Can short be satisfying?

For some reason, I'm thinking about short stories this month, perhaps because of the RNA's Elizabeth Goudge trophy, awarded at the Conference in July. This year, because it's the RNA's 50th anniversary year, the theme is to be Anniversary so I'm trying to get my mind into gear for an anniversary short story. The major difficulty, for me, is the length. Maximum of 1400 words. Quite a challenge for a writer who's used to producing 80,000 or so. Can short be satisfying too? [Sorry, couldn't resist. Possibly best not to answer that one...]

However, thinking about the Elizabeth Goudge reminded me that I did write a short story about Jack, the hero of His Forbidden Liaison. It was published as a hero spotlight on the eHarlequin website, but I don't think many readers found it, since it wasn't very well signposted. There is so much material on eHarlequin that it can be a nightmare to navigate. I had difficulty finding my story myself!

So for existing fans of Jack, and readers who may become fans in the future, here he is, back in London after his adventures in France, and still a spy...

London— May, 1815

What man in his right mind would be a spy?

It was long after midnight. It should have been pitch black, for there was no moon. But fleeting patches of light from flambeaux or link-boys drew the eye, throwing the shadows into even deeper relief. The last carriage clattered across the cobbles, its flickering lamps soon swallowed up by the gloom. From the lurking darkness, low voices murmured, occasionally broken by a husky laugh and, once, a woman’s scream, quickly stifled.

The very walls were menacing. Covent Garden at this hour was no place for a lone man to linger.

Jack felt a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Would his contact arrive at all? He had no way of knowing. He leaned back against the cold stone and drove his hands deep into his pockets, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Such was the lot of a spy. Simply to wait.

That scream again.

Jack recognised real fear in the woman’s voice this time. Whoever she was, he could not ignore her plight. He sprinted lightly towards the sound, his fists clenched, all his senses alert.

In a narrow alley of overhanging buildings, a man held a woman pinned up against the wall, his hands around her neck. Her skirts had been pushed up above her waist. She was struggling valiantly, trying to knee him in the groin, but he was choking the life out of her. In a moment, she would be unconscious.

Jack grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him round. The ruffian’s filthy face registered shock, followed by exploding fury, just as Jack felled him with a straight right to the chin. The man hit the stone wall and slithered down into an untidy heap on the ground.

Rubbing his knuckles, Jack rapidly assessed his options. The man should be taken in charge, but Jack dare not quit his post. A lone woman could not do it, especially not a woman of this class. The blackguard would have to remain where he lay, with only a damaged jaw as punishment for his crime.

Beside him, the woman was automatically trying to smooth down her skirts. Only when that was done to her satisfaction did she straighten and raise her hands to her injured neck.

He knew her! That beautiful stretching body was unmistakable.

‘Why, it’s Hetty, isn’t it? Good evening, ma’am.’ Jack had no hat to doff, but he bowed to the lightskirt as if to a countess. Hetty was no common harlot. Only gentlemen frequented the house where she worked.

She had been smiling her thanks, but now her eyes widened in recognition and she laughed, though the sound was hoarse in her bruised throat. ‘Get along with you, Lord Jack.’ She let her gaze drift over his immaculately tailored evening clothes, his pristine white shirt and the silk-lined cloak hanging carelessly from his shoulders. The large ruby pin nestling in the folds of his cravat made her eyes goggle. ‘Taking a bit of a risk wearing that here, ain’t yer?’

‘Aren’t you taking a risk by walking here alone?’ he flashed back. At least he was armed; she was defenceless.

Hetty shrugged in response, seeming to accept that he was right.

Jack said nothing. He knew better than to probe further, for she would simply tell him—with a chuckle—to mind his business. He had rescued her from her folly. She was too sensible to repeat it.

Hetty glanced down at her assailant. ‘I hope you broke his jaw,’ she said, with venom, letting Jack take her elbow and usher her out of the lane. ‘Where you been these last months?’ She narrowed her eyes assessingly, now that his face was no longer in shadow. ‘You look different. Still a handsome devil, but different. Older.’ She dropped him a curtsy. She had never done that before.

