newsletter subscriber stories

by

Coming soon

I’m sending my newsletter this coming week. I’m just waiting on pre-order links from Apple, Barnes & Noble, and Nook for next month’s publication of short stories, Chasing the Tale: Volume II. It’s up on Amazon now. Read more about Chasing the Tale: Volume II  and the stories in it on my book page.

I’ve finished writing the newsletter short story, The Lady in a White Gown, so that’s already to go. Thank you to the subscriber that sent me a painting to use as a jump off point.

The newsletter will also have news about books from author friends, and early notice of a box set from the Bluestocking Belles for Christmas. So if you’re a subscriber, watch your inbox.

Here’s the intro to The Lady in a White Gown.

Victoria glared at the white gown that hung on the dressing screen, ready for its starring role at tomorrow’s wedding. Her wedding. If, in fact, it happened.

It was not the gown that offended. In truth, she had thought it lovely three weeks ago, when the modiste had sketched it, and it was even more beautiful in reality. She had not chosen the colour. Her mother remembered the story her dear friend Lady Benfield had told about Lord Carney’s demand to be introduced to the lady in the white gown. At a ball where at least thirty of the young ladies wore white, he had seen only Victoria, and Mother found that very sweet.

“This gown shall remind him of that night,” she proclaimed. “It shall be so romantic. Besides, the Queen, for whom you were named, wore white when she was wed, and look what a happy marriage that was, poor dear lady.”

Victoria thought that wearing gowns she had chosen herself would be one of the many benefits of becoming a married woman, but she knew that saying so would merely send her mother into another lecture about behaviour unbecoming in a viscountess.

Mother was delighted that Victoria was marrying a viscount. To Victoria, Lord Carney’s title was a disincentive, but one he had overcome with his attentive charm. Until the betrothal was announced, at which point, he had disappeared entirely, though he’d claimed he would only be gone a day or two.

She sent the gown another scowl. She had argued for a coloured sash and trim. The palest of pale blues, the colour her mother had chosen, did not, in Victoria’s opinion, qualify as a colour. She was wearing a gown she did not choose to please a man she did not know.

Perhaps Lord Carney would not arrive back in London in time for the ceremony. Perhaps he had been in London all along, and had only pretended to have business at his estate. Perhaps she would be left at the altar!

Perhaps, if she was, it was for the best.

by

Amnesia on WIP Wednesday

Today’s excerpt is from the story I’ve just written for my next newsletter, which I’ll be putting out in the next few days. It uses the amnesia trope, and is set in the same part of the UK, and a few months after, the storm in the Bluestocking Belles collection Storm & Shelter. Indeed, the storm in question sets off the events of the story, and the seaside village of Fenwick-on-Sea comes in for an honourable mention.

All day, Abbey had been following a cart across the field and the rickyard and back, one of three men using pitchforks to lift the hay from the windrows into the cart and then from the cart onto whatever rick was being built. It was one of the skills he had discovered when he was well enough to be put to work. It was exhausting work, but still gave him time — too much time — to think about his dreams.

Were the dreams about his past life? He did not know. He did know he always woke feeling as if he had left something undone and time was running out.

He could no more remember what task he was neglecting than he could remember his own identity.

His ability to build a hay rick was a clue, he supposed. He could plough and scythe, too. And milk a cow. And groom and ride a horse.

He could also read and write. He spoke — or so they told him — like a gentleman. His mind was stuffed with all sorts of knowledge that the farmhands around here found surprising. It was something of a game for them, to ask him a question out of the blue. Name the kings of England. He could do that, yes, and recite the dates, too. He knew the dates of key events in English history. He could finish the verse of popular song if someone called out the first line. He could do it for poetry too, as the local squire discovered.

The squire suggested he might have been the son of a wealthy farmer, sent away to school but still accustomed to helping out on the land.

Abbey wondered why he could access so many facts and skills, but not know who he was, where he was from, or how he arrived on the beach at Dunwich more than half drowned, with a broken arm and a great bleeding wound on his head.

There had been a great storm that had swept all of that coast, cutting Dunwich off from the roads inland and to villages north and south. At a guess, he had been washed overboard from a ship, or had been aboard one of several that had foundered. Nobody knew. The squire made enquiries when he took Abbey into Ipswich to be examined by a doctor. He even sent letters to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

No one had reported losing a man of Abbey’s description and name. If Abbey was his name. It had been the first word on his lips when he recovered consciousness, or so they told him. It didn’t feel as if it fitted, but he had no other name to offer.

The doctor said his memories might come back a few at a time, or all at once, or never. Abbey, still shaky on his legs from his long recovery and with no clues to his own identity, accepted the squire’s offer to return to Dunwich.

He worked on getting fit. He worked on any task he was given as a return for the care and kindness he had been shown. He bludgeoned his mind for the least hint about his past, but all he gained was a headache.

The dreams had started six weeks ago. At first, occasionally but now, every night. They faded as he woke leaving an impression of warm brown eyes, of someone calling for him to come home. Each night, the sense of urgency increased. He had something he needed to do. Quickly, before it was too late.

