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23 June 2016

The Golden Queen e-book is out on Amazon!!!

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I’m so excited so see the second book in my mermaid trilogy published at last. I’m working on the paperback version now and it should be ready some time over the weekend.

The Golden Queen 5.5x8.5inchesTwenty tides have passed since Leelee and her lover Makhulu parted. The tyrant Vahtu is dead, and his wayward son Kahlutu sits on the throne in his place. Leelee has been forced to return to the clear, warm reefs of the City to become her Clan’s reluctant High Priestess, while Makhulu remains in the forbidding waters of the Kiakhu Clan to advise and support the new King.

Now, when the fragile peace between the Clans is threatened on all sides, a catastrophe strikes the Clanfolk that makes all their differences irrelevant and introduces Leelee and Makhulu to a new adversary—The Golden Queen.

Amazon.com: The Golden Queen: Tides of Fire: Book II
Amazon.co.uk: The Golden Queen: Tides of Fire: Book II
Amazon.de: The Golden Queen: Tides of Fire: Book II (English Edition)

17 June 2016

Tides of Fire: The Rebellion e-book free for 5 days

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tides of fire 5.5x8.5inchesAs promised, the first book in my merfolk series is now free for 5 days, during which time, Amazon willing, the second book The Golden Queen will be published. I’m just giving it one last brush and polish now.

The Blurb!

Even the Wiseones cannot tell how it began or why, for countless tides, the Clanfolk have waged a bloody war beneath the ocean. The origin of their enmity is lost in the drifts of time. But, for Leelee, a young pod-cadet of the Leahtu Clan Guardians, the ancient feud will bring a beloved enemy, a desperate choice, and a terrible price to be paid.

From the stern and icy stronghold of the Kiakhu Clan to the peaceful reefs of the Leahtu, Tides of Fire follows a small band of black-tailed rebels who risk torture and death to rid the Clan of a vicious tyrant; and tells the poignant love story of Leelee, the warrior maiden who faces death at the hands of her own priests if she should give herself to Makhulu, her enemy and her love.

These merfolk have no magic, inhabit no fairytale. They are hot-blooded sea creatures full of passion and poetry, fighting for love and freedom and a chance of happiness in their mysterious under-water world.

15 June 2016

Almost there with The Golden Queen

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The Golden Queen 5.5x8.5inchesMy editor tells me he has only twenty pages to go on the new Tides of Fire book. He isn’t a fantasy fan so I can’t ask him for a meaningful opinion but he has stated that he thinks it is ‘gruesome’ and ‘disturbing’ which has me rubbing my hands with glee. He also said something about ‘Game of Thrones under the ocean,’ which I think refers to all the merfolk sex and violence.

For those readers only familiar with my Regency romances, I should put in a disclaimer here. The style and the subject matter couldn’t be more different. On the other hand my mermen do have some things in common with my Regency heroes. They are gorgeous, brave, passionate, often brooding, and even, occasionally, witty.

Since we’re into the home stretch I’m going to post the (short) prologue and first chapter. Apologies for the formatting, I can’t seem to get the paragraphs to indent properly here.

I’ve tried to ensure that the book can be read as a standalone, but I’m going to make the first book Tides of Fire: The Rebellion free for a few days before I publish The Golden Queen. I’ll post when the freebie begins.

Prologue

Andy McMillan had been a hard man all his life. On the day he left Glasgow, one step ahead of the police, he planned to return one day to take his rightful place as leader of the hardest gang of bastards in Scotland. But that was many years ago and, though time had not softened Andy, the years as skipper of the leakiest ferry in the islands had blunted his rough edge. He had not killed anyone for a very long time.
The ferry was, as usual, well behind schedule. But no one on the hot deck, grilled under a blazing sun, was bothered about the schedule. Time meant little in the islands. So, when Andy’s watery, old eyes, scanning the coastline, glimpsed a woman who was struggling in the water, her white arms raised in desperate supplication, he gave the order to turn the wheel without a second thought.

* * * * *

Chapter One

Makhulu forced himself to concentrate on the closely inscribed tablets in front of him. It was at times like these that, late at night when he was tired and alone, the emptiness hit him hardest. Before Vahtu’s death, there had always been Kahlutu or Leteal and his lover, Tahki. But Leteal was dead, impaled on Makhulu’s dagger, and Tahki had perished by his own act. Kahlutu spent his nights with Aula, the pretty, silent, ice-maiden he had married, and their newborn son.
Slit! I’m just bored. That’s what’s the matter with me. What are these flaming tablets about anyway? He passed his hand across his eyes and focused once more on the work in front of him.
He glanced up as a circle of ripples in the entry channel alerted him to the approach of a visitor. A sleek head appeared, with hair neither black nor gilt but a brindled mixture of the two, like the pelt of a seal pup.
“Vakahtu?”
Vakahtu rose out of the pool, bowed in a perfunctory way, and pulled himself onto the sand with smooth economy of effort. His tail gleamed in the light of the whale-oil lamps. It was neither Kiakhu black nor Leahtu silver. Where his muscled torso met his tail, the thick hide was pearly silver, then dark grey and silver alternated in blurred lines down to his tail fin, which was pure Kiakhu black.
He was of both clans, and neither, an outcast since birth, fit only for the oyster beds or the Pleasure Caves. Yet he carried himself with assurance, and his ice-blue eyes did not shift under Makhulu’s. He waited for Makhulu to speak.
Makhulu tossed him a bottle salvaged from the wreck of a four-arm vessel. He caught it one-handed, lifted it in a silent salute, and drank deeply.
Makhulu broke the silence with a touch of impatience. “What have you to report?”
“I’m in.”
“Any trouble?”
“There are some don’t like muck-tails. I wouldn’t call them trouble.” He drained his nectar and tossed the bottle onto the sand. Makhulu jerked his head to a stash of bottles beside the divan.
Vakahtu shook his head. “No more.”
“Have you been out yet?”
“We took a vessel yesterday. Not worth it. All we got was a few weapons, gold rings, nectar.”
Makhulu made a note on the tablet in front of him. “How many four-arms dead?”
“About twenty.”
“Twenty!! That brings the total for the last three tides to—wait—” He made some calculations on a slate, “—a hundred and fifty two! The fools! Do they think the four-arms won’t notice?”
“What can the four-arms do?”
“Do? Have you never seen how they can kill creatures under the water with their iron pellets while they stay safe on their vessels? But that’s not the point. The security of all the clans depends on the four-arms remaining oblivious.”
“Nakki is greedy.”
“Under Vahtu the wreckers knew their limits. Now they are out of control. Besides, we should protect the four-arms where we can. They’re not all vicious. We can’t let them be slaughtered.” He made a notation on the tablet.
“Who did you use for bait?”
“A female.”
“Her name?”
“Kalita.”
“Age?”
“About a hundred and ninety tides.”
Makhulu looked up. “Pretty ?”
“Yes.”
“Is she a willing participant?”
“She’s Nakki’s daughter,” Vakahtu said, indifferently
“That doesn’t mean anything. You’re Vahtu’s son. You had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
Makhulu resisted the impulse to grip the young male’s shoulder. He had learned that Vakahtu did not care for such gestures.
“Even Kahlutu did what he must to survive. You are the son of a slave and the monster that abused her. Whatever you have done, you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
Vakahtu’s expression remained unreadable. Makhulu felt snubbed and, consequently, irritated. “Well, we will give this—” he checked his notes, “—Kalita—the benefit of the doubt. Now, give me the rest of the names.”
Vakahtu reeled off a list in his level, expressionless voice. When he came to the last name, his tone changed and betrayed a fleeting emotion.
Makhulu looked up, interested. “Is there something I should know about this one?”
“They all kill. He plays with them first.”
“Torture?”
“And rape. Male, female, youngling, he doesn’t have a preference.”
“Don’t let a personal dislike jeopardize your mission.”
“I won’t. But I will find a reason to kill him. It won’t be difficult, and it will impress the others.”
“And what if he kills you?”
For the first time that night, a slow smile spread across Vakahtu’s face. He said nothing but looked steadily at Makhulu, who gave a harsh crack of laughter. “My apologies—for a moment I had forgotten.”
“You are fortunate.”

