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Descriptions on WIP Wednesday

When I write, I want you to see what I see in my mind’s eye, without belabouring the point. In my fourth novel for the A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, I’ve been describing the nursery to which my heroine and her charge are consigned.

The nursery at the Paris townhouse was ruthlessly clean and sparsely furnished with a random collection of unmatched items. Against one wall were two beds, made with fresh sheets, sported a continental style of comforter each. Between the windows stood a table with two chairs. The wall opposite the beds had fitted shelves, which stood empty. A circular rug, the colours faded except where someone had darned a couple of worn places, covered the centre of the wooden floor. And that was all, apart from Pauline’s and Jane’s bags, which a footman had deposited just inside the door.

No pictures or ornaments softened the room, which held no toys or books to read.

“It is not very nice, is it?” Jane murmured to Pauline.

The footman shut the door as he left, and she heard the tumblers of the lock fall as he locked it. Pauline felt the strain go out of her shoulders. She had been afraid they might be separated straight away, or that one of the maids might be assigned to stay with them. She was determined to escape tonight, and to take Jane with her.

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A bird needs two wings to fly

“We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill.”
― Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

The terms ‘right wing’ and ‘left wing’ carry a lot of emotional weight today. They have their origins, though, in a concrete description, and in the National Assembly of early modern France.

It was the government of the revolution, meeting in the aftermath of the storming of the Bastille. Their job was to write a new constitution and one of the important issues they needed to settle was whether the king would have a right of veto over the decisions of the assembly.  Those who thought he should sat on the right of the president of the assembly. Those who thought he should not sat on the left.

The terms were used in the newspapers reporting on the legislature, and swiftly came to represent those who wanted to follow tradition–the right, and those who wanted more change–the left.

Fast forward to today, and a number of people have applied the term in a different way. Billy Graham has been quoted as saying that he’s not for the right wing or the left wing, but for the whole bird. Birds need their wings. The wings allow flight, but both are needed. The far extremes of the wings twist and turn according to the position of the bird, this flexibility providing an aerodynamic advantage. Yet all things in balance. The bird needs both wings for lift, both sets of flight feathers. A bird whose wings have been clipped cannot take flight. And the wing does not exist for itself. It exists for the bird.

As a metaphor for community, it works well. Our community is the whole bird. To thrive, it needs both stability–the function of the right–and an openness to new things–the function of the left. Even the extreme wing tips are important: the extreme right can be a brake on change for change’s sake; the extreme left a goad to try new ideas when tradition does not have the answers to never-before-seen conditions and problems. But, for the most part, in a sensible and logical community, left and right, like the wings of a bird, can work together, exchanging information, and coming up with joint strategies to support flight.

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A storied kingdom

When I began to write Paradise Regained, prequel to my Return of the Mountain King series, I didn’t have much of a clue about the location. The plot required that my hero and heroine live in Central Asia, somewhere along the Silk Roads, but boy, did I need to research.

Half a dozen books, scores of academic research papers, and quite a bit of Sufi medieval poetry later, I’d nailed down the place and the time, and become fascinated with the tumultuous and ever intriguing history of Iran.

1794 in the Western calendar was a tumultuous year in Iran, which we in the West persisted in calling Persia, after the practice of the ancient Greeks. The short-lived Zand dynasty took its last gasp that year, to be superseded by a rival clan, the Qajars.

The rivalry for supremacy in Iran was brutal. The founder of the new dynasty was known as the eunuch monarch. Āghā Moḥammad Qajar was castrated when young to prevent him from becoming a political rival to the then reigning Afsharid dynasty.

Instead, what was then seen as disqualifying someone from supreme leadership seemed to inspire Āghā Moḥammad to greater efforts. He was a political hostage for much of his young adulthood, but escaped when Karīm Khan Zand died, and spent ten years fighting his own relatives to unite his clan.  By 1886, he was the head of the tribe that controlled northern Iran.  He spent the next eight years at war with the last of the Zand kings, finally capturing the ruler and having him killed in 1794.

He was crowned as shāhanshāh (king of kings) in 1796, but was assassinated the following year. The story goes that he grew annoyed when two of his servants argued loudly in his hearing. He ordered them executed, but since it was the evening of the holy day, he commanded them back to their duties until the next day.

You can’t say he lacked confidence, but in this case it lead him astray.

