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Tea with Grace and Georgie

The two ladies having tea with Eleanor clearly had something on their minds. They kept exchanging glances, and frowning at the servants who bustled in and out. Eleanor was entertaining two dear friends on this lovely day in 1794; Lady Sutton, daughter-in-law to the Duke of Winshire, and Lady Georgiana Winderfield, his daughter.

As the servants wheeled in the refreshments Eleanor had ordered, and made sure that the ladies had everything they required, the three friends spoke of the fashions of the current season, the worrying events in France, the reopening of the Drury Theatre, and the children: Grace’s little Lord Elfingham and Eleanor’s Jonathan, both five; Eleanor’s Aldridge, a schoolboy of 13; Grace’s twin daughters, whose first birthday celebrations had just passed.

As the last of the servants left, Eleanor spoke to her companion-secretary, a poor relation of her husband whom she was enjoying more than she expected. Largely because she had decided to find the girl a match, and was gaining great entertainment from the exercise. Eleanor could hit two birds with a single stone if she sent dear Margaret to her husband’s office, where his secretaries currently beavered away over the endless paperwork of the duchy. “Margaret, Lady Sutton and Lady Georgiana have a wish to be private with me. I trust you do not mind, my dear, if I send you on an errand? Would you please asked that nice Mr Hammond to find the accounts for Holystone Hall? I wish to go over the coal bills.” Margaret blushed at the mention of Theseus Hammond, and left eagerly. Very good.

Grace was diverted. “Matchmaking, Eleanor?”

“A little. He is as poor as a church mouse, of course. We shall have to see if we can find a position in which he could support a wife. But what is it you wanted to tell me?”

Grace and Georgie exchanged glances, then Georgie leaned forward and took Eleanor’s hand between two of hers. “We thought you should hear it from us, first. Word will undoubtedly be all over Town in no time.”

Georgie’s unexpected touch alarmed Eleanor. Embracing — even touching — was Not Done. A kiss in the air beside a perfumed cheek, but nothing more. Except for her son Jonathan, who was fond of cuddles, no one had held Eleanor’s hand since Aldridge crept from the schoolroom to sit all night with her after her last miscarriage. “What can possibly be wrong? Not something Haverford has done?” But what could such a powerful duke do to give rise to the concern she saw in the eyes of her friends.

“Not Haverford.” Georgie again exchanged glances with her sister-in-law. “His Grace our father received a letter of condolence on the death of my brother Edward.” Another of those glances.

“Out with it, Georgie,” Eleanor commanded. “I am not a frail ninny who faints at nothing. Tell me what you think I need to know.”

Georgie sighed, and firmed her grip on Eleanor’s hand. “Eleanor, the letter was from James.”

Who was James? Not Georgie’s brother, the one love of Eleanor’s life. James was dead, killed by bandits nearly fifteen years ago. They got the letter. The Duke of Winshire himself told her. She was shaking her head, shifting herself backwards on the sofa away from Georgie, whose warm compassionate eyes were so much like those of her missing brother. Missing?

“Not dead?” Her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak, as emotions flooded her. Joy. Anger. A desperate sadness for so many years lost to grieving.

“Alive,” Georgie said. “James is alive, Eleanor.”

The room spun and turned grey, and Eleanor knew no more.

In her youth, Eleanor loved James Winderfield, who was exiled for his temerity in aspiring to her hand. This year, the Bluestocking Belle’s box set includes Paradise Regained, a story from me about James and his Persian wife, Mahzad. For more about the box set, keep an eye on the Belles’ website. We’ll be putting the details of the book up on the Joint Projects part of the site as soon as we reveal the name and cover. Or come to our cover release party, on Facebook on the 8th September 2pm to 9pm Eastern Daylight Time. And I’ll put Paradise Regained up on my book page once the cover is released and we have the buy links.

Oh, and for those who remember The Bluestocking and the Barbarian from nearly two years ago, Mahzad is the mother of the hero of that novella, which is soon to be rewritten as a novel. (It is still available as part of Holly and Hopeful Hearts, the Bluestocking Belles 2016 collection.

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Series, serials, sequels, sequences, sets, and strings

I’m still processing the Romance Writers’ Conference. One of the presentations was very timely, as I’ve been rethinking my publication sequence because readers are asking me to complete some of my series before going on to others. I’m not one for serials. In a serial, you have to go to the next book to find out the resolution of the main plot, which I find annoying. But I do love series, where each book has its own story arc, but we continue to meet the same characters over and over.