* * * * *

Kalita was watching for Vakahtu, but she had almost given up hope of seeing him before he finally returned. She could not explain her obsession with him, even to herself, much less to her father. Where did he go when he left the wreckers’ caves, deep within the bowels of the rock? Below the elegant sand-chambers and the Pleasure Caves, below the Sentinel garrison, further down even than the household slaves’ quarters? Where did he go—and who was he with? Night after night she had searched the Kiakhu Base, neglecting only the high-caste nobles’ quarter in her quest. No muck-tail would ever be welcome up there.
Now, when she knew that he neither expected nor desired to see her, she shot out from the mouth of the channel and floated between him and the entrance to the tiny, dark cave where he spent his nights. He must have known she was there because he did not react to her sudden appearance.
“Where have you been?” Nerves made her voice high and shrill.
“If your father asks, I’ll tell him.”
Her tail tapped the water. “Why won’t you answer me?” She swam nearer, knowing she was close to passing some invisible barrier but unable to stop herself. “You will tell me!”
“I will tell your father,” he repeated.
“My father trusts me to—”
“Spy for him?”
“No!”
“Then let me pass. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“If you hurt me, my father will kill you.”
“He reserves that right for himself?”
“What are you talking about?”
His face was quite expressionless. “Nakki beats you. It is not a secret.”
“That’s crack-juice!”
“No. I, too, had a father who beat me until I would do anything he asked to avoid more punishment. I understand.”
She thought she had never been offered such cold comfort. How could he know what she endured? “Did he ask you to kill?”
“Yes.”
In her pain and anger, she turned on him. “Don’t you get the idea we have anything in common, muck-tail! I don’t care about you or your father or what he did to you. Do you understand me?”
His smile was not pleasant. “I expected nothing else. Will you let me pass now?”
She twirled angrily out of his path.
He nodded. “Thank you, Lady.”
She nodded back, straight-backed and stiff. But, as soon as he was swallowed up in the gloom of the tunnel, her face crumpled into a mask of despair, and her silent sobs rippled through the chill, black water.
Vakahtu made his way down a steep channel to the very edge of the mount, far from the warming Fire. In a murky, foul-smelling pool, a gang of around fifty, black-tailed, battle-scarred veterans was assembled. Some had shaved heads or wore shark’s teeth pushed through the lobes of their ears. Others had fearful patterns tattooed in swirls across their cheeks.
Vakahtu’s stern mouth twisted into a sneer. Fools! A true killer does not make a parade of his calling. As he swam into the cavern, he heard voices raised in anger and realized that he had arrived in time for one of the wreckers’ periodic clashes. Noisy, but futile. He could teach them better ways. Never raise your voice. It is a waste of energy. Just slide the blade in, nice and easy.
A big male of around six hundred tides was in the center of the group. This was Nakki, their leader. He reminded Vakahtu of his dead father. The likeness did nothing to make his work with this band of killers any easier. The gang chief had not yet run to blubber, but, thought Vakahtu, his leadership was based on nothing but brute strength, and he would soon be replaced by a younger challenger.
Vakahtu swam closer to hear what the angry tails were shouting about. “I say Nakki and his kit get one share, not two. She does nothing.”
“He’s right!” chorused the crowd. “Why should she get a full share? It’s us takes the chances.”
Nakki glared at the tails circling him. “Kalita gets a full share,” he growled.
Another male moved forward. He was as big as Nakki, thick-necked and heavy with muscle. “You think we’re that stupid? Kalita sees nothing of the gold. All it means is that you get double, besides the cut you take on everything we bring you.”
There was a rumble of agreement. Nakki glanced around, for the first time showing uncertainty. The other male continued, “She’s just a kit, what does she need? Give her these.” He lifted his hand to display two shell necklaces and a bracelet. “That’s what pleases a kit.”
Vakahtu watched with interest to see what Nakki would do. To back down meant a loss of authority that he might never recover, but the big male seemed intimidated and, with a shrug of his massive shoulders, he turned away. “We’ll talk about this further, Patik,” he muttered and swam out of the chamber. Vakahtu followed.
“Are you going to let him get away with that?” he said as he caught up with Nakki in the dark channel.
Nakki grunted. “What can I do? He has the tails on his side. There was a time—”
“I can take him for you,” said Vakahtu quietly.
“You?”
“Why not?”
“Have you seen him fight?”
“I can take him,” Vakahtu repeated.
Nakki moved closer. “If you can rid me of that crack-eating ‘phin-leaper, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
“—put you in his place, second-in-command, my friend, that’s what.”
“Consider it done.”
“When?”
“Before the next raid.”
Nakki grunted, “You don’t say much do you?”
“What else is there to say?”

 

19 May 2016

It’s only taken 5 years – the Tides of Fire Sequel is finally finished

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I’ve taken far too long to write Book II of Tides of Fire, partly because the Regencies took over and partly from the writer’s equivalent of stage fright. Sequels are so often dreadful and disappointing – Jaws II? I wanted mine to be more Godfather II. And, to be honest, I had no idea until quite recently that anyone was waiting for it.

However, my editor is now going through the final manuscript of Book II: The Golden Queen  and I have just got the final proof of the cover which I think is just perfect:

 

The Golden Queen 5.5x8.5inchesIt’s hard to know with the blurb how much backstory from the previous book to include. This is my first, tentative effort:

It is twenty tides since Leelee and Makhulu parted. The tyrant Vahtu is dead and his wayward son Kahlutu sits on the throne in his place. Leelee has been forced back to the gentle reefs of The City to become her Clan’s reluctant High Priestess, while Makhulu remains in the cold black waters of the Kiakhu to advise and support the new king.

But the fragile peace between the Clans is threatened on all sides, by those for whom the war was profitable, and others who cannot tolerate allies who worship a different God. Then a catastrophe strikes that makes all their squabbles appear trivial and introduces Leelee and Makhulu to The Golden Queen.

I have now set up a Reading Group/Mailing List for Mermaids and Masquerades. For news and the occasional special offer, please sign up here:Mermaids and Masquerades Readers Group .  I promise not to spam you.

31 March 2016

Midsummer Masquerade Paperback now available on Amazon

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BookCoverPreview Midsummer Masq

It’s always lovely to hold the book in your hand, and thanks to Lee’s beautiful covers, they make a very nice show on the bookshelf. Anyway, for those who still like the feel of a real book, Midsummer Masquerade is available now.