During the night, the servants stabbed their master, and took the crown jewels to a powerful prince who offered them his protection.

Nonetheless, the Shah was succeeded by his nephew, and his dynasty ruled Iran until 1929.

***
All of this formed the background to a minor plotline in Paradise Regained. The father of my heroine is a minor Zand khan, that is, ruler of what we would now call a province. In the turmoil that followed the death of the king, he flees to his daughter’s mountain kingdom in the Kopet Dag mountains, through which runs the border between Iran and Turkmenistan. He is closely pursued by Qajar troops, who settle outside the gates.

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Mystery on WIP Wednesday

I do like a mystery with my romance. What about you? This is from a made-to-order story tentatively called The Missing Daughter. I’m looking at you, Laura!

Louisa still had no idea what was going on three days later when the three of them reached Mama’s home village. Papa arranged a suite of rooms at the inn for his family, and baths to refresh after the journey. Mama ordered dinner to be served in the suite’s sitting room in one hour.

“I have a note to write before my bath,” she announced.

“To the vicarage?” Papa asked. “Or the house?”

“Vicarage,” Mama said. “I will make an appointment in the morning.”

“What is going on, Mama?” Louisa asked. “Why are we here?”

“Go and see if your bath is ready, dear,” Mama said. “I will come through shortly to undo your buttons and laces.”

Mama would say nothing more. Not then, not over dinner, and not when she came to check that Louisa was safely tucked up in bed, with the door to the outside passage locked and bolted.

Louisa tried again over breakfast. “Are we going to visit your family, Mama?” she asked.

“I don’t have family here anymore, Louisa, and no, I am not telling you anything else just yet. All in good time.”

That again. Louisa cast a pleading glance at her father. His response was unexpected. “I might still have a brother here.”

“A brother? I have an uncle?” Papa had never mentioned his family. And Papa came from the same village as Mama? How had Louisa not known that?

“I assume you still have an uncle,” Papa said. “He might still live here. We lost touch.”

Louisa’s mind whirled, teaming with so many questions that she couldn’t find anything to say.

Mama frowned at Papa, then said to Louisa, “I am going to visit the vicar. Stay in your room while I am gone, Louisa.”

“No need for that,” Papa told her. “I am going to walk your mother to the vicarage, Louisa, and then go and visit my brother, or at least my old home. You can come with me, if you wish.”

“Will!” Mama objected.

Papa raised his eyebrows. “I will take my daughter to meet her uncle, Lissie,” he declared. And that was the end of it. People thought that Papa lived under the cat’s paw; that Mama was head of the family. Louisa knew that Papa seldom countered Mama’s commands and decisions, but when he did, Mama subsided.

“She will be safe now,” he said, reassuringly.

Had Louisa not been safe before? The more she heard, the less she felt she knew!

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Tea with the real Lord Snowden

After their meeting, her husband James escorted Lord Snowden to the Duchess of Winshire’s private sitting room. She already had a pot of coffee sitting on the table before her, having discovered at his last visit that he preferred the beverage. She had also arranged The Teatime Tattler right where he would see it, open to the page that mentioned the excitement at a ball last night. The one where Lord Hungerford-Fox made nasty allegations about Lady Charmain, and Lord Snowden proposed. Although Rosemary, who had been present, said that it was not quite a proposal.

It would need to be, and Eleanor Winshire planned to tell the young man that, if he did not already know it.

“Black, was it not?” she asked him, as he took the seat she offered him, and fixed his gaze on the gossip rag.

“You have seen the article, then.” He took the cup from her hands.

“And, I surmise, so have you, Lord Snowden.” She would give him the opportunity to make up his own mind, having promised her son not to organise other people’s lives for them unless they sought her help. Though it was hard to resist. “My step-daughter tells me that the Tattler exaggerates. You spoke of possibilities. It was not a proposal.”

“That is true, Your Grace, but will not, I think, make difference to Society. May I speak frankly?”

Eleanor inclined her head. “I wish you would.”

“I can think of no greater felicity than to have Marg– Lady Charmain as my wife, but until my cousin is in custody, I fear wedding her will make her a target for his murderous intentions.”

“I see your difficulty,” the duchess said, “but you can surely make certain that Lady Charmain is well guarded from a physical attack.”