I’ve also been talking to the wonderful Caroline Warfield about her Children of Empire, which has now become series 1, with more to come. Caroline is getting to know her characters, family by family, so she can discover the overall series arc for each group of books, which is something I’ve lucked into rather than deliberately sought. At the conference, Bella Andre and Nadini Singh both made a good case for thinking about both the story arc in the individual novel that forms part of the series, and the overall series arc. I think I can enrich my books by being a bit more deliberate.

I can certainly be more deliberate about the order in which I write and publish. In the beginning, I started publishing chronologically. Now, having written five and a half novels, nine novellas, and nearly twenty short stories, I still don’t have a completed series.

Here’s where I’m up to in my thinking.

The Golden Redepennings was always designed around the concept of a wealthy, handsome, charming aristocratic family, all descended from three brothers. I have published three of the planned seven books, and am writing book four for publication in March 2019. One a year until 2022? Maybe faster, if I retire. Each book has its own theme and its own arc. The end returns to the beginning, with a minor villain in book 1 coming home as the prodigal son in book 7. Series arc? I had one in mind, but I’m not sure I’ve kept it front and centre. I’ll have to mull a bit more.

The Children of the Mountain King series, which starts The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, has individual love stories for each child and niece of the Duke of Winshire, head of the Winderfield family. The overarching storyline of the  series is a secondary romance — between a Winshire and a Haverford. They start on opposite sides, since her husband attacks the legitimacy of the Winderfield children. And then, through the series, various things happen (including her husband’s death). (My next novella with the Bluestocking Belles is a prequel to this series.) I’m aiming to finish and publish this series over the next two years (2019 and 2020).

Game of Mist and Shadows, the Prue and David series, is a mystery/suspense, but each book will have a love story, and part of the plot will be the emergence of yet another Haverford bastard child for Prue and David to help. The first book, Revealed in Mist, was Prue and David’s love story. Concealed on Shadow has gone on the back burner so I can work on the other projects while selling my house, but I already have an idea for the next one after that. Revealed in Mist is also the first book in The Virtue Sisters, which will go on to explore the love stories of each of Prue’s sisters. The overall arc is the reconciliation between the sisters.

I’ve done a couple of stories in Lion’s Zoo, a series about an ill-assorted bunch of men who were exploring officers for Wellington in Spain. House of Thorns is sitting back on my desk so I can do the edits, and The Fifth Race was a newsletter subscriber story. I’ll have to think about overall arc. At this point, nothing occurs.

And The Heart of a Wolf is about to become a series, at least in my imagination. Who’d have thought? The hero of the short story will be the subject of the overall arc (finding, redeeming, and supporting his people), and the love story in the final book. I need to map out story concept for the other books, but I know the first one involves Bastian’s secretary, who falls in love while out on search for a suitable bride for Bastian.

I have others, as you know. But that’s enough to be going on with.

 

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Dastardly doings on WIP Wednesday

I do enjoy writing villains, then giving them their comeuppance. And if my antagonists are sometimes melodramatically bad, I always have a backstory to round out their characters. At some point; at some crossroads in their life; they have stepped on a path, and then ignored multiple opportunities to make other choices. Very few of my antagonists think of themselves as villains. Some are just too self-centred to think of others at all. Some consider themselves heroes in the story of their own lives, their choices justified as being in the cause of the greater good.

This week, I’m inviting you to share an excerpt that gives us an insight into a villain of yours. Mine is from Never Kiss a Toad — a preview of a chapter that has not yet been published on Wattpad. (Never Kiss a Toad is the book Mariana Gabrielle and I are co-writing and co-publishing on her Wattpad profile and mine.)

Lady Sarah was avoiding him. 

Penchley intended to use this trip across the Indian Ocean to cement the attachment begun during the trip through Egypt, but how could he when she treated him with the polite indifference owed to a stranger, and refused any overtures? 

She blamed him for her doubts about Harburn’s intentions, though that dirty dog’s purchase of a house load of furniture to send to Italy was hardly Penchley’s fault.  

He had learned his lesson though about disclosing such stories directly to the lady. When he’d won back her trust, he’d be more careful. 

He’d been careful in Cairo. His skilful manipulation of the British Consol made him smile, even all these days later. He really was an excellent diplomat.  