 

 

 

 

 

Amazon.com: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.co.uk: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.de: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade

22 March 2016

Midsummer Masquerade e-book available on Amazon

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Midsummer Masquerade 5.5x8.5inches (2)I’m very happy to announce that Midsummer Masquerade, the fifth in the series, is available now on Amazon. The paperback will be ready in a few days.

I hope you enjoy the book. It was a great pleasure to write.

Amazon.com: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.co.uk: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade
Amazon.de: Midsummer Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade (English Edition)

 

18 March 2016

Moonlight Masquerade free Saturday 19 /Sunday 20 /Monday 21 March

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moonlight masquerade 5.5x8.5inches2It’s ages since I’ve run a free promotion of any of my books. However, since it looks like the new one isn’t going to be ready to publish this weekend as I’d hoped (unless my editor puts on a real spurt) I thought I’d give away the first of the series as a little present. When it actually becomes free seems to depend on what time zone you live in, but it’s meant to begin 8am Western Standard Time (i.e. Saturday morning in Seattle.)

The first manuscript of Moonlight Masquerade was completed in 1976. It was called The Silk Purse at that point. Much of the plot rested on the fact that the heroine, then called Arabella Higgins, was from the North of England and had to learn how to speak posh etc. Full of hope and confidence I sent the manuscript to the publisher Robert Hale, Ltd. I think, looking back, it wasn’t bad for a first effort (which is pretty much what Mr Hale said too.) He made some suggestions and said he would look at it again if I revised it. However, by that time I was working on Dangerous Escapade, which was accepted, and I put The Silk Purse away in a dark drawer and forgot about it.  I dug it out and edited it extensively about 20 years later when it became The Master of Hawkwood. It was very much the same plot as The Silk Purse, but I took out the over-used plot devices about the Northern accent and her learning to behave in Society.

I put it away for another 10 years or so while I worked on my comedy sketch writing, but I remembered it when I wanted to write a series of mildly erotic Regency novels with the Masquerade theme. So, sweet, innocent little Arabella was transformed into innocent, but enterprising, Merry Trent, Hawkwood became younger and a lot more dangerous and the book became a whole lot more fun!

Here’s the blurb:

No longer a schoolgirl, but not yet out, Merry Trent can only watch and envy the fashionable London throng in the spring of 1815. Determined to enjoy at least one adventure she borrows boy’s clothes and attends a masquerade in disguise. But the handsome, world-weary Marquis of Hawkwood sees through her deception and determines to know more of the masked Beauty he names Rosalind. Meanwhile, Merry’s matchmaking mother has designs on Hawkwood and contrives that he and Merry should be invited to the same house-party at splendid Doverton Park. There Hawkwood woos prim Miss Trent in decorous form by day, while spending his nights trysting with the far more exciting Rosalind. How Merry resolves this tangle and Hawkwood learns that life still holds some surprises make this a Regency romance in the best tradition of masked balls, jilted lovers and happy endings.

 

 

7 March 2016

Midsummer Masquerade is finished at last! A Preview!

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Midsummer Masquerade 5.5x8.5inchesFinally, after long delays, the next Masquerade book is finished and currently being edited. As my editor is meticulous in the extreme, that might take a while but in the meantime, as usual, I’m posting the first chapter here (the format is not as it appears in the book, I am not that good at ‘tech stuff.’

Midsummer Masquerade  has a theatrical background and I have drawn upon a lot of my own experiences, and some old theatrical legends. I have only used theatrical slang that I could prove to have been in use at the time, which wasn’t easy to find. So no ‘corpsing’, ‘drying’ or ‘breaking up.’ Nor have I used’break a leg’ although I’m sure all these phrases had their equivalents. I did use ‘bums on seats’ which has to be as old as the hills, and anyway they use it in Blackadder. If it’s good enough for Richard Curtis….

I found Mansfield Park invaluable. Jane Austen and her family loved amateur theatricals, even though she disapproves when the Bertram family engages in them, so I have assumed without further corroboration that she knew whereof she spoke.

If you would like to be notified when the book is available on Amazon (it will be both a print and e-book) please just post a comment here and I’ll add you to my mailing list.

 

Chapter One
By the inadequate light of one flickering candle, a young woman was reading a letter. Her face, always expressive, reflected shock, annoyance and finally a kind of weary amusement. As she reached the bottom of the paper she sighed and dropped the hand which held the letter into her lap.

‘Do you know there is blood on your gown?’ Mrs Hargreaves, a lady of some five-and-fifty years, spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as though white muslin soaked in blood were an everyday occurrence: as indeed it was in Brussels in the dark days following the victory at Waterloo. The young woman was lost in thought and so the elder lady said a little more sharply, ‘Philly?’

Miss Ophelia Pitt started and looked up with a sudden smile. ‘I beg your pardon, Ma’am. What did you say?’

‘You should wash out that blood before it is quite dried.’

‘Oh, it will do tomorrow. I’m so very tired.’

‘No wonder. All those hours nursing the wounded and then out half the night looking for that naughty child.’

‘Well, at least we know now where she is.’

‘Do we? I could make neither head nor tail of her note.’

Ophelia laughed. ‘Once I realised that what I had taken to read slope might was actually elopement all became clear. She has, as you so rightly suspected, Ma’am, run off with young De Tournai.’ She lifted a prettily enamelled watch that she wore pinned to her breast and glanced at the tiny face. ‘By this time she is Madame La Comtesse, no doubt.’

‘Very thoughtless and silly.’

‘True. And very inconvenient. There goes my only hope of reaching London by the first of the month.’

‘Perhaps Sir Guy will consent to escort you even though—’

‘Oh I have no doubt he would.’ A rueful smile curled her mouth. ‘Just as Lord Darlington would, or Mr Bainbridge or even old Major Fairfax.  And I have no doubt at all that the price I should be expected to pay for my passage would be exactly the same in every case.’

Mrs Hargreaves sighed. ‘Indeed it is a pity you are so very—very—’

‘Very,’ agreed Ophelia, her eyes narrowing in amusement. She knew quite well what her companion was attempting, with delicacy, to suggest. She was a young woman of seven-and-twenty, rather tall, with long graceful limbs, a trim waist, and an exceedingly voluptuous, not to say, magnificent, bust. This attribute when combined with gleaming copper ringlets, heavy-lidded green eyes, and a wide, generous mouth, might not have corresponded to the ideal of beauty then in vogue, as embodied by the wraithlike Lady Caroline Lamb, but it certainly put the most improper ideas into the heads of gentlemen who ought to have known better. Add to this that she was by profession an actress and her scepticism regarding her would-be protectors’ motives was perfectly understandable.

Mrs Hargreaves sighed sympathetically. ‘Would you like some tea, Philly dear?’

Ophelia flashed a sudden, brilliant smile. ‘Oh my case is not so desperate as that! I would not say no to a cognac however.’

‘Well, I do keep a bottle by for purely medicinal purposes,’ admitted Mrs Hargreaves. She rose from her seat and bent to turn up the flame in an oil lamp which stood on a little spindle-legged table beside her chair. ‘I may join you—just to steady my nerves, you know.’

