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Tea with Lord Overton

 

Today, a couple of excerpts from A Baron for Becky. The first is when the Duchess of Haverford arrives in response to Hugh’s letter, asking her son for help.

Aldridge must have been closer than Hugh expected. Three days after he sent his letters, a train of elegant sleighs coasted up the drive. Carriages, really, but with skids rather than wheels, each pulled by a pair of sturdy horses. The children, taking advantage of a break in the weather to play in the snow, stopped in their tracks and watched.

From the study window, Hugh could see three of the ornately carved and painted sleighs turn away towards the stable yard, and the remaining two continue to the front steps. He was not surprised all five sported the Haverford crest.

He excused himself to Becky, who didn’t look up from the fire she was examining so intently, and sent a maid to sit with her while he went down to greet his guest. He pasted on a smile. Hugh had sent for the arrogant, self-centred, wife-stealing son-of-a-bitch. And if Becky wanted to go with him, then that was the price Hugh would pay for Becky to be well again. Even if it meant losing Belle.

Smile. He needed to smile.

One carriage was disgorging an enormous number of retainers. How had they all fit? Sitting on one another’s knees? Aldridge stood at the door of the other, handing down a lady. Surely even Aldridge wouldn’t bring one of his paramours here!

Then the lady lifted her head. The face under the bonnet brought his smile out in truth.

He hurried down the steps to greet her. “Your Grace. I am so glad you have come.”

And in the second excerpt, she carts Hugh off to his study and proceeds to instruct him in how to bring his wife back to health.

He could be hopeful, but shouldn’t expect the current rally to last, the Duchess of Haverford instructed him. She had sent her son to play cards with her companion, and demanded that Hugh escort her into his study, where she asked him incisive questions about Becky’s illness and her treatment.

“The doctor said her humours were out of balance, and he bled her, but…”

“Stupid,” Her Grace said. “Very stupid. She had just had a baby and lost who knows how much blood, and the man bled her?”

“He bled her for the fever, too,” Hugh admitted. “But the second time, she was so weak. I was afraid she was dying. I wouldn’t let him do it again.”

“Good.” The duchess nodded. “You have some sense, then. I had my doubts. Very well, Overton. You shall place yourself in my hands, and I shall tell you what you must do.”

“I will not put her away,” Hugh said, firmly. “Even if her mind is weak…”

“Put her away? Why would you put her away? She will recover fully, and I will help. I have seen this before, Overton. Women, after giving birth to a child, often suffer a disorder of the humours. It passes. Your wife has had a worse time of it than many, perhaps because she also had childbed fever. I sometimes think that we gentry are more prone than cottagers, because others will do our tasks if we turn our faces to the wall.

“Several of my goddaughters have had this melancholy, and I, myself, after the birth of my dear Jonathan. Also, Overton, I think there has been some cause for estrangement between you. You will tell me whether I am right, for I do not suggest it to be a busybody, but because you need to mend it for your wife’s sake. A misunderstanding, of course, because she cannot bear to be parted from you. And you, it seems, love her dearly, about which I am delighted, since I hold myself in some sort responsible for the marriage.

“Whatever the cause, she has roused now, and we shall keep her with us, but be prepared to work hard and be patient.”

And so they began a strict regimen designed to build up Becky’s body. “Her mind will heal itself, Overton,” the duchess lectured, “but she needs good food, exercise, and sleep. And you must reassure her often. You will do that, will you not?”

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Deformity and disability in Georgian England

Georgian England was a dangerous place for children; even children of the wealthy. In 1800, one in three children died before they turned five. The risk was similar for infants of all social classes, except for the very poor, though class differences favouring the wealthy showed up at later ages.

But what of those born with a congenital impairment, or who survived illness or accident with a permanent disability? Some felt that such afflictions were the ‘will of God’, and ‘it was a religious virtue to accept patiently what God had willed’. [Turner & Withey] On the other hand, people were uneasy with deformity, and those who could afford to do so tried to avoid sights that offended their sense of aesthetic perfection. Improvements in prosthetics, surgery, and assistive technologies allowed parents to improve their children’s chances of future social success.