Mr Finlayson, in a dither over his coming interview with His Grace the Duke of Haverford, had been grateful for the background on the duke’s decision to take his daughter to the other side of the world. “The finest of women, I assure you,” he’d said, “and you must decide for yourself what kind of cad has enemies who would attack an innocent lady, and one of such high estate. One of the slanderers was Harburn’s own cousin!” 

Finlayson expressed appropriate horror, and Penchley hastened to disclaim the rumour that Harburn and Lady Athol had once been very close, a circumstance that explained Lady Athol’s hasty marriage. “I have no evidence to confirm that story,” he said, “but I know for a fact that Harburn and the villain who attacked Lady Sarah fought over a woman in Paris. Something to do with irregular … practices, if you know what I mean.” 

“I should mention none of this to His Grace, I suppose,” Finlayson said, and Penchley hastened to assure him that the facts were known all over England. “His Grace will be please to know the truth of Lady Sarah’s innocence has reached as far as Cairo,” he explained. “Especially after the incident in Alexandria.” He explained about the fight. 

“But it hasn’t,” Finlayson protested. “I have heard nothing about any of the parties in this scandal, except from you.” 

“That’s good then. Although… Never mind.” 

Penchley allowed himself to be persuaded to share his concern that — since the rumours had clearly reached Egypt — Finlayson was not as in touch with local sentiment as he should be. “I am sure His Grace will understand,” Penchley said. “Your focus on your family, and your relationship with the local people — that is important to the British Empire too, I am sure.” 

Finlayson, who had married the daughter of an Egyptian notable and been shunted out of all further promotions as a result, chewed at the side of his lower lip, his brow creased. “I suppose I should know what the local British residents are saying,” he agreed. 

“And any travellers passing through. Over to you, sir, but if I might offer a little advice? It can never hurt to keep such a notable happy. You don’t need to mention me at all, and if the duke assumes you collected the information in the streets, using your own sources? All to the good.” 

Finlayson fidgeted nervously with his pen. “I couldn’t do that. Could I?” 

“Perhaps you could reassure the duke, father to father? Your eldest daughter is a little younger than Lady Sarah, but still… Yes. That will work nicely, I think.” 

The duke arrived then, interrupting their little tête-à-tête, but it had done the trick. Within minutes, Finlayson was expressing his sympathy for the wronged lady and the distraught father. His Grace enquired, with distant politeness, about the source of Finlayson’s information and Finlayson claimed multiple informants in Cairo, some travellers, others residents. His Grace became colder, stiffer, and more polite still.  

Before long, he rose to his feet. “I regret that I must take my leave, Finlayson.” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” Finlayson was on his feet too, bowing, his face screwed into an anxious frown. 

“We cross the desert tomorrow,” Penchley explained. “I understand we leave early to avoid the worst of the heat.” 

Finlayson bowed them out of his office and then his residence, catching Penchley by the arm to whisper, “I thought that went well, didn’t you?” 

Penchley was able to answer with complete sincerity. “Very well indeed.” 

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Tea with Mr Clemens

 

Sam Clemens, editor and proprietor of The Teatime Tattler, juggled the delicate porcelain cup and the matching plate, wondering how he was meant to drink the one and eat the dainty iced confection that adorned the other.

The aristocracy learned such tricks in the nursery, but Sam had never claimed nor wished to be one of them. His own more humble folk were good enough for him, though one could not deny the ton made good copy, providing an unending stream of scandal to delight his readers.

No doubt Her Grace thought to impress him into agreeing to suppress one story or another — perhaps one about her outrageous son? The Merry Marquis entertained the whole of London with his antics, and Sam had no intention of agreeing to ignore a useful piece of copy just because the Duchess of Haverford favoured him with an invitation to tea. He responded to a polite enquiry about the health of his brother’s family. The younger Clemens sibling had emigrated to the Americas, and was raising his hopeful family there. Sam often thought of visiting them, especially his namesake, young Samuel, but his commitment to his paper did not leave time for a long sea journey.

He couldn’t fault the lady’s graciousness. She noticed his dilemma with the cup and plate, gave a twitch of her eyebrows and a nod to a hovering footman, and moments later a small table materialised at Sam’s elbow. The duchess, meanwhile, continued to show a great interest in the exploits of young Sam, as reported in his mother’s letters. Sam took a grateful sip of his tea.