Mrs Hargreaves occupied a somewhat cramped set of chambers at the top of the Comédie Theatre in the centre of Brussels, where she had, for many years, combined the roles of wardrobe mistress and caretaker. The cosy chamber in which they were sitting functioned as sitting-room, dining-room and, since the night of the great battle, Ophelia’s bedchamber. It was furnished with an agreeable selection of chairs, tables, divans and hangings which had previously graced various theatrical productions. A portion of a canvas flat, depicting a sylvan scene of shepherds and shepherdesses frolicking in Arcadian meadows, had been put to use to screen off a section of the room behind which Mrs Hargreaves kept a locked cabinet. Ophelia, who knew perfectly well where the key was kept, turned her head away and hummed a tune in an attempt to ignore the clearly audible clinking of bottles and glasses that came from behind the screen.

Presently the good lady emerged with two tumblers half full of amber liquid. Ophelia took hers with a word of thanks and sipped cautiously. Rather to her surprise it was excellent.

‘Is it unpatriotic to drink French brandy?’ she wondered with a smile.

‘Certainly not! At least–I don’t think so.’ Mrs Hargreaves pondered the question and then said, brightening, ‘This bottle is thirty years old. I don’t think we were at war with France then so— Besides, I don’t think there is any other kind.’

‘Any other kind of what?’

‘Brandy.’

‘Ah!’

They sipped in silence for a while until Mrs Hargreaves presently asked, ‘What manner of man is Sir Guy? Are you acquainted with him?’

‘Not at all. Nor, as far as I know, is Fanny. He has the reputation of being somewhat formidable, which is why, I suppose, she has run away rather than face him.’

‘I don’t know why she could not have simply told him she was betrothed to De Tournai. It is not a bad match. She will be a countess, after all.’

‘From what Fanny has told me, Lord Danehill is one of those Englishmen who believes all foreigners to be inferior. I don’t think a Belgian title would cut any ice with him. And De Tournai’s family has been impoverished by this long war. Even if her grandfather gave his consent there must have been weeks, perhaps months, of delay. Fanny, one can hardly blame her, did not wish to let the Comte go off to Paris leaving her behind.’ She glanced at her friend out of the corner of her eye and her lips curved into a smile. ‘I think there was a very good reason why she wished to be married without delay. One that will become evident in a few months’ time.’

‘You don’t say so!’

Ophelia shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken. Well, we shall see.’

She stood suddenly and moved to the window, looking out into the street. As had been the case for days it was unlit but the carts carrying the wounded still rattled over the cobbles and wounded men shuffled behind with the assistance of their comrades. Ophelia watched the scene in silence for a while then broke out suddenly, ‘Oh I could strangle that girl!’

‘My dear! Fanny was thoughtless, no doubt, but a sweeter—’

‘Not Fanny, dear Ma’am, Heloise.’

Mrs Hargreaves shook her head sadly. ‘Your dresser? Yes indeed. That was very bad. And she had been with you for years, had she not?’

‘Yes, three years. I thought she was devoted to me. Hah! To sneak away like that at the first opportunity.’ Ophelia laughed suddenly. ‘I wish I might see her face when she tries to sell those emeralds though.’

The elder lady looked an enquiry.

‘Paste—nothing but paste. Silly creature! Did she really think I would carry the real necklace about with me on tour? It is safe at home in my strongbox with the rest of my jewels but, sadly, they can do me little good there. She has taken all my spare cash and left me penniless. How am I to get to London in time?’

‘Surely Mr Sharp will reschedule rehearsals if you are delayed? After all, the circumstances are quite outside the usual.’

‘Not he! “Sharp by name and sharp by nature” is his boast. He would not consider a little thing like war to be an excuse. I can hear him now. She laughed, thrust her thumbs into an imaginary waistcoat, puffed out her chest and said in a voice quite unlike her own; “Totally unprofessional, Miss Pitt! You should have got here if it killed you!” And that, my dear Ma’am, is the Sharper when he is in an amiable mood.’ She sighed. ‘It is a new play too, written especially for me by Mr Knowles. I had to beg Sharp to let me play in it for he declares that I cannot play anything but comedy. Why, he said my Lady Macbeth was the funniest thing he had ever seen.’

‘Philly, what are you thinking of!’

What—?’

‘You named the Scottish play!’

‘So I did! Well, that just shows you how upset I am.’ She jumped up, ran to the door, opened it, spun around three times counter-clockwise on the landing and spat, nicely, onto her handkerchief. ‘Lord knows, I don’t need any more bad luck.’ She sat down and picked up her glass.

Mrs Hargreaves leaned forward and patted Ophelia’s hand where it lay upon her lap. ‘It was hardly bad luck that caused you to remain behind when the rest of the company had decamped for Antwerp. It was your own dear, brave heart that did that.’

With a rueful smile she answered, ‘Say rather my love of meddling in what does not concern me.’

‘Did those poor boys you nursed and comforted not concern you? Don’t belittle yourself, my love. You have been a tower of strength to me and so many others since our troops marched out upon that terrible, terrible night.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘I dread to think what would have happened to poor foolish Fanny Howard if you had not found her wandering on the streets and brought her here.’

‘Indeed. Little did I know that I was rescuing, not a stray kitten, but a lost heiress complete with aristocratic suitor, stern grandfather and her very own knight in shining armour about to descend upon us.’

‘I wonder if her grandpapa will have received Fanny’s letter—about being here with me—I mean.’

‘Even if he has not, I left word at the hotel where Fanny was staying with the Fosters, and also with the prefecture of police. I doubt Sir Guy will have any difficulty finding us.’

‘I can understand that Lord Danehill is too infirm to come to Brussels to take home his granddaughter himself, but how comes he to have sent this Sir Guy Gilmour? Are they related?’

‘I know no more than you, but I believe not. Stay—I think Fanny said that he is her grandfather’s godson. She knows very little of him. Has never even met the man. What her grandfather is thinking of to confide her to his charge I really don’t know!’

‘Do you know anything of him?’

‘The grandfather?’

‘No! Sir Guy, I mean.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There is a note in your voice when you speak of him. No doubt I am being fanciful.’

‘No Ma’am, you are not being fanciful. To say the truth, Sir Guy once took under his protection a girl I knew—and was fond of.’

‘Ah—he treated her badly?’

Ophelia gave a short laugh and shrugged. ‘Not according to the notions of a man of his type, I daresay. He kept her in luxury, gave her jewels, furs—you know how it goes.’

Mrs Hargreaves nodded, a reminiscent gleam in her eye.

‘And when he tired of her—he bestowed upon her enough to keep her excellently well—until the next protector should come along.’

‘Then what have you against him?’

Ophelia rose and went to the window, looking out into the night. ‘She loved him—she did not want to go to another man’s bed. And he was cruel. He never answered her letters—’

‘Oh my dear—she did not—not that!’

‘No, no, Ma’am, nothing so tragic. She recovered and made another, even wealthier, conquest. But he was not to know that it would be so.’

‘Well, men are like that,’ remarked Mrs Hargreaves philosophically. ‘Always have been, always will be.’

‘Only because we women put ourselves in their power! That is something I have not done since—’ She stopped suddenly and then continued in a slightly different tone, ‘—since I was very young.’