‘Dare I hope that you think I look wiser, too, Hetty?’

‘What, you? The maddest gambler and scapegrace in London? It’d take more than a couple of years in your dish to change your wild ways.’ She let her gaze soften. ‘Want to come back for a nightcap?’ Her voice had sunk to a seductive murmur.

He shook his head. ‘Prior engagement, I fear.’

‘Another night then?’ Hetty smiled her most inviting smile.

Jack realised he should have expected this. He had always tipped well. All the muslin company knew that.

He hesitated, unwilling to give her a straight answer. There were some things—private, deeply-cherished things—that a man did not share. ‘My evenings are …er… devoted to other pursuits, these days. Will you get home safe? I’m afraid I am not free to escort you.’

Hetty grinned. ‘Lord love yer, I’m a working girl. Don’t you worry none about me. I’ll hurry. And I promise I’ll keep away from the shadows.’

Relieved, Jack put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then, remembering his duty, he bowed to her once more and turned away, strolling lazily across the square to resume his vigil. He had long ago concluded that a spy’s lot consisted of long periods of boredom, punctuated by rare bursts of frenzied action. He found himself grinning into the challenging gloom. He had probably had his full quota of excitement for tonight.

Hetty stared after his retreating back. Not the same man at all, she decided. No longer a playboy. And no longer a boy, either. Some woman—some very lucky woman—had caught Lord Jack Aikenhead and shown him the value of life and love, values that only a grown man could appreciate. Who was she? And how on earth had she worked such a miracle?

Hetty shook her head. Chances were that she would never know.


But if you would like to learn about the woman who tamed London’s most outrageous playboy, you can read their adventures in His Forbidden Liaison.

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

A Valentine's Day Taster

Yesterday, as we all know, was Valentine's Day. It was also the publication date of the RNA's 50th Anniversary Anthology of short stories, Loves Me, Loves Me Not. Actually, it was already in the shops. I saw it there last week and was delighted to see how stunning that cover looked.

My story in the anthology is called The Trophy Hunter's Prize. Like my novel, His Cavalry Lady, this story is set in London in the summer of 1814 when the capital was full of visiting royals, celebrating their final victory over Napoleon (they thought!). The Russian Tsar, Alexander I, got most of the attention, since he was young and virile and attractive. He could dance all night, and frequently did. But, as well as the Tsar, there was the King of Prussia, and various other princes, dukes and generals. Londoners, high and low, went wild with celebrity spotting. The crowds around their hotels and carriages were vast, as people vied with each other to catch a glimpse.

My hero, Andrew, has just returned from India. He's made his fortune and is looking for a wife in what he expects to be the ordered, London scene. What he finds is rather different, as you'll see from the start of my story...


June 1814
After the searing brilliance of India, London seemed subdued, like a water-colour by a novice artist who had mixed his paints too thin. Andrew Mortimer shivered a little, in spite of the summer sunshine.

He straightened his elegant new coat and continued to stride down Piccadilly towards the park, where there should be open space, and fresher air to breathe. Before long, however, the dense crowds slowed him almost to a standstill. Yet they seemed good-humoured. With a nod here and a word of excuse there, he might make his way through.

‘’Ere! Wot d’you think y’re doing?’ cried a large florid woman when he tried to edge past her. She looked him up and down, noting the expensive clothes and the unusually brown skin. ‘Furriners,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Never did ’ave no manners.’

Still, she had made a little space for him to pass. Andrew managed to reach up to touch his hat and said, in his most affected English drawl, ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. Most kind.’ The woman’s jaw dropped. Very satisfying.

He had gone only a few yards further when he was forced to stop altogether. The huge crowd seemed to draw breath, as one, then it let out an ear-splitting roar and surged forward towards the Pulteney Hotel, carrying Andrew with it. He had to put all his efforts into keeping his balance. When he was at last able to look about him, he saw that the Tsar of Russia had appeared on the hotel balcony above them, which was clearly the reason for the lusty cheering. And, not three yards from where Andrew stood, a small figure in a pale dress was being trampled in the crush.