Lord Snowden nodded. “I take your meaning. The attacks on her reputation and her character will be far harder to counter if we do not, in fact, become betrothed.”

“Married, I think,” Eleanor said, forgetting her resolution not to interfere. “If you do not marry soon, people will say that you have no intention of doing so; that you are just pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, I think so, too. But I wondered if I was just letting my own wishes guide my thinking. It will be over to Margaret, of course. I will tell her that I want to be married in truth, but she may refuse me.”

The duchess smiled. He really was an estimable young man, even if he was raised in a brothel. That rumour was out in Society, too, but people couldn’t quite believe it, since his manners and dress were just as they should be, and James had made it know that he was a friend and protege of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire and their family. Eleanor, too, had laughed at the rumour when it was repeated to her. “A brothel, my dear? Does he look it?” she had said, and the conversation had moved on to something else.

Lord Snowden had another question. “Should I get a special license, Your Grace? And do you know how one goes about that?”

“An ordinary license will be enough,” Eleanor told him. “You apply to the bishop of your diocese. You will be able to marry without posting the banns. Once you apply, you must wait for seven days, but that is to the good. You are not in desperate haste. But you also do not intend to share your private affairs with the public, by posting the banns. Indeed, most people who can afford it use an ordinary license. It is unexceptional.” She smiled at the young man. “In this case, unexceptional is a good thing.”

***

This is a scene that doesn’t appear in Snowy and the Seven Doves, the third book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. I finished the meeting with the duke saying that Eleanor wants a word, then go straight to Margaret, who receives a message from Snowy asking if he can come around. Snowy and the Seven Doves went to the publisher today.

 

 

 

 

 

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Spotlight on The Wedding Wager

15 superb authors, 15 wonderful novellas

The Boast—pride goeth before the fall…

After facilitating the match of the season, Lady Pandora “Pansy” Osbourne, has boasted that she is the best matchmaker The Ton has ever seen. Always willing to bring her cousin down a peg or two, her cousin, Lady Octavia Sewell insists that was no feat of matchmaking at all, as the couple involved were clearly destined for one another despite Pansy’s meddling. A bitter argument ensues and a dreadful challenge is issued. Pansy must do more than say it… she must prove it.

The terms of the wager are set!

Pansy must produce no less than one match per month between people who have been notoriously unmarriageable—spinsters, bluestockings, rakes and fortune hunters, oh my! But there’s more riding on this than simply her pride! If Pansy loses, she will have to give up her most prized possession—a tiara that belonged to their grandmother will be forfeited into Octavia’s grasping hands.

The Ends Justify the Means… or do they?

Desperate to make these matches, prove her claims of matchmaking prowess to be true and make Octavia eat crow in a very public fashion, Pansy resorts to the greatest weapon in any matchmaker’s arsenal—the house party. Not just one, but a series of them. For two weeks out of every month, she will open her home to an assortment of victims…er, guests. At the end of each party, one couple will emerge either betrothed or wed, by fair means or foul.

Order your copy now: https://books2read.com/weddingwager

Excerpt

The following day was stormy—far too cold, wet, and windy for any further ventures outside.

As Rilla had predicted, Lady Osbourne was keen to marshal her guests into group activities. Thankfully, she left the guests themselves to choose between the pursuits on offer, though any lady or gentleman without an occupation was politely rounded up and channeled into being sociable.

Rilla avoided the room where an excited group were planning a theatrical performance, and also backed quickly from the one that contained a game of charades.

She would have liked to play billiards. She’d learned the game from her best friend, the daughter of the earl whose estate bordered her father’s, and had continued to play on her own after Emma made a runaway marriage. But not after her father died and her uncle moved into her house. He did not approve of females playing billiard. Doubtless, the gentlemen at this house party would agree.

Was Lord Hythe in the billiards room? She had not seen him playing cards and could not imagine him as part of the laughing, flirting parlor games crowd. Perhaps, although he had denied any musical abilities, he formed part of the audience in the music room? She found herself heading in that direction and stopped.

What was she doing? She needed to be somewhere Lord Hythe was not. When he was in the vicinity, she found it impossible to consider any other man. And Lord Hythe was not for her.