The older woman nodded her agreement, lips pursed, then as a thought struck her she said, ‘Fanny and he have never met, you say?’

‘No, but Fanny lived in Yorkshire, you know, until her mama died and then was educated in Bath so it is understandable. She came directly from Bath to Brussels with her school-friend’s family, I believe.’

‘And they have never met—’ repeated Mrs Hargreaves in a meaningful voice.

‘No, what—?’ She stopped, meeting the older woman’s eyes. ‘You mean?—no—I could not do it.’

‘Why not? You are an actress. Do you tell me you have never played an eighteen-year-old?’

‘Yes, by candlelight and with the front of the pit standing twenty feet away.’

‘I have seen you in full sunlight and I observed no lines or wrinkles. Your complexion is such as any schoolgirl might envy.’

‘Fanny is a brunette.’

‘Well, but you have your wigs.’

Ophelia stared at her friend. ‘Do you really think I could do it?’

‘How important is it that you should be in London upon July the first?’

‘It means everything.’

‘Then what do you have to lose?’

The following morning, just as the ladies had risen from the breakfast table, there was a peremptory knock upon the front door. Ophelia glanced nervously at her reflection in the mirror that hung above the fireplace and pulled the dark curls that hid her own copper locks forward over her forehead.

She was dressed demurely in a blue and white, sprigged-muslin gown she had worn as Kate Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer and which had been hastily altered in the early hours of the morning to bring it into the current mode. Her corset was laced so tightly across her breast as to minimise her principal assets; which caused the breakfast she had eaten so hurriedly to repeat upon her in a distressing manner. Mrs Hargreaves reached over to press her hand in an encouraging way as the ladies heard a quick, firm step upon the stairs and the door opened to reveal a gentleman upon the threshold.

‘Milor Guie de Gilmoire,’ cried the little maidservant, peeping out from behind the gentleman, and fled.

Sir Guy bowed and uttered a curt, ‘Good day, Ma’am,’ to Mrs Hargreaves. Ophelia, glancing at their visitor out of the corner of her demurely lowered eyes, was not sure that she approved of the gentleman. He was about five-and-thirty, tall and well-made with powerful shoulders and a muscular chest. His features were good but his expression was harsh and disagreeable. There seemed a perpetual sneer about his countenance which was, she charitably decided, produced by his high bridged nose, flared nostrils, and the deep lines that ran from thence to the corners of his mouth.

The newcomer was attired for travelling in a well-cut riding-coat of dark blue worsted, buckskin breeches and top boots that had once been highly polished but now, after several days of travel, were lamentably dusty and stained. He held a shallow-crowned beaver in his gloved hand and carried a drab greatcoat over his arm. His dark brown hair was untidy and his cravat creased, as though he could not be bothered to make himself presentable for the inferior company in which he found himself.

His indifferent gaze travelled to where Ophelia was seated and in spite of herself she found herself rising to her feet. She dropped him a little curtsy. He acknowledged it with a slight nod.

‘Well, Miss, I am sent by your grandfather to bring you home. I hope you are ready to set forward immediately. I have no time to waste.’

Ophelia answered in a high, sweet voice. ‘Yes, Sir, I am quite ready.’

‘Who goes with you? Where is your abigail?’

‘I have no abigail, Sir. She left Brussels with the rest of my friends upon the eve of the battle.’

He frowned. ‘Unfortunate! But it cannot be helped. We have no time to engage another. Your trunk?’

‘The boy will bring it down,’ interposed Mrs Hargreaves. ‘Pray you look after her, Sir.’

‘I shall endeavour to do so, Ma’am. Say your goodbyes, Fanny. I do not care to leave the horses in the street. Miserable creatures though they may be, they are worth their weight in gold with the city in this turmoil.’

Ophelia ran to her kind landlady and friend with her arms open. The two women hugged and promised faithfully to write every day. But Sir Guy’s slightly contemptuous stare was not favourable to sentiment. After a few moments they drew apart. Ophelia donned her bonnet and pelisse, gave her friend one last wave and meekly followed Sir Guy out of the room.

 

29 July 2015

The Actors’ Dream

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Last night as we sat down to dinner (bruschetta,  spaggettini al forno, apple cake and cream), my husband who is in charge of the music department put on a CD of Handel’s Ariodante. As a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice rang out he said ‘that’s Dame Janet Baker.’ We both smiled fondly. We first met during a production of Werther at the English National Opera in which Dame Janet sang Charlotte, the female lead. She was a lovely person, charming to us mere plebs, even asking once if we  minded if she joined us as we sat chatting in the wings. But my principal memory of that production (apart from meeting the love of my life) happened about halfway through the run.

For some reason that now escapes me, the male lead had to leave to take up another engagement. That kind of thing happens a lot in opera. I happened to be standing next to the tenor who took his place on his first night in the role. I noticed that sweat was streaming down his face and he was shaking from head to foot. He glanced round and said in a desperately jokey way ‘It would help if I could remember the words.’ ‘Oh you’ll be fine,’ I assured him and he was so nervous that he seemed grateful even for my encouragement. I remember thinking , as he squared his shoulders and strode onto the stage, it was one of bravest things I’d ever seen.

I remarked to my husband over dinner that it was just like the ‘actors’ dream.’ I don’t know an actor who doesn’t have ‘the dream,’ although it takes slightly different forms of course. It is very obviously an anxiety dream and is usually recurrent. In my version I know I have to be on stage because my cue has been given. The only problem is that I can’t find my way. I run up and down stairways, along deserted passages, down into huge cavernous basements. I know it can’t be far away because I can hear voices and see the lights but I can never get there.

In my husband’s dream he, like the poor tenor, can’t remember his words but he knows that he will be okay if he can just look at the book (actor-speak for the script or prompt copy.) He wanders all over the theatre vainly searching for the book, asking everyone he meets if they have it, but no one does.

I wonder if other professions have their own particular dream. Do pilots wake in a cold-sweat because they can’t land their plane, or do surgeons dream they have killed all their patients? I expect they do. But, funnily enough, I have never yet dreamed that I can’t finish a book or I’ve written a really boring blog post.

Talking of finishing a book; Midsummer Masquerade is almost finished. I have a gorgeous cover for it. As you can see, my next heroine is a redhead. Meet Miss Ophelia Pitt, an actress who, according to her director cannot act to save her life but ‘she puts bums on seats, Laddie, bums on seats!’

Midsummer Masquerade 5.5x8.5inches (2)

26 June 2015

Kindle Unlimited new payment plan for authors

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The Cautious Heart 5.5x8.5inches (2)Her_Foolish_Heart_Regency_Romance_ebookfinal mysterious masq 5.5x8.5inch

A Match of Hearts Regency Romance 5.5x8 copy.5inch

Gamble with Hearts 5.5x8.5inch

 

 

 

 

 

It isn’t often that royalty payments make the news unless it’s a million dollar advance to a fledgling author. But Amazon’s new payment plan for their authors has made it to the mainstream news media. And, as always happens with any news story you happen to know anything about, it is apparent the media have got it hopelessly wrong.

However, that is nothing compared to the wars now raging among Amazon’s authors. Many are threatening to pull out of the Kindle Unlimited (KU) programme. A classic example of cutting off your nose to spite your face.