Suppliers appealed to their customers in terms of their ‘gentility’, promoting the idea that visible deformity or disability could be socially limiting as well as hindering economic productivity. [Turner & Withey]

A huge number of tortuous devices came onto the market to straighten backs and legs, and improve posture.

Devices to improve posture and keep an individual ‘straight’ were as varied as the manufacturers who made them. Large pieces of metal called backirons were hidden at the back of clothing and prevented slouching. Steel collars forced wearers to obey mothers’ and governesses’ injunctions to keep heads up, sometimes assisted by shoulder braces which pulled shoulders back. Neck swings stretched the spine by suspending the ‘patient’ in a block and tackle type device so that only their toes touched the ground. [Grace]

Not everything could be fixed, and even if a child’s impairment was minimised by one of the treatments on offer, the very idea that their body was defective and to be shuffled out of sight could not have made the children’s lives easier. The practice of casting blame can’t have helped.

Congenital deformities in infants were often blamed on something the mother did or experienced during pregnancy. A cleft palate might be the consequence of seeing a hare. A strawberry birthmark (infantile hemangioma) is so called because of the myth it results from eating strawberries in pregnancy.

Or perhaps the mother was deep dyed in sin. If God has afflicted this child, the reasoning went, it cannot be a punishment for the child’s sins, so it must be someone else’s fault, and who else but the mother? Or perhaps the devil had afflicted the child, and therefore the family. Where the belief in evil magic still prevailed, the family might conclude they had been cursed, and that was the cause of the deformity.

Shakespeare’s Richard III has quite a few passages exploring the reasons for the protagonist’s deformity, touching on all of these possible causes.

Such beliefs must have made for interesting family dynamics.

In the story I’m writing at the moment, I gave my hero an infantile hemangioma, which has shaped his life. Sent away to be hidden in the country as a small baby, he spent his early childhood years isolated by the growing tumour on his face. Then his family sent him for surgery in Naples two years before it was conquered by Napoleon, ironically at about the time the hemangioma was shrinking naturally. Now that the imprisonment of Napoleon has made travel easy, he has come back to England, his face scarred where the hemangioma was removed.

Black, J, Boulton, JP & Davenport, RJ., Infant mortality by social status in Georgian London

Grace, M., The Shape of Georgian Beauty

Roser, M. Child Mortality

Turner, D. & Withey, A., Technologies of the Body: Polite Consumption and the Correction of Deformity in Eighteenth-Century England, History, The Journal of the Historical Association

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Marriage on WIP Wednesday

 

The goal of a romance is a happy ever after, or at least a happy for now — that is, we leave our readers confident that our pair are right for one another, and that they can navigate the storms and shoals of love together, finding safe harbour in one another. For most romance, this means marriage of some type, either at some point during the book or on the horizon as we finish.

In this week’s post, I’m inviting excerpts on marriage: what the characters think of it, how they approach it, how they live it, if they are wed during the book. My story for the Belles box set is about a couple who married over a decade ago for entirely practical reasons, who have eight children, and who have grown apart. Here they are with their children in a rare moment of peace between them. James has just returned home after months away.

James resented every circumstance that kept him from his wife. Not, perhaps, the children. He was introduced to little Rosemary, who was a perfect miniature of her mother, and became reacquainted with the rest of his offspring as he fished through his pack of surprises for their presents.

“Look, Mama, a sailing boat like in the book!” Andrew ran across the room to show his mother, wildly waving the boat and narrowly missing his sister as he passed.

Mahzad took him up onto her lap and showed him how to hold it safely.

“I have a boat for each of you,” James explained, looking up from showing young Jamie how to set the rudder on his perfect miniature of a jahazi, a broad-hulled trading dhow, “even Rosemary and little Ruth. When they are bigger, they will be able to race with you on your moth­er’s pond.” He met Mahzad’s eyes. Her frown was belied by her dancing eyes. “With your mother’s permission, of course.”