He yelled a warning. No one seemed to hear. If she was to be rescued, he would have to do it himself. He flung himself at the men who barred his path. He shouted at them. No reaction. There was just too much noise. As he pushed and pushed, his mouth came close enough to yell into one man’s ear. The man moved a fraction.

Andrew forced his body through the tiny gap. He could almost touch her now. Just a yard or so more. Her muslin skirt was spread across the filthy roadway. How was it that these men did not realise the harm they were doing?

They were all gazing up at the Tsar, their arms raised, their mouths open to bellow their delighted approval of the hero who had defeated the tyrant Bonaparte. The London mob had made its choice of the young and virile Emperor of Russia over their own fat, frivolous Regent.

Andrew was close enough now to see her. She was dirty, young, and frightened. She seemed to be screaming for help. But he could hear nothing. With a huge effort, Andrew shouldered aside two men who were in danger of treading on the girl. He reached down, grabbed the little figure by the arms, and heaved.

Nothing. He redoubled his efforts and heaved again.

It was like pulling a difficult cork. One moment her body was stuck fast. The next it had popped out and Andrew was toppling backwards with her. But he did not fall. The wall of people held him upright.

In his arms, the girl was still screaming and now, with her head against his shoulder, he could hear it very well. It hurt. He used his chin to nudge aside her broken straw bonnet and put his lips against her ear. ‘Pray hush. You are safe now, I promise you.’

She uttered one final, piercing scream. Then putting her mouth against his ear, she cried, ‘Safe? You are like to ruin me, you numbskull. Look at my gown.’

He looked down. Her skirt still lay spread on the ground in a drift of filthy muslin pinioned by enormous boots. Like pressed flower petals edged with footprints. The lady in his arms was dressed in little more than a shift, and torn stockings.


Of course, if you want to know what happened next, you'll have to get hold of a copy of the anthology. I promise you the collection is worth it. There is something there for every kind of reader -- contemporaries, historicals, even a vampire story!

I hope you all had a wonderfully romantic Valentine's Day. I did! But I'm not saying a word about what went on....


Joanna

Russian Marriage

Last week, I was guest blogging on Risky Regencies about the research I’d done for the Aikenhead Honours trilogy, and especially for the first book, inspired by the real-life adventures of Nadezdha Durova, the cavalry maiden. Here she is:
If you’ve read His Cavalry Lady, you’ll know that it contains a Russian wedding. Sadly, it just wasn’t possible to describe it in detail, but here’s a description from the journals of the Wilmot sisters, dating from 1803-1808.

First, the wedding of nobles:

“In the morning I went accompanied by Princess Anne Simonovna and the 2 Mlles Kotchetoffs to see General Loptoff’s wedding with the Princess Gallitzen, as I had never seen a noble’s wedding in Russia. We went to the church at 12 o’clock and soon after arrived the Bridegroom in full dress. The Bride followed half an hour later, dressed in Lace, satin, a bandeau of diamonds, and diamond earrings. Their rings were exchanged three times; they sipped three times the wine, emblematic of sharing equally the joys or sorrows of life, they wore the Nuptial Crowns, and were led three times round the altar. The Priest then read a sort of exhortation or sermon, and that’s all. The bride was not veiled as peasants are, nor is a noble’s wedding so interesting as a peasant’s. There was a good number of persons in church. After having congratulated the bridals we returned home. By the bye General Loptoff quitted the Church before his lady.”
[The picture shows the cathedral of St Nicholas]

Then the arranged wedding of peasants (though not, as you’ll see, poor peasants):

“The first interview between a young man and woman destined for each other by their parents … always takes place during the dead of the night that no creature except the two families immediately concerned may know anything of the matter, as if it happened that the man refused on seeing her to marry the woman chosen for him, no other would marry her during her life. This however rarely happens as the fathers are very arbitrary. As for the young women they are disposed of without a question on the subject and being kept close prisoners literally till they are married. 'Tis no great wonder if they accept anything that’s offered having nothing better to compare and give a preference to; besides their marriage releases them from