Under the current system authors whose books are borrowed under the KU subscription service receive a payment when 10% of the book is read. The payment changes monthly according to the number of borrows over the entire programme, but the author gets the same amount for the book whether it is 10 pages long or 500 pages long. Now many authors of short works insist that just as much work goes into 10 good pages as 500 trashy pages. It’s a valid point of view. However, quite a lot of scam artists have been throwing any old rubbish up on Kindle in the hope that the reader will hit 10% before they realise they’ve been had. Manifestly unfair.

The new idea is to pay authors of e-books borrowed  by pages read. So if you have a 250 page book you might get 1 cent a page, thus $2.50 royalty payment for your book if the reader makes it all the way through to the end. I like this idea and have faith that my readers do read all the way through to the end. Therefore all my books are now available to borrow under the Kindle Unlimited subscription programme. You can, of course, still buy and download in the regular way. Whether you borrow or buy, I hope you enjoy!

Historical Romance

Dangerous Escapade

Loving Hearts Series: Regency Romances for All Ages

The Cautious Heart
Gamble With Hearts
Her Foolish Heart
A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance

The Masquerade Series (over 18)

Mysterious Masquerade (A Regency Masquerade)
Moonlight Masquerade (Regency Masquerade)
Merry Masquerade (A Regency Masquerade)
Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade

Mermaid Fantasy

Tides of Fire: The Rebellion

12 June 2015

Gamble With Hearts now in paperback

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I’m always delighted when I  receive the first copy of the paperback version of my books from Amazon. The covers are even prettier in ‘real life.’ This would be an ideal gift for anyone who loves traditional Regency romance but doesn’t own an e-reader.

When the Wrexham ladies are left without a penny in the world, it seems that marriage to the elderly Mr. Wimple is the only way Charlotte can provide for her gentle, helpless mama. But the beautiful and spirited Charlotte reasons that if she must sell herself, she will do so to the highest bidder and so the ladies set off for London and the Season. But all Charlotte’s careful plans go awry when she meets the dashing but hopelessly ineligible Viscount Carlington.

Gamble with Hearts 5.5x8.5inch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amazon.com: Gamble With Hearts

Amazon.co.uk: Gamble With Hearts

 

9 June 2015

A Lovely Weekend and a New Cover

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It was my birthday last weekend and all I wanted for my present was to see my boys back in London. So we did!

I live by my theory that life is like a bead necklace, day after day of nice, round, pretty beads. But every now and again you have to add a great big pearl – a day or event that shines in your memory. Well the last 72 hours contained enough pearls to fill the rest of the year. The weather was glorious (most unexpected for early June in England) and we spent almost the whole time together, eating, drinking and talking, talking, talking. We ate lobster in Fulham, Cantonese in China Town, and Mexican in Covent Garden. We strolled in the Embankment Gardens, listened to a military band play famous television signature tunes from the Avengers to Morecambe and Wise, and sipped Pimms overlooking the Thames at London Bridge. Our boys had their lovely girlfriends with them and I honestly don’t think there were six happier people in London than we were.

Back in rather rainy, dreary Bamberg I found my new cover for Mysterious Masquerade waiting for me in my e-mail. Lee has once more come up with a winner (we’ve been learning about covers together for the last four years.)

This is it. Isn’t she lovely? I’ve just uploaded to Amazon so it should show up in about 24 hours.

final mysterious masq 5.5x8.5inch

26 May 2015

The Cautious Heart is now available to borrow on Kindle Unlimited (and with a new cover)

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For some reason, mostly I have to admit, laziness, I had never enrolled The Cautious Heart in Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited programme. But I was so delighted with Gamble with Hearts’ new cover that I decided to redo The Cautious Heart as well, and took the opportunity while doing so to check that little box that makes it available to borrow.

It’s amusing, looking back, to note that when it was first published in 1980 it was part of a line of books that were considered ‘a bit racy.’ There was sex before marriage, then very daring, and even worse, the heroine actually enjoyed it! I beamed with pride when my New York editor congratulated me saying, ‘you write very good sex.’ Now those scenes are so tame I don’t bother to list the book as having any erotic content at all.  Of well autres temps, autres mœurs as they say.

The Cautious Heart 5.5x8.5inches (2)

 

21 May 2015

Lovely New Cover for Gamble with Hearts

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I decided to give a couple of my older titles a bit of a polish and brush up so I commissioned my designer, Lee at Halo Studios, to give me new covers. The new ones are  more in line with the most recent Loving Heart books, all flowery and pretty and sunny. I’ve just uploaded Gamble with Hearts. I hope you like it too.

Gamble with Hearts 5.5x8.5inch

18 May 2015

Songs of Love, Romance and War

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As a babyboomer born only six years after the end of the war in Europe, my entire childhood was dominated by my parent’s war stories and the old black and white films like One of our Aircraft is Missing, The Dambusters, and Went the Day Well? And then there were the songs, beautiful, plaintive songs of love, loss and loyalty. This is my list of the ten most beautiful, poignant and romantic songs of the war years.

kiss2

1) The number one has to be As Time Goes By as performed by Dooley Wilson in Casablanca. To be totally accurate it was written in 1931 but it is forever associated with Rick’s Cafe, Casablanca and Ingrid Bergman gazing into the past and remembering.

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

And when two lovers woo
They still say, “I love you.”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by.

Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date.
Hearts full of passion
Jealousy and hate.
Woman needs man
And man must have his mate
That no one can deny.

It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.

2) Number two is nowhere near as famous. Perhaps because the circumstances of the song are very specific to the war years. The Lovely Weekend is a woman writing to her husband who has just returned to the conflict after a weekend leave.

I haven’t said thanks for that lovely weekend
Those two days of heaven you helped me spend
The thrill of your kiss as you stepped off the train
The smile in your eyes like the sun after rain

To mark the occasion we went out to dine
Remember the laughter, the music, the wine
That drive in the taxi when midnight had flown
Then breakfast next morning, just we two alone

You had to go, the time was too short
We both had so much to say
Your kit to be packed, the train to be caught
Sorry I cried but I just felt that way

And now you have gone, dear, this letter I pen
My heart travels with you till we meet again
Keep smiling, my darling, and someday we’ll spend
A lifetime as sweet as that lovely weekend

If it seems particularly heartbreaking and sincere it is because it is a real love letter written to a real soldier, who also happened to be a bandleader. He set it to music and it became an instant hit.

Images of VE DA

3) A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square – haven’t we all had the experience of falling in love and finding quite ordinary places become magical? I imagine the couple, both in uniform, walking hand in hand through the blackout.

That certain night
The night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

I may be right I may be wrong
But I’m perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me
A nightingale sang in Berkeley square

The moon that lingered over London town
Poor puzzled moon he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love
The whole damned world seemed upside down

The streets of town were paved with stars
It was such a romantic affair
And as we kissed and said goodnight
A nightingale sang in Berekeley square

How strange it was
How sweet and strange
There was never a dream to compare
To those hazy crazy nights we met
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

Ah this heart of mine
Loud and fast
Like a merry-go-round in a fair
We would dance cheek to cheek
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

The dawn came stealing up
All gold and blue
To interrupt our rendez-vous
I still remember how you smiled and said
Was that a dream or was it true?

Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing feet of astaire
And like an echo far away
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square

5) Lili Marlene – well the Germans suffered, loved and lost too. A young soldier meets his love underneath a lantern outside the barrack gates.  He hears the bugle calling him away and kisses her goodbye. It is their last night together.

Underneath the lantern
By the barrack gate
Darling I remember
The way you used to wait
‘Twas there that you whispered tenderly
That you loved me
You’d always be
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene

Resting in our billet
Just behind the line
Even though we’re parted
Your lips are close to mine
You wait where that lantern softly gleamed
Your sweet face seems
To haunt my dreams
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene

VEday

6) When They Sound the Last All Clear – okay, not a great song but so evocative of the  Blitz and the way ordinary people faced the pain of parting and never knowing when they would see each other again.

When they sound the last all-clear
How happy, my darling, we’ll be
When they turn up the lights
And the dark lonely nights
Are only a memory

Never more we’ll be apart
Always together, sweetheart
For the peace-bells will ring
And the whole world will sing
When they sound the last all-clear

We’ve got our troubles and we’ve got our cares
But as long as we keep smiling through
There’ll come a day
When the clouds roll away
And the sun will be shining anew

When they sound the last all-clear
How happy, my darling, we’ll be
When they turn up the lights
And the dark lonely nights
Are only a memory

Never more we’ll be apart
Always together, sweetheart
For the peace-bells will ring
And the whole world will sing
When they sound the last all-clear

7) We’ll Meet Again – for my parent’s generation this should probably be number one on the list.

We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when,
But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.
Keep smiling through,
Just like you always do,
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away.

So will you please say hello,
To the folks that I know,
Tell them I won’t be long, 
They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me go
I was singing this song.

We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when.
But I know well meet again, some sunny day.
We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when.
But I know well meet again some sunny day.

8) The Last Time I Saw Paris – a love song to a city. I imagine a great many people felt this way when the tanks rolled in to their beloved Paris.

A lady known as Paris, Romantic and Charming
Has left her old companions and faded from view

Lonely men with lonely eyes are seeking her in vain
Her streets are where they were, but there’s no sign of her

She has left the Seine

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
I heard the laughter of her heart in every street caf‚

The last time I saw Paris, her trees were dressed for spring,
And lovers walked beneath those trees and birds found songs to sing.

I dodged the same old taxicabs that I had dodged for years.
The chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears.

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
No matter how they change her, I’ll remember her that way.

I’ll think of happy hours, and people who shared them
Old women, selling flowers, in markets at dawn

Children who applauded, Punch and Judy in the park
And those who danced at night and kept our Paris bright

’til the town went dark.

9) We’ll Gather Lilacs in The Spring Again – just beautiful.

We’ll gather lilacs in the spring again,
And walk together down an endless lane,
Until our hearts have learned to sing again,
When you come home once more.
And in the evening by the firelight glow,
You’ll hold me close and never let me go,
Your eyes will tell me all I want to know,
When you come home once more.

10) I’ll be Seeing You – Like so many of the war songs this is a song of reassurance to men and women far, far from home that they are remembered and loved.

I’ll be seeing you,
In all the old, familiar places,
That this heart of mine embraces,
All day through.

In that small cafe,
The park across the way,
The children’s carousel,
The chestnut tree,
The wishing well.

I’ll be seeing you,
In every lovely, summer’s day,
And everything that’s light and gay,
I’ll always think of you that way,
I’ll find you in the morning sun,
And when the night is new,
I’ll be looking at the moon,
But I’ll be seeing you.

 

29 April 2015

The Soul of a Woman

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There has been some talk in the press (in case you missed it) about the soul of a woman, as opposed to the body of a woman. Well I’m not here to discuss those issues. But it did make me think about what a woman’s soul means to me. So I offer three favorite quotations from a purely personal point of view. The quality of the writing will certainly be superior to my usual offerings.

Anne

“God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as–if I may be allowed the expression–so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”

Jane Austin, Persuasion

P1018654

But this imperfectly taught woman, whose phrases and habits were an odd patchwork, had a loyal spirit within her. The man whose prosperity she had shared through nearly half a life, and who had unvaryingly cherished her—now that punishment had befallen him it was not possible to her in any sense to forsake him. There is a forsaking which still sits at the same board and lies on the same couch with the forsaken soul, withering it the more by unloving proximity. She knew, when she locked her door, that she should unlock it ready to go down to her unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and say of his guilt, I will mourn and not reproach. But she needed time to gather up her strength; she needed to sob out her farewell to all the gladness and pride of her life. When she had resolved to go down, she prepared herself by some little acts which might seem mere folly to a hard onlooker; they were her way of expressing to all spectators visible or invisible that she had begun a new life in which she embraced humiliation. She took off all her ornaments and put on a plain black gown, and instead of wearing her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, she brushed her hair down and put on a plain bonnet-cap, which made her look suddenly like an early Methodist.

George Eliot, Middlemarch

Shirley

A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it: ask no questions, utter no remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread, and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don’t shriek because the nerves are martyrized; do not doubt that your mental stomach—if you have such a thing—is strong as an ostrich’s; the stone will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation: close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test—some, it is said, die under it—you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive.

Charlotte Bronte, Shirley

17 April 2015

Now Who’s a Domestic Goddess?

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It must be some kind of nesting instinct. Spring has sprung and I’m in full homemaker mode. This morning I made a pot of strawberry jam and angel hair pasta and now I have bubbling on my stove top a big batch of homemade tomato ketchup.

Jam

Ketchup

Angelhair

 

 

 

 

Before I retired I thought making jam and chutney and baking bread were terribly clever and complicated. Now I realise that all you need is time. I’ve discovered all kinds of fascinating ingredients that I had no idea existed, like special sugar to make your jam set,  pasta flour and pizza flour; and spices like star anise, allspice (which I always thought was a blend of  all the spices actually), and whole vanilla pods and cinnamon sticks.

I’ve been experimenting with new kinds of cakes and tried my hand at a Genoise sponge. I had heard this was quite tricky. But as I was beating the eggs and sugar I suddenly realised that my dear old Mum had taught me how to make one when I was about six. I had to use an old rotary type whisk then whereas now I have a powerful Bosch mixer but it all came back to me as things do when you are getting on a bit. I remember the kitchen in the old house in Wythenshawe before we moved to the posh part of Didsbury, the red Formica topped table and my mum, moving around the room brisk and efficient and pretty, peeling potatoes for Sunday lunch, stirring the gravy (always Bisto gravy, she didn’t like Oxo) and overseeing my efforts. Sometimes we would add cocoa to make it a chocolate cake, sometimes we left it plain, but we always filled it with lashings of whipped double-cream. She used to have a tub delivered with three pints of milk every Sunday morning and then she would carefully pour off the top of the milk into the cream to make it go further. Mum must have been a cat in a previous existence. Like just about every other family in England we always had a Sunday roast. If we were having beef she would make wonderful Yorkshire puddings, crisp and delicious; if we were having lamb she would make mint sauce by chopping fresh mint with sugar and then adding just a little vinegar. I was grown-up before I found out you could buy it in a jar. I make it that way too.