He had no idea what it was or why it was important.

by

Random bits of knowledge on WIP Wednesday

One of the things I love about writing historical romances is the research. Not just the big important stuff, but the odd bits of knowledge that I come across or look up for a particular story. Do you have an example in one of your books? I’d love you to share in the comments. Mine is the opening to my next story for newsletter subscribers. My newsletter is going out next week, and the story is called The Easter Bonnet.

“Come on, Millie. Put that away and join us,” Sadie tempted.

Millie shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I have to finish this.” She held up the bonnet she was trimming.

“You can do it in the morning,” Sadie insisted. “We’re going to drop into the pub for a tot of gin and a bit of a chin wag.”

“I have to deliver it on my way home,” Millie countered. “Madam said the lady is leaving for the country in the morning, and wants to take it with her.”

“Madam should do it herself then.”

Madam was with child, but Millie had been told that in confidence. “I don’t mind,” she told Sarah. “It is going to be very pretty when it is finished.”

Sadie stared at her for a moment then shrugged. “Another time, then.” She whirled around and in moments the door shut behind her and Millie was alone.

She finished attaching the edging. The bonnet was formed in twisted straw, edged in a ribbon that apparently matched Lady Paula Temple’s favourite walking dress. Lady Paula planned to wear them both to Easter services in her home village, for the delight—to hear the lady tell the tale—of the entire community.

Millie picked out another length of ribbon of the same colour but much wider, and began to pleat and pin it around the base of the bonnet, so that the straw would not catch in the lady’s coiffure. Coiffure. Millie said the word out loud, shaping it with lips and tongue. Coiffure was what the upper classes called their hair dos. It must be nice to be a wealthy beauty with an indulgent father and a whole battalion of suitors.

A further length of ribbon, this one in a slightly darker shade. It would go over the join between brim and bonnet, then be gathered into a rosette on each side where it met the base. Two more lengths from the same roll would form the ties to hold the bonnet on.

Quick but careful stitches soon had those in place.

Millie had made herself a bonnet in a similar design, though of much cheaper materials and in different colours. Madam would not object to Millie copying the design, as long as there was no chance of a customer recognising the copy.

Millie snorted. Fat chance of that. The customers who could afford Madam’s creations did not see such lowly beings as a milliner’s assistant.

The silk flowers came next. Pink moss roses, symbolizing perfect happiness and also the confession of love. Daisies for innocence. Blue cornflowers for hope. Myrtle for good luck. Lady Paula had specified these particular flowers. Millie wondered what message she was trying to send and to whom. But perhaps Lady Paula just liked the colours.

Millie secured a single rose, three daisies, and two cornflowers inside the brim, where they would draw attention to Lady Paula’s eyes. The rest would form—soon did form, thanks to Millie’s clever needle—a cascade over the other side, covering the join between brim and crown.

There. Done. Millie set the bonnet back on the hat block and stood back. She walked all the way around where it sat on the table. Yes. It would do.

Her own version of the hat was trimmed with violets. Innocence, modesty, remembrance. The violets were the least damaged of all the silk flowers being sold at half-price, because they had been damaged by an accident with a bucket of water. She had parted with a hard-earned a sprig of myrtle at full price, because good luck was worth it.

by

Where does the story start–WIP Wednesday

Sometimes, the start comes first. Sometimes, I write my way towards it. Sometimes, I have to go back and tack one on when the book is nearly done. How about you? Do you have a work-in-progress beginning to share? My excerpt is from the story I’m putting in next week’s newsletter. It’s called The Abduction of Lydia Fernhill, and is not exactly a romance.  (If you don’t get my newsletter, subscribe now for this and other exclusive stories.

In the village of Pluffington-on-Memmerbeck, the old folks still remember Lydia Fernhill’s wedding. How could they forget when the little ones still beg for the story? There they are, all wide eyed, when night draws in and the fire sinks low, and bedtime beckons. “Please, Granny (or Gaffer, as the case may be), tell us the story of the stolen bride?”

And Granny (or, as it might be, Gaffer) will tell what they witnessed with their own eyes, though how much the story was shaped by each onlooker, and how much it has grown with time, who can tell?

Certainly, it differs from house to house. So much so that Peggy Whitlow has not spoken to Maggie Cutler in ten years since they came to hair-pulling and scratching when they were only nine over whether the white rider was an angel or the elf king. And many a promising pugilist has got his start in a dusty lane defending the honour of Miss Lydia from the accusation that she planned the whole thing.

Still, every child in the village knows the essence of the tale. The bride, plain, pale-faced and drooping. The groom with his face set like stone. The bride’s uncle chivvying them up the aisle. Then the north transept doors crashing open (some say exploding, but if so, someone did a good job of repair, for there they are today for any child to see, ancient oak, worn by time).

The storytellers agree on the troop of riders. Did they trot or gallop or merely walk in through the great doors?

