawfully-wedded wife?

Seffie nodded to her footman, giving him the signal to rap the door knocker. Let battle commence.

The footman knocked twice more before the door opened a cautious crack to allow an elderly maid to poke her beaked nose around the edge of it.

Seffie stepped forward, and footman pushed the door fully open, overcoming the maid’s brief resistance. Not a maid. The bundle of keys at the woman’s waist indicated the housekeeper. She stepped backward at the aristocratic advance and curtseyed.

“I am Lady Clairmont,” Seffie said. “Announce me to your master.”

The housekeeper shook her head, cringing as if she expected a blow. “’is lordship be asleep,” she whined. “Them all be asleep. Even Mr. Barton, who be the butler. All night they was up, and be as much as my life to wake ’uns.”

Seffie gave a short nod. She should have expected this. “Show my cousin and my maid to a parlour where they can wait, and send someone to conduct me to Lord Clairmont’s room,” she commanded. She added instructions for refreshments to be brought to her and her cousin, and told William to stay with the other two women. They might need a stout defender in this house, though perhaps they could all retreat to a nearby inn before the other denizens woke up.

“Should you be alone, ma’am?” Polly ventured, and Anna agreed. “We could send for another of the men to go with you.”

What Seffie had to say to her husband was best said in private. “I shall be safe in Clairmont’s room,” she insisted, and followed another servant, this one still straightening her cap and tying her apron, up the long curve of the stairs.

It wasn’t until the housekeeper put a hand up to knock on the door that it occured to Seffie that her husband might not be alone.

“Don’t knock,” she said, hastily. Should she enter, or not? She had come this far, and she did not like to retreat.

She tried the handle. Locked. “Open it,” she insisted.

The housekeeper frowned but obeyed.

“That will be all, Mrs… ?”

“Barton, my lady. I’ll bring thy tea.”

“Do that.”

Seffie waited until Mrs. Barton retreated back towards the stairs before opening the door enough to slip silently into the bedchamber. A large four-poster bed dominated the room. To Seffie’s relief, the man sleeping in it was alone. She was less comfortable with his attire—or lack thereof. He lay sprawled on his front, his face turned away from her, the sheet pushed down to show his bare back from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist.

Seffie froze in the doorway. He was no longer pudgy; nor was the glorious expanse of skin marred by pimples or any other blemish. She gave herself a shake, stepped inside, and closed the door. She might be a virgin, but she hadn’t lived in a box for all the past years. Being married didn’t stop her from admiring a male form, and she knew desire when she felt it. She had never acted on it, and she could ignore it now. She wasn’t here to lust after her husband. Actually, that wasn’t quite accurate—if they could resolve the distance between what she wanted and what he apparently wanted, lust would be appropriate and useful in gaining her the children she yearned for. Provided he felt the same about her.

For a wild moment, she was tempted to undress and climb under the sheets with him, but she resisted the impulse. The maid would return with the tea. Besides, they should talk first; negotiate a way forward. In truth, despite her unexpected physical response, she was a little afraid. He was a stranger, and she had only the most general of ideas about what to expect of the marital act. It sounded like something better done with a friend, or at least a more than casual acquaintance.

She took a seat in the window bay, and pulled the book she had been reading from her reticule. From here, she could see his face. She would have walked past him in the street, except that she was very familiar with certain elements of his face. That square cleft chin appeared in a number of paintings at Clairhaven; that strong nose and those arched eyebrows in others. The boy of fifteen was still there, too, when she examined him closely, pared down, toughened, more square and decidedly formidable. In repose, he was not classically handsome, but he was attractive.

Her husband. She whispered it, to see if it felt more real when voiced aloud. “My husband.”