I don’t want to go all Dickensian about the past. We weren’t poor and I don’t remember ever wanting anything I couldn’t have except a pony. And on reflection Dad was quite right to say that the back garden wasn’t big enough. No one had very much in those days, even the rich lived rather frugally. But I firmly believe that children don’t really care about money or things. All they want is love and attention. My brother and I certainly had bucket loads of those. It was a very happy childhood.

9 April 2015

What’s In a Name?

Hilary Cabbages and Kings - Hilary's Blog, Uncategorized Family history 2 Comments

Last night I had dinner with my very lovely and very smart website designer and was scolded for not posting on my blog lately. Yes, I have been lazy and since she has gone to the trouble of setting up my website, the least I can do is use it properly. So……

Another dear and lovely friend (I am very blessed in that regard), has retired from nursing and has developed a new interest in genealogy. Having researched her own and her husband’s family trees she looked for new worlds to conquer and decided to work on mine. So far she had followed my father’s line, the Gilmans, mostly in Manchester. I’m sorry to say we are a very undistinguished crowd. Professions on my grandfather’s side include: pattern maker; labourer, lamplighter, bootmaker, fustian cutter, legging maker and mattress upholsterer.  My grandmother’s side were mostly barge people, which is, perhaps, a little more romantic.

bargeAs a novelist I’m very conscious that the right name can do wonders for a character. In my family there were lots of men named James and George on both sides. There is many a Fanny and a few Annies. But one name stands out. My great, great  grandmother had ten children. Their names are: Ada, John, David, Julia, Mary Ann, William, Andrew, Annie, Susan and Seberina. Seberina?

Seberina Parker, born 1872, no date of death. Her father was Daniel Parker from Birmingham, a waterman. He would have been 45 when Seberina was born, his wife Sarah would have been 36. Seberina was the 7th child.  I wonder how a middle-aged bargee in Birmingham reacted when his wife wanted to call her new little girl by that strange and fanciful name. Perhaps he was the indulgent type and just shrugged and put his arm around her shoulders, smiling down at the little child she nursed. ‘If that’s what you want, love.’

Where did she get the name? I googled it and found it isn’t that unusual. I think it’s a variation of Sabrina and is, probably, Spanish. Perhaps someone can enlighten me. But that doesn’t explain where Sarah found it.

I think I have the answer. There was a book published in 1846, Seberina by George C Judson. Sarah would have been 10 when it was published. Could Sarah read and write? I know her granddaughter couldn’t because I have her wedding certificate signed with a X (Ada Males, her mark). But Sarah was brought up in Uttoxeter, a quiet, market town. She might have attended Dame School and learned to read. I have an image of her curled up on a window seat pouring over her precious book following the adventures of Seberina.

I love the idea of Seberina, Sarah’s one romantic flight of fancy. I am wondering, if I ever have a granddaughter, is there the slightest chance of persuading either of my sons to keep Seberina in the family?

17 February 2015

Delia’s Thoughts on the Final Kiss

Hilary Cabbages and Kings - Hilary's Blog Delia Darling 0 Comments

It occurred to me that we haven’t heard from Delia for a while so I trawled through her ramblings and found this one, Delia on the Final Kiss (and related subjects.)

Delia 6Delia and the Final Kiss

Good evening romance fans.  My name is Delia Darling and I’m delighted to welcome you to another in my series of master-classes on How to write a Romance Novel. The matter for discussion in this  class is an area where many romance writers fail – the final kiss.  Now you may think that writing a kiss is a piece of cake but you would be wrong.  Remember this is the high point of your novel.  Your readers have been waiting breathlessly for this supreme moment and you must not disappoint them.  I cannot emphasise enough that this is the climax (no pun intended) of your work and you must give it your all.  However, there are elements that some of my fellow so-called authors introduce which you would do well to avoid.

Firstly, I have a deep aversion to “tongue.”  Tongue is an ugly word suggestive of cold, meat sandwiches.  Tongue isn’t sexy.  However, I’m afraid its use is almost unavoidable.  I try to slip it in as quickly as possible and then move on.  For example: “He moved towards her, his eyes burning into hers with a passion that knew no bounds.  As he caught her to him she melted into his embrace, half swooning in the torrent of his passion.  He bent his head and captured her lips, his tongue setting her mouth aflame as she yielded to him like a flower unfolding its petals to the sun.”

Another pet hate of mine is nibbling.   For goodness sake don’t let you hero nibble at any portion of your heroine’s anatomy.  While you may personally find nibbling quite pleasurable (as indeed do I) the word is a complete romance pooper as it is associated with hamsters, which naturally leads one to think of gerbils and we really don’t want to go into all that here.  With a little imagination you can convey the impression of nibbling without actually using the word: “He lifted his head and gazed down at her lovely face.  Her eyes were starry with rapture, her cheeks delicately flushed.  With a groan of longing he buried his face into the hollow of her slender neck, his lips and teeth savoring her sweet-scented flesh.”

Lastly, I implore you, let us have no tweaking of nipples.  How anyone can find that abominable phrase remotely erotic I cannot imagine.  When your hero caresses the heroine it should be done tastefully and within the romantic context: “His hand slid to the warm swell of her breast and delicately teased her tender peaks of sensation until she lay helpless in his arms, quivering with desire.”

In conclusion let me say this: to a man the kiss is merely an aperitif, to a woman it is a meal in itself.  In romance novels, as in life, the hero who understands this simple fact need never be hungry again.

27 January 2015

What we did on our Christmas Holidays

Hilary Cabbages and Kings - Hilary's Blog, Uncategorized English Country Pubs, New Masquerade book 0 Comments

We had a wonderful Christmas in England, spent time with our boys, caught up with our friends and attended a family wedding. It’s always a shock when we return to London, either from Germany or, in the past, the States, to rediscover how very expensive London is in comparison. We were staying for 10 days and even a moderate hotel anywhere central was out of the question so we booked in a very charming little holiday apartment in Barnes, which is on the river between Putney and Hammersmith. I can really recommend The Coach House if you are looking for somewhere reasonable to stay in London. Lots of public transport nearby or a short (but expensive) cab ride into Central London.

After a week in Barnes we moved to a hotel near the wedding venue. While we were there we met up with friends at a lovely pub in Danehill near Brighton; The Coach and Horses. It was the kind of place that makes us wonder why on earth we ever left England. We were there on one of those rare cold, crisp winter days with blue skies and sunshine. It was the England of Shakespeare, Lorna Doone, Agatha Christie. There are still pockets left, this is one of them.

Ipad photos 249

There was also an excellent gastro-pub, The Star Inn in Felbridge where we were staying. I know it sounds as though we spent most of our holidays in a pub, come to think of it, that’s true, but we were with our family and friends and where we met, however delightful, was secondary.

Ipad photos 236

We arrived back in Germany on New Year’s Eve and had a spookily quiet drive back from Munich to Bamberg. We appeared to be the only car on the autobahn. Add mist and snow and it was a bit like the opening of a horror movie, or perhaps an alien abduction. However, we made it safely and since then I’ve been concentrating on my new Masquerade book, tentatively titled Midsummer Masquerade. This concerns the adventures of Miss Ophelia Pitt, leading actress of the New Theatre Players, stranded in Brussels after the Battle of Waterloo. How on earth is she to get back to London in time to begin rehearsals for her new play? Enter Sir Guy Gilmour, dark, dashing and damn-your-eyes. It’s going to be lovely!

 

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