They were beautiful, all make that clear, and the man (or angel or devil or elf-king) at their head was the loveliest of all. Dressed in white, crowned in gold, with long flowing locks. Jewels glittering from rings and brooches and even the cuffs of his boots. A long cloak (or perhaps wings) streaming behind him.

The old folks are in unison again on the bride’s reaction. “She came alive,” says Granny Smithers. “Straightened. Smiled with such joy that she looked beautiful for the first time in her life, poor lady.”

The rider, without stopping, stretched out his hand and Miss Lydia reached up and took it, put her foot on his in the stirrup, and was riding into the south transept before the groom had picked up his dropped jaw.

Some say he stood there, frozen. Some that he tried to drag her down and was shouldered aside by the following riders. However it might have been, the southern doors opened as mysteriously as those to the north, and closed behind the riders. “With a loud bang, and open they would not, not for all the trying in the world.”

Somehow, all the doors of the church had been closed and jammed. By the time someone had thought to put Gaffer Parslow, who at the time had been a skinny lad of ten, out the vestry window, so he could run around and remove the branch that had been shoved through the handles of the nearest doors, the riders were long gone.

Which proves, say some, that the invaders were human. Surely supernatural beings would have used magic, not branches. Others scoff, and point to the fact that Miss Lydia Fernhill had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again. But whether to heaven or hell or to the land of Fairie, none of them can tell.

by

Mistakes and consequences on WIP Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by

Tea with Lord and Lady Gamford

“How kind of you to invite us, Your Grace,” said the Marchioness of Gamford, with a graceful curtsey. She was a tall woman, but the husband bowing beside her was even taller. So this was a godson she had not seen since his uncle sent him overseas more than seven years ago, in part to separate him from his bride.

They’d been wed as children. Eleanor would have prevented such an early marriage, had she any sway with the father of either bride or groom. But those two best friends had made up their mind, and would listen to no one. Not their wives. Not their brothers. And certainly not the children themselves.

The friends’ deaths a few days later, in an ill-fated curricle race, had allowed the families to keep the newly weds apart. Somehow, they had survived their separation with their marriage intact, and in love, unless Eleanor was very much mistaken. Which she was not. Not even a fool could miss how Lord Gamford hovered over his wife, seating her as if she were made of delicate porcelain, and Lady Gamford, in turn, looked up at him as if he had hung the moon and stars, all for her delight.

“It is very kind of you to come, my dears,” Eleanor replied. “I do hope you will call me Aunt Eleanor, for I am godmother to Hal, here, and hope to be friend to you both.”

“Please call me Willa,” the marchioness requested, lowering her lashes, shyly.

She served them each with their preference of tea, and before long, they were chattering like old friends, and Eleanor was delighted to have her curiosity about their courtship satisfied without any vulgar questions.

***

To find out about Hal’s meeting with the grown up Willa, read “The Marquis Returns” in Chasing the Tale. This collection of elevenshort stories is currently USD 99c, but will go up to $2.99 shortly.

by

Beleagured heroines on WIP Wednesday

Some heroines face huge challenges, and those are my favourite sort. Do you have a WIP excerpt to share? Mine is from the beginning of my newsletter subscriber story for next week’s newsletter.  (If you’d like to read the rest and don’t get my newsletter, click on the subscribe tab, above/)

The oiled cloth over the cart had thinned in places, and the persistent rain had found every crack and hole. The water insinuated itself in drips and trickles and rivers, pooling in the base of the cart until Lily was sitting in an inches-deep lake that continued to grow.

The baby was dry, at least. She’d managed to find a relatively undamaged part of the covering to sit under, wriggling until the damaged places leaked onto her back and not her chest where Petey slept, bound inside her shawl.

Lily tried to sleep, too, but between the wet and the worry, she was as wide awake as she had been when the carter picked her and Petey up hours ago. She was grateful, of course, for the ride, but each turn of the wheels took her closer to her destination and having to give Petey up.

That is, if they would take him. They wouldn’t turn away their own kin? Not at Christmas?

“They will love you, Petey,” she assured the baby. He was the dearest of infants, sweet natured and cheerful. Surely Daisy’s family would be thrilled to have him? “I will pay them for your board, or at least for a few months. Once I have a new job, I will be able to send more.”

Her one-sided conversation was interrupted when the cart stopped. Mired again? But no. The voices of the carter and another man filtered through the drumming of the rain, and then the cover was twitched back.

“We won’t reach Little Crawston tonight, Missus. We have to stop. Better get yourself and the wee ’un out of the rain.”

He helped her over the side of the cart, and set her on the ground, then gave her a push in the direction of a lighted door. “Go on inside. No going any further tonight.”

Lily hurried out of the rain. What choice did she have? But if she spent the few coins she had left on a night’s accommodation, would she have enough left to leave money with Daisy’s family? She had already paid the carter for the ride. And she needed a few coins, too, to get her to a big enough town for her to find work as a maid. No point in trying to get another governess job, not with the most recent reference she could show being three years old.