At last, Her Grace came to the point. “Mr Clemens, I am sure you wonder why I invited you here today.”

He appreciated her forthrightness. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I did.”

“I have been approached by a number of people who wish me to use my influence to stop you publishing articles and letters about the forthcoming book from the Bluestocking Belles,” she explained.

“For, Your Grace,” he asked, “or against?”

“Both,” the duchess replied. “Some support the detractors, some the authors. A pretty conundrum, is it not?”

Sam took a deep breath, ready to make his position clear. Surrounded by the evidence of heritage and wealth, faced by the great lady herself, one step down from royal and every inch a noble, he found it harder than he expected to voice the rejection he planned. Before he could speak, she continued.

“Let me put your mind to rest, Mr. Clemens. I have no intention of interfering either way, except perhaps to pen a letter myself. Publish as you will. I will watch with interest to see whether the salacious rumours prove to be true.”

Watch The Teatime Tattler over the next eight weeks as the debate unfolds. The first shots have already been fired, and we expect more, starting 3 September.

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So many stories, so little time

Our house — 5 bedrooms in nearly 2 acres of established garden and lawn, with a separate studio, in one of the loveliest commuter towns in the country

Life is frantically busy. We have several major projects on at work, all of which require effort from me this week. My beloved and I are preparing our house to go on the market in three weeks, just in time for all the trees to be in blossom (so removing clutter by packing stuff I want to keep and giving the rest away, touching up paintwork and other minor repairs, weeding, etc etc). And on the book front, I have six projects running.

  1. The Belles’ box set has been proofread and the cover launch is in a fortnight. So Paradise Regained and its companion stories are almost at the ‘market, market, market’ stage of the process.
  2. Abbie’s Wish, for the Author’s of Main Street Christmas box set has been written, but I have some editing to do before I can send it to beta readers.
  3. The Beast Next Door, for the Belle’s Valentine box set, is due for first peer review on 1 October, but is currently on the back burner while I work on more urgent projects.
  4. House of Thorns is back from the editor (as I wrote a couple of weeks ago) and the rewrite is becoming urgent. I don’t know what publication date Scarsdale Publishing have in mind, but I do know I don’t want to hold them up!
  5. Never Kiss a Toad has chapters almost up to Sally’s return home, but they need review and I have to write more to bring the story to a close. Absolute priority for this week is to finish Chapter 61, a new Sally chapter that fits between the chapter Mari and I are currently publishing on Wattpad and the next prepared chapter.
  6. Unkept Promises is stalled while I clear the other projects, but Mia and Jules are not impressed with the decision and keep yammering at me.

My beloved says that my hobby is getting out of hand, and when I think about all the ideas crowding for their place, he might have a point.

And have I been doing book appearances, FaceBook parties, email outreach, and all the other book marketing stuff? Not so much. But I’ll be back, I promise. The goal is a smaller house on a smaller section. Less effort, and more time to write. Yay!

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Spotlight on A Gentleman’s Promise

Congratulations to Penny Hampson on the publication of her debut novel. It is free until 27 August, so get in now!

It is 1810, and Richard has inherited a title, a neglected estate – and the attentions of a killer; then young Jamie Smythe and his older, independent-minded sister, Emma, turn up, claiming to be the rightful heirs. Suspicion, scandal and murder can’t be ignored, neither can this unsettling female, who is determined to sort things out on her own. Can Richard unmask the villain, hang on to his sanity, and keep headstrong Emma safe, all whilst trying to convince her that they would make an ideal couple?

Buy link with excerpt:

https://read.amazon.co.uk/kp/embed?asin=B07F6B28GT&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_0wYEBb4B1PBPW

Chapter One

There was no getting away from it; someone wanted him dead. The trigger had surely been the notice in the Gazette of his recently acquired title. But who begrudged him the title of Viscount enough to try and kill him? Richard Lacey’s mouth twisted, trying to fathom it out. Well, he was here now; come to see for himself what was so special about Easterby Hall.

He eyed the decaying façade of the house as he brought his curricle to a halt before the property’s front door. His gaze raked over pointed gables and large chimney stacks. No doubt at one time it had been an inviting house; now there was a definite air of neglect. The disappearing sun glinted off stone mullioned windows, and a lone curl of smoke ascended from one of the rear chimneys.