She had to move to the side of the passage to make way for several of the guests, ladies and gentlemen, who were hurrying to find hiding places for a game of sardines. Another activity that was not to Rilla’s taste. At the last house party she had attended, she had found herself stuck in a cupboard under the stairs with four other people, one of whom had wandering hands.

In the end, Rilla collected her embroidery from her room, and joined Cousin Felicia in the parlor. Several gentlemen had also joined the ladies. Captain Hudson was whittling, and was happy to explain he was making a set of wooden soldiers for his older brother’s eldest son. “I suggested sailors,” he joked, “but apparently it has to be soldiers.” Rilla joined the others in admiring the skill with which he crafted a detailed little warrior out of a chunk of wood. “They will look more realistic once they are painted,” he told his audience.

Another gentleman was sketching the ladies as they worked. He asked Rilla if he could make a sketch of her hands, as they were particularly elegant. Rilla would have brushed it off as a meaningless compliment, but Mr. Woolard’s gaze at said appendages had a dispassionate quality that hinted his interest was entirely artistic. She granted permission.

Lord Joseph Enright said that he had no skills to craft anything with his hands, but offered to read to the company. Lord Joseph was the second son of a marquis, but seemed to have avoided the arrogance that often went with such elevated rank. He had a very pleasant voice, and read with a dramatic style that suited the Robert Burns poem he had chosen, Tam O’Shanter.

Rilla did not understand some of the Scottish words, but she laughed with the others at the tale of the drunken Scotsman spying on a witches’ gathering, becoming entranced at the dancing of ‘a winsome wench’ and calling out encouragement. Then followed a wild chase until at last his brave horse managed to cross water, just in time to escape the lead witch, though the poor nag paid for its master’s peeping by the loss of its tail.

“What is a cutty sark,” she asked, when everyone had clapped the ending of the piece. “Does anyone know?”

Miss MacRae, one of the chaperones, was able to explain. “A sark is a shirt; in this case, a nightrail. Cutty simply means short, Miss Fernhill.”

“She was dancing in her night attire, then, and it flapped as she danced,” Captain Hudson chuckled. “No wonder naughty Tam was glued to the peephole in the wall.”

Rilla suppressed her smile when several of the ladies called him to account, and poor Lord Joseph, as well, for reading the poem in mixed company. Rilla was pleased to note that neither gentleman seemed much abashed. Certainly, she had heard far more bawdy stories in the world that had been her refuge from her uncle’s machinations.

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The right and the wrong side of the blanket

The British royal family can trace its ancestry back to the kings of Wessex and Kent, at least 1300 years, though it gets a bit murky beyond that.  The family tree on this site links both the English line and the Scottish line through a descendant of Alfred the Great. Often through the female line, and sometimes through collateral lines that have long been separated from the main tree. But still.

The main purpose of the site is to look at Charles II, his mistresses, and his offspring.  Fascinating stuff.

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Convenient marriages on WIP Wednesday

It’s a common trope in historical marriage. The couple marry for reasons other than love, but love comes to surprise them. That’s one of the tropes in Lady Beast’s Bridegroom. My hero has inherited a rundown estate. My heroine needs a husband to protect her from the dastardly schemes of the cousin who is her closest male relative.

Here’s my hero’s reaction to the idea.

The sense of something just out of reach followed Peter into the morning. His appointment with Richards was at noon. He waited to be announced, feeling as he had sometimes before a battle: as if something momentous marched inexorably towards him, bring a change for better or for worse.

After civil greetings, Richards got straight to the point. “I have an opportunity for you, my lord. It will allow you to pay the estate’s debts and leave money and to spare over to bring your lands back into full production. And you will also be able to do a great service for another person.”

“It sounds too good to be true,” Peter commented. “What is this service that brings such great rewards?”

His solicitor leaned forward a little, his eyes intent on Peter. “Another of my clients has commissioned me to find her a husband, Lord Ransome. Her need is urgent and imperative.”

An obvious reason for haste occurred. “Pregnant, is she? I’ve no wish to make someone else’s son my heir, Richards.”

“No, my lord. My client is a lady and a maiden. I am authorized to explain her reasons, but only if you agree to consider the marriage. The lady does not wish her identity to be known or her circumstances to be discussed except with the candidates for her hand.”

Peter’s brows twitched upwards. “Candidates? I am not the only person to whom you are putting this proposition?”