“Mine is a brigantine,” John boasted. “See Mama?”

He leaned on his mother’s shoulder and began a discourse on the difference between gaff-rigged and square-rigged sails, accurate as far as James’s recently-acquired knowledge went. He must have learned it from books, since he’d never seen a sail boat larger than the one in his hands or a body of water bigger than the pond in the valley when it flooded with the spring melt.

Jamie and Matthew abandoned their model boats when he handed over the cases holding their next presents. In moments, they were taking sword craft positions, balancing lightly on the balls of their feet, a scimitar in one hand, a rapier in the other.

“These are not toys, my sons,” James warned. “Your mother and I judge you old enough to treat them with the respect they deserve and to learn how to handle them without danger to yourself or others.”

“Except those who threaten our people, Papa,” Jamie insisted. “There is another case,” Matthew observed.

Mahzad looked in alarm at John, who was too absorbed in his boat to notice.

James was quick to reassure her that he did not mean to set John to sword fighting with an edged weapon. Not yet. “It is for your Mama,” James told Matthew.

He’d received the benison of his fierce warrior queen’s smile when he had given Rebecca and Rachel good English yew bows in miniature and a quiver full of arrows each, but it was nothing to the glow that greeted her own sword case. The children, hugging their own gifts, stopped to watch her. Matthew let out a long sigh of pleasure as Mahzad lifted the sheathed sword in two hands.

“Toledo made,” James said. It was a Western-styled small sword, like the ones he’d taught her with but in the best steel in Europe, perhaps the world.

She slid the blade partway from the scabbard, and when her eyes met his, the heat in them made him wish his much-loved offspring at the other end of the palace. He smiled her a promise for later and turned back to passing out children’s books in English that he’d purchased in Siricusa, in Sicily.

He’d left the Christmas presents outside the valley to be brought in after they’d dealt with the Qajar troops. If Mahzad loved her blade, she would adore the pistols that were still packed in the abandoned luggage.

He was smiling at the thought when the messenger arrived.

 

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Tea with a purpose

 

Her Grace looked around her living room with a smile of satisfaction. Her protégées, many of them her goddaughters, made a formidable fighting force, and a fight was exactly what they had on their hands.

In one corner, the Countess of Sutton (formerly Sophia Belvoir until she married the heir to the Duke of Winshire) was writing a series of letters to other Society ladies, with the help of her sister Lady Felicity and her sisters-in law, Ladies Ruth and Rosemary Winderfield. On the settee by the fire, the Countess of Chirbury and Selby, wife to the duchess’s nephew, was dictating a letter to the editor of the Teatime Tattler, penned by her cousin-in-law, Mrs Julius Redepenning. All around the room, those the duchess had summoned had sharpened their nibs and flown into the battle of words over the forthcoming box set by the Bluestocking Belles.

Every woman in this room, and the fictional worlds they inhabited, owed their lives, their loves, their very existence, to one or more of those mysterious women. And the attempts to close down their next set of Christmas stories could not be tolerated.

It began with a letter from one styling herself ‘A Concerned Society Matron’. Salacious scenes of seduction? The woman must have a mind like a pig pen.

Lady Hultinford of St Brendan’s Priory responded with a strong attack on the forces of censorship, and there it should have rested.

But no. The next shot was fired by a cleric on a campaign to signing himself The Right Honorable the Reverend Claudius Blowworthey, although in Her Grace’s opinion, he was not Honorable, not to be Revered, and certainly not Right.

Mrs Maud Goodbody, who described herself as a Christian and modestly well-educated, brought a cheer to the duchess’s lips with her sound rebuttal of Blowworthy’s opinion. Her Grace had immediately sent a donation to the Chapel of the Faithful, which Mrs Goodbody attended.