He dismounted to make a closer inspection; the horses snorted and pawed the ground, displaying their impatience. He turned and patted the nearside horse’s flank.

‘Steady, boys; soon have you rubbed down and watered.’

‘Shall I take them round to the stables, sir?’ his groom asked.

‘Yes, see what you can find.’

The front door at the top of the steps remained closed. Fool; obviously, he was not expected. What was he thinking? If the interior was in a similar poor state he would have to return to the inn at Minster Lovell. Not something he wanted to do; like his horses, he’d had enough of travelling for the day.

He stretched to ease his aching muscles; his hopes for a hot bath, a decent meal, and a warm bed were becoming obsessions.

Julia and David are right to tease me. I must be getting set in my ways if all I’m anticipating is a bath and an early night.

He smiled to himself and shook his head; this wouldn’t do. His boots thudded on the steps, jarring his stiffened knees. He tugged on the bell and chimes resonated through the house. Footsteps clattered over what sounded like a tiled floor; then a key grated in the lock. The door opened and a grey-haired gentleman peered out at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

‘Yes, yes, may I help you? I’m afraid the family are not at home to visitors at present.’

The man’s tone was querulous, as if he’d been disturbed from a far more pleasant activity than opening the front door to passing strangers.  Controlling his first vexed impulse – this was now his property after all – Richard replied with his own question.

‘And you are…?’

The old chap pulled himself up to his full height and announced, ‘I am Wrighton, butler to the late Lord Easterby. Who might you be, sir?’

‘Richard Lacey, Viscount Easterby. Your new employer.’

Meet Penny Hampson

I’ve been passionate about books ever since I first learnt to read. A common refrain at home was that I always had my nose in a book; things haven’t changed, even though I’m now somewhat older.
History is a passion too; it’s great that these two interests combine so well.
With degrees in history and historical research, I’ve spent my working life helping others to achieve publication; now I’ve decided it’s my turn.
My Regency stories are filled with mystery, adventure, and romance – my three favourite themes. I’ve enjoyed writing them and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Visit my website: www.pennyhampson.co.uk

Follow me on Twitter @penny_hampson

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Wounds and scars on WIP Wednesday

Authors spend quite a bit of time talking about the emotional wounds that motivate and limit their characters. The Void, Damon Suede called it. The Void is what the characters spend the story trying to a-void. For our protagonists, facing and filling the void is the path to happiness. For the antagonists, the void will eventually suck them in, as their efforts to avoid it drag them into actions with consequences. (Don’t you just love fiction, where bad guys lose and good guys win?)

This week, I’m inviting you to share some scars with me — physical (but the real pain is the emotional impact) or emotional.

I’ve got a couple of pieces. One is from my Valentine story for 2019, The Beast Next Door. Eric’s void stems from his mother’s rejection. He was sent to the country as a baby, to hide the shame of his strawberry birthmark, then sent overseas for medical treatment when he was a boy.

When Eric had been sent to Italy, Nanny had been given a cottage in the village and a pension. “I will write, Nanny,” he had said. “I will write to you and you can tell Charis what the letters say.” They had already reluctantly agreed that Charis would not be able to receive letters from him directly, not just because he was a boy and a flawed one at that, but because no one in the Dalrymple household knew of Charis’s secret excursions and the friendship she and Eric had formed.

“My dear boy,” the old lady told him, fondly. “I never did learn to read, and now it’s too late, for my eyes are not what they used to be.”

Charis gave her a hug. “I shall read them to you,” she promised. And so Eric wrote each letter for the two females who loved him, sending them good news and bad. Philip, the tutor assigned to instruct and care for him, who came to be his closest friend. The repeated operations to remove the strawberry growth that marred the whole left side of his face. The infection that nearly killed him. The new friends he made when he was well again and Philip took him into Italian Society. There, the scars became something of a passport to new friendships as he and Philip vied to make up more and more outrageous stories about their cause. His favourite cast him as a ruthless brawler who had met up with a bandit better than he at knife fighting. In the story, the bandit was so impressed with his courage that Eric stayed with the gang for six weeks, being trained by the bandit.

And then the letters stopped. Six years ago, the village rector wrote, expressing his condolences on the death of Mrs Parker, and enclosing the most recent of Eric’s missives, unopened. And since then, nothing.