“The lady commissioned me to select candidates and send them to her for interview, Lord Ransome. She will make the final decision.” He nodded, firmly. “After all, she will live with the results.”

“She, and her chosen groom,” Peter pointed out. “I wish the lady well, Richards, but I am not minded to sell myself in such a way.” He’d not sunk that low. Not yet.

Richards set his jaw, examining the blotter on his desk as if it contained some secret he could interpret if he stared for long enough. “You will forgive me, my lord, if I point out that your other choices are untenable. You have cut your outgoings to the bone, and yet you will still not have sufficient money to pay the mortgages when they fall due, let alone the other more pressing debts.”

Peter protested, “You advised me not to let staff go nor to begin selling off everything that is not entailed!”

Richards nodded. “I advised you not to frighten your creditors by behaving as if you were insolvent. You and I needed time to come to terms with what might be done. But, my lord, you are insolvent. I must change my advice. If you will not consider an advantageous marriage, then you must make haste to sell whatever you can.”

“It won’t be enough!”

“No, my lord.” Richards sat back in his seat, his hands in front of him on the desk, keeping his gaze steady.

Peter shivered, though the day was not cold. He had sunk lower than he knew, if a convenient marriage was his only option. “I daresay I could find an heiress on my own.” He had a little time, surely? The mortgages were not due until next quarter day, and Richards could continue to put his creditors off a little longer.

The solicitor tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord. A wealthy merchant’s daughter, perhaps.”

Peter sighed. “You think I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. Very well, Richards. I will consider your lady. Tell me why I should agree to be one of the supplicants for her favor.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought of being interviewed by the would-be bride, like a footman or a groom anxious to win a position.

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Constitutional monarchy and the power of a living symbol

State Opening of British Parliament in 2019

Britain has a constitutional monarchy, as do 14 realms like my own who share its monarch. There are others, including Belgium, Cambodia, Jordan, the Netherlands, Norway, Spain, Sweden and Thailand.

A constitutional monarch is a system of government in which power is shared according to the country’s constitution. The monarch may be the head of state, have purely a ceremonial role, or have certain limited powers allocated by the constitution. All other powers of government belong to the legislature and judiciary.

Britain has a democratically elected legislature that holds all the political power, an independently appointed judiciary that has the power to decide whether the legislature is breaking the law, and a monarch whose power is almost entirely symbolic.

The path to a politically powerless but socially effective monarch was a long one. Some suggest it started when the barons forced King John to accept the Magna Carta. There were other steps along the way, as Parliament tried to rein in the monarch, including 1649, when a monarch who thought he should have absolute power was tried by Parliament and executed (for treason). Then came the so-called Glorious Revolution, which led to a compact in 1689 between Parliament and the monarch. The monarchy was maintained and the herditary succession continued, but only on Parliament’s terms.

1708 is the last time that a British monarch denied royal assent to a bill (that is, refused to allow a piece of legislation passed by Parliament). From the time of George 1, kings stopped selecting Cabinet Ministers and getting involved in discussions at Parliament. William IV, in 1831, dissolved Parliament at the request of the prime minister but against the will of the majority of Parliament. Again. Last time.

Monarchs still give assent, approve Cabinet Ministers and the Prime Minister, open and dissolve Parliament. But now, they only do so when asked by Parliament.

Since the Georgian kings, the monarchs of Britain have had three rights and only three:

  • the right to be consulted
  • the right to encourage
  • the right to warn.

The monarch is not so much a ruler as a parent of adult children, acting in an advisory capacity only, and making sure he or she does not embarrass or challenge the government of the day by stating opinions in public. They have no policies, no platform, no axe to grind or wheel to grind it on. To blame them for the decisions of the governments of the past 250 years is to completely misunderstand history.

The monarch also, of course, gives the British a centrepiece for the pomp and pageantry they do so well.

Personally, I hope my own country keeps its link to the monarchy. I don’t want a head of state with political power. I especially don’t want a head of state with political policies and affiliations. They cannot possibly promote unity or represent it, which seems to me to be the vital function of the monarch. I could stand having an elected head of state who was non-political. France and Ireland do that. But why pay the cost of elections when we already have a head of state who is stuck with the job, poor sod, because he was the first born male in the wrong family? (Take a look at the relative costs in various countries of heads of state. It’s enlightening. The British have it cheap.)

Long live the King.