But just today, the ‘Concerned Society Matron’ burst into print again. While Mr Clemens was quite correct in allowing both sides to have their say, the duchess did think the latest letter was a waste of paper and ink.

Enough was enough. The Duchess of Haverford and her troops were going to war.

To find out what all the fuss is about, see the Bluestocking Belles’ latest joint project, Follow Your Star Home.

To join in the debate, comment on any of the Teatime Tattler posts in the links above, and watch for more to come.

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Sunday Spotlight on Follow Your Star Home

 

Divided sweethearts seek love and forgiveness in this collection of seasonal novellas.

Forged for lovers, the Viking star ring is said to bring lovers together, no matter how far, no matter how hard.

In eight stories covering more than a thousand years, our heroes and heroines put this legend to the test. Watch the star work its magic as prodigals return home in the season of goodwill, uncertain of their welcome.

On preorder at 2.99USD. Published 4 Nov. Published price will be $3.99.

Barnes and Noble nook

Kobo

Amazon US

A Yule Love Story, by Nicole Zoltack

When Sonja stumbles upon fallen bodies littering her beach, she heals the lone survivor. After all, her late mother had been a healer.

Unbeknownst to Sonja, that survivor is none other than Anoundus. At one time, he ruled alongside his brother as co-kings of Sweden, but no longer. He has been banished.

What kind of life will he face here? What role will Sonja play? Can the two dare to find love this Yuletide?

Paradise Regained, by Jude Knight

James Winderfield yearns to end a long journey in the arms of his loving family. But his father’s agents offer the exiled prodigal forgiveness and a place in Society — if he abandons his foreign-born wife and children to return to England.

With her husband away, Mahzad faces revolt, invasion and betrayal in the mountain kingdom they built together. A queen without her king, she will not allow their dream and their family to be destroyed.

But the greatest threats to their marriage and their lives together is the widening distance between them. To win Paradise, they must face the truths in their hearts.

Somewhere Like Home, by Lizzi Tremayne

Things are heating up in the Scottish Highlands. When Robert refuses to become clan tacksman after his father, he is disowned and heads for the city to build a new life for himself and his beloved Sofia.

Sofia’s waiting turns to despair when her mother buys safety for herself and the remainder of the family during the clearance of their village—and leaves Sofia to the lusts of the laird’s degenerate son.

Rob emerges from the hell of Waterloo wanting only to see Sofia again…and his father.

But Sofia is dead, or is she?

A Wish for All Seasons, by Rue Allyn

The last thing Caibre MacFearann wants is to return to Scotland let alone be forced to stay there. But the chance to rekindle the lost love of his youth is too tempting to resist.

Losing Caibre MacFearann’s love once hurt so much that Aisla MacKai wants nothing to do with him when a blizzard brings the man to her doorstep. Kindness and human charity require that she give him shelter, no matter that her poor heart had never mended.

From the Umbrella Chronicles: James and Annie’s Story, by Amy Quinton

His Grace, James Quill, will not be a bachelor-in-poor-standing for very much longer. For I, Lady Harriett Ross of the Infamous Umbrella, have avowed to orchestrate his betrothal to his former best friend, Miss Annie Merryweather, whether either of them wishes it.

Surprisingly, His Grace has agreed to my proposed 10-step plan.

Not-so-surprisingly, Her Soon-to-be-Grace is determined to resist the notorious prodigal son.

Will they find love and forgiveness this holiday season?

Time will tell.

Lady Harriett Ross,

Self-proclaimed Motley Meddler * Mistress of Destiny * Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella

I’m just an old woman with opinions. On everything.

The Last Post, by Caroline Warfield

Love for Rosemarie Legrand gave Harry the will to go on during the horror of trench warfare. Now, army orders trap him in a camp awaiting repatriation. A bout of the Spanish flu lays him even lower, but he is determined not to leave without her. He’ll desert if he has to.