Eric had stayed in Italy even after he reached his majority. This village had been his prison, not his home, and the only two people who had ever cared about him were lost, for surely Charis had forgotten about him as she moved into Society and acquired the suitors she richly deserved. Handsome men, men who were accepted by their families, men with their own fortunes.

But here she was, sitting beside him, her lovely eyes shining. “Oh Eric, I am so glad you are home,” she exclaimed.

And he was, he realised. Home for him had always been Nanny and Charis. “I never forgot you,” he told her.

Magnus appears in Magnus and the Christmas Angel (a short story in Lost in the Tale), which I’ve begun rewriting as The Tattooed Earl. His void also stems from family rejection and exile. In his case, it led to imprisonment on a Pacific Island, where he won the right to a warrior’s tattoo. This is from the new draft, and shows the scene mentioned in the short story, where Caroline is rescued from a loathsome marriage as she stands before the altar ready to make her vows.

She kept her back straight, her face calm; stilled the trembling of her hands by sheer force of will. No one would know she was afraid. No one but Lewis, who knew and was pleased.

When she was close enough, Lewis grabbed her hand and squeezed hard enough to leave bruises, digging in his fingers. She hid her wince, but the minister noticed and frowned, and frowned still further with Lewis instructed him to begin.

“She’s here. Get on with it man. Splice me to the damn chit. I have other engagements this afternoon, and a wife’s maidenhead to breach before I can get to them.”

“Sir!” The minister was horrified. “Your rudeness is not to be tolerated in this sacred place, and in the presence of a lady. Miss Thrushnet, such lack of respect does not bode well. It does not indeed. I urge you to consider carefully before you proceed.”

Callie shook her head. “I have no choice. Do it quickly, please.”

The minister  shook his head, but he began the words of the service. Callie barely listened, until he reached the point that he spoke to the congregation, almost, it seemed, begged the congregation. “If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it.”

He fell silent and waited. If only someone would speak up! They would not, of course, but even so Callie turned to look at those witnessing this travesty of a wedding, ignoring Lewis’s foul words as the minister ignored his commands to proceed.

The door to the church crashed back, and a large angry man shouldered his way past Lewis’s footmen, beating them off with his walking stick and shouting, “Stop the wedding!”

His face. Callie knew that face. This was a man, and not a stripling boy, and barbaric black whorls and dots disfigured all of one side—forehead, cheek, chin, and half the nose. But she would have known him had the tattoos covered all, by his resemblance to his father and by the leap of her heart as he fought his way furiously up the nave of the church.

Magnus. It was Magnus returned from the dead to save her.

Her head felt light, and then the world spun around her and went black.

*****

The minister caught Callie as she fell, fainting at the horror his face had become. He would have to explain. The men on the ship that rescued him grew used to his tattoos during the long voyage home. Could Callie?

But no time for that now, with Lewis shaking his fist in Magnus’s face and demanding he be removed, not that anyone seemed anxious to oblige him. Lewis’s lackeys were unconscious on the ground at the back of the church; the onlookers eyed Magnus’s stick warily, and his grin with even more caution.

Magnus looked Lewis up and down and his grin broadened. The monster who had made his youth a torment was now six inches shorter than him, and showing signs of dissipation in his broadening girth, his soft jowls. While he indulged every vice in London, Magnus had survived shipwreck, fought to earn his entrance into the elite of a warrior culture, and worked his way home from the other side of the world on a naval vessel.

Lewis turned his shoulder, ostentatiously. “Get on with it,” he told the minister. “This madman has nothing to do with us.”

The minister had lowered Callie to the ground and now stood protectively over her. His words were addressed to Magnus. “Who are you, sir? And what cause or impediment do you bring?”

Lewis argued. “He is mad, I tell you. Will no one rid us of this violent lunatic?”

Magnus ignored his cousin, but raised his voice for the benefit of the onlookers. “I am Magnus Colbrooke, Earl of Fenchurch, and this lady is my betrothed.”

 

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Tea with Mahzad

 

The garden was beautiful. It was a long rectangle, walled on three sides and on the fourth bounded by steps up to a house. Or perhaps a castle, though unlike any castle Eleanor had ever seen. A fort of some kind, its arches and domes giving it an exotic air entirely in keeping with the garden.

A pool divided the garden in half; no, in quarters, for it had two straight branches stretching almost to the walls from the centre point of the walled enclosure. Eleanor had woken to find herself in one quadrant of the garden, surrounded by flowers in a myriad of colours, some familiar and some unknown. Not woken. She could not possibly be awake. Nowhere in England had the mountains she could see over the walls, and nor was this an English garden.

She must have spoken the last thought, because a voice behind her said, “Not English, no. Persian, originally, though I am told they are found from Morocco to Benghal. It is a chahar bāgh; a Paradise garden.”

Eleanor turned. Behind her, a lady as exotic as her garden stood on the steps of a pavilion, raised to give a sheltered place from which to enjoy a view over the garden. “I am asleep and dreaming, I think,” the lady said, “for it is afternoon by the sun, and at such a time my garden is full of my children and my ladies.” She waved to indicate the deserted space, her lips gently curved and her face alight. “We should enjoy the peace while it lasts. Will you join me for coffee, or perhaps tea?”

Eleanor nodded and mounted the stairs to join her, following her into a space as alien as the garden, the stone-paved floor almost invisible under brightly coloured rugs and cushions. “Is it your dream or mine? For when I went to sleep, I was in Haverford House, in London. And this is not England.”

The lady raised both brows, and then let them drop, her face suddenly bland. “You are, perhaps, the Duchess of Haverford?”

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. Yes, I am Eleanor Haverford.”

If Eleanor had any doubts that this was a dream they were dispelled in the next instant, when a small table appeared from thin air, laden with a tea pot, a long full-bellied coffee pot, two cups, and plates of small delicacies.

The lady gave a brief huff of amusement. “The dream reminds me of my manners. Please be seated, duchess. Your Grace, is it not? I am Mahzad.”

Now it was Eleanor’s turn to wipe all expression from her face as she inclined her head. “Your majesty. Is that the correct form of address? Cecily McInnes spoke of you when she returned to England.”

“Please call me Mahzad. After all, we have a lot in common, you and I. Tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee, and please call me Eleanor. Cecily said he was well, and very much in love with his wife.” And Eleanor was happy for the man she had once loved with a maiden’s ardent passion. Of course she was.

Mahzad smiled and placed a protective hand over her belly, where a slight rounding indicated yet another child on the way to join the already large family. “You have a generous heart, Eleanor. You have not been as fortunate as James and I, I think.”

Eleanor waved away the sympathy. “I have my children and my work. I am content. But tell me about your family. Who knows how long the dream might last, and I wish to know all about them.”

In her youth, Eleanor loved James Winderfield, who was exiled for his temerity in aspiring to her hand. This year, the Bluestocking Belle’s box set includes Paradise Regained, a story from me about James and his Persian wife, Mahzad. For more about the box set, keep an eye on the Belles’ website. We’ll be putting the details of the book up on the Joint Projects part of the site as soon as we reveal the name and cover. Or come to our cover release party, on Facebook on the 8th September 2pm to 9pm Eastern Daylight Time. And I’ll put Paradise Regained up on my book page once the cover is released and we have the buy links.

Oh, and for those who remember The Bluestocking and the Barbarian from nearly two years ago, Mahzad is the mother of the hero of that novella, which is soon to be rewritten as a novel. (It is still available as part of Holly and Hopeful Hearts, the Bluestocking Belles 2016 collection.

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Promises to keep

One of my takeaways from the Romance Writers of New Zealand conference had to do with the cost and the value of books.

There’s an old joke about people who know the cost of everything and the value of nothing. It’s a trap for those who give away their books or sell them cheap. Hands up those who have an ereader full of free and 99c books they’ll possibly never read?

I guess it’s way too easy, as an author trying to be noticed in a bazillion book market, to focus on the financial cost of an ebook and think that tweaking price is going to help with sales. We know that our book has cost us many hundreds of hours to write and edit. We probably know to the cent how much we’ve spent on professional services to produce the book, and on marketing to get it in front of you. What we maybe don’t think about is how much our readers commit when they buy our books.

The money people pay for a book is the smallest part of their investment. When you buy a book, you’re making a commitment to invest time — anything from a lunch hour to weeks of spare minutes, depending on the length and how fast you read. In return, you expect an emotional payback. You want the story to suck you in, let you live in the shoes of the characters while you’re reading, and leave you at the end feeling satisfied with the experience.

I’m still thinking about whether this insight might change my view on pricing. But I know it’s going to change some of my marketing. I want readers to know the promises I make when I put a book on the market.