Rosemarie waits for word on her cousin’s farm where she took refuge when war reached the outskirts of Amiens. She wrote to tell him. Has he forgotten her? When the slimmest of information arrives, she sets out to find him.

Can these two lovers reunite before it is too late?

A Fine Chance, by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Helen Watson arranged a job for an out-of-work former soldier at her workplace, unaware that she’s the miracle Robert Fairmont needed.

Robert has returned from the Great War a new man with a new name. A job in his father’s factory is the first step toward reconciliation.

Can Helen forgive him for hiding his true or will Robert end up losing his father and his one true love?

All he needs is a fine chance.

One Last Kiss: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time novella, by Sherry Ewing

Banished from his homeland, Thomas of Clan Kincaid lives among distant relatives, reluctantly accepting he may never return home… Until an encounter with the castle’s healer tells him of a woman travelling across time—for him.

Dare he believe the impossible?

Jade Calloway is used to being alone, and as Christmas approaches, she’s skeptical when told she’ll embark on an extraordinary journey. How could a trip to San Francisco be anything but ordinary? But when a ring magically appears, and she sees a ghostly man in her dreams…

Dare she believe in the possible?

Thrust back in time, Jade encounters Thomas—her fantasy ghost. Talk about extraordinary. But as time works against them, they must learn to trust in miracles.

Can they accept impossible love before time interferes?

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The first meeting on WIP Wednesday

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This crucial scene in a romance novel is sometimes called the meet cute. Received wisdom is that it needs to happen early in the book, perhaps on the first page. Myself, I’ve never been good at Rules, so I’ve written books where the meet cute is delayed — in one case, until the middle of the book. (But I did have an alternative hero as a stand-in for the first half.)

This week, I’m inviting authors to give me their meet cute, that first meeting when sparks fly. Mine is from House of Thorns, which is coming out as part of the Scarsdale Publishing Marriages of Inconvenience line, and which I’m currently editing. Does it count as a meet cute if the heroine is unconscious?

The intruder stealing his roses had lovely ankles.

Bear Gavenor paused at the corner of the house, the better to enjoy the sight. The scraping of wood on stone had drawn him from the warmth of the kitchen, where the only fire in this overgrown cottage kept the unseasonable chill at bay. He placed each foot carefully and silently—not from stealth but from long habit. The woman perched precariously on the rickety ladder seemed oblivious to his presence.

Or, his sour experiences in London suggested, she knew full well, and her display was for his benefit. Certainly, the sight was having an effect. Her skirt rose as she stretched, showing worn but neat walking boots. Her inadequate jacket molded to curves that dried his mouth. Wind plastered her skirts to lower curves that had him hardening in an instant, visions of plunder screaming into his mind.

It had been too long since his last willing widow.

Disgust at his own weakness as much as irritation at the invasion of his privacy, fueled Bear’s full-throated roar. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing with my roses?”

She jerked around, then cried out as the rung she stood on snapped free of the upright. Bear lunged toward her as the ladder slid sideways. One upright caught on the tangle of rose branches and the other continued its descent. The woman threw out both hands but the branch she grasped snapped free and — before Bear could throw himself under her — she crashed onto the ground.

If the fall was deliberate — which would not surprise him after some of the things women had done to attract his attention — she had made too good a job of it. She lay still and white in a crumpled heap, her head lying on a corner of a flagstone in the path. He dropped to one knee beside her and slipped a hand into the rich hair. His fingers came away bloody.

As he ran his hands swiftly over the rest of her body, checking for anything that seemed twisted out of shape or that hurt enough to rouse her, a large drop of rain splashed onto his neck, followed by a spattering of more and then a deluge. He cursed as he lifted the woman and ran into the house through the garden doors that opened from the room he’d chosen for his study.

She was a bare handful, lighter than she should have been for her height, though well-endowed in all the right places. He set her on the sofa and straightened. He needed a doctor, but didn’t want to leave her while he fetched one. If the small village nearby even had a doctor.

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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.” 

by

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.