First, I promise that things will work out, that my protagonists will have a happy ending (whatever that means to them), that villains will eventually be defeated (and punished even if not in this book). I also want you to have enough information to decide whether my kind of slightly dark and often convoluted story is your preferred type of read.

Second, if you like to read the kind of story I like to write, I promise to take you out of the everyday world into the one I’ve created. I don’t promise that things will go smoothly. They won’t. I don’t even promise that bad things won’t happen to good people. All I can say is, enjoy the roller-coaster. By buying my book, you’re asking me to play with your emotions and I promise to do my best to make the ride worthwhile.

Third, I promise to keep learning and innovating. I’ll work on my writer craft. I’ll try not to write the same story over and over, just changing the names and places. I’ll try new things, some of which might not work, but I hope we’ll have fun, you and I.

Thank you for your investment in me. You cannot know how much your appreciation motivates me to keep writing.

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Plot bunnies and research rabbit holes

 

Have I mentioned recently that I love research, and have never seen a plot bunny hop into a rabbit hole without wanting to follow it into wonderland?

My browsing history is eclectic, to say the least. At the moment, I have six stories at various stages. Take a look at some of the interesting facts I’ve gone rabbiting after, and tell me what you’d like me to write about here.

I’m close to finishing Abbie’s Wish, my contemporary for the Authors of Main Street Christmas set. In just the last few days, I’ve looked up:

  • classic motorcycles, and what model my hero, my villain, and my second lead might have a bonding moment over
  • electronic listening devices that wouldn’t be easy for someone to detect
  • exercises used in Riding for the Disabled classes
  • what dirt bike riding feels like, and how the bikes differ from street bikes
  • ideas for costumes for a parade float with the theme ‘summer solstice around the world’.

Paradise Regained is on its final proofread before publication in November as part of the Bluestocking Belles box set. My research days for that are well over, but included Silk Road caravanserais, trading routes north of (or over) the Caspian Sea, the best place in Europe to buy edged weapons, words in Turkmen and Persian, Paradise gardens, Sufi saints and their relics, and  the civil war in Iran during the change of dynasties in the late eighteenth century.

Also on the final run to publication is the novel House of Thorns, which Scarsdale Publishing is bringing out as part of a Marriage of Inconvenience collection. I’ve got the edits back from the publisher and am working my way through them. Research included:

  • Wirral Peninsula and the steam ferry services that connected it to Liverpool
  • 1816, the year without a summer
  • Regency property developers, including failed property developments
  • exploring officers in the Napoleonic Wars.

As soon as I clear the work for these three off my desk, I need to get back to The Beast Next Door, a rewrite of the Bluestocking and the Beast, which was originally a short story. The Beast Next Door is going in a Valentine box set for the Bluestocking Belles, and has had me looking up Regency treatments for severe strawberry birthmarks (and what happens without treatment), assemblies at Bath, and distances from Bath that would keep my heroine stranded in the country by bad weather for a crucial length of time at the start of the book.

And my mind still keeps going back to Unkept Promises. I’m over 25% of the way through Mia’s and Jules’s story, the fourth in the Golden Redepenning series. I’m continuing to research the Regency navy, particularly that arm of it that policed the seas off the Cape of Storms. Other rabbits I’ve chased to their lairs include:

  • tuberculosis — what it looked like and how it progressed before antibiotics, and tuberculosis treatments in Regency times
  • the British presence in Cape Town in 1812
  • Cape Town streets and houses in 1812
  • the history of the Cape Colony, and specifically the history of slavery in the Cape Colony
  • Ceylon in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century
  • the Far East fleet of the British navy in the wars with Revolutionary and then Napoleonic France.

The ongoing saga of Never Kiss a Toad keeps on throwing up challenges, being outside my normal research period. I’m cowriting it with Mariana Gabrielle, and we’re publishing it on Wattpad one episode a week. Our heroine is off in the Pacific, on an island group where her father has been appointed governor. Diplomatic, Polynesian, settler, whaler, and other history needed. She has a new suitor, who is a scientist and a balloonist. Two more rabbits. She has been to Alexandria, Cairo, and Madras — all of which required description.

Meanwhile, back in Europe, the intrepid hero of Never Kiss a Toad is running a shipping enterprise. New countries and also travel times, which are always fraught. This week’s episode has him preparing for his sister’s debutante ball, events that had changed a little by the time Victoria was on the throne.

It’s a good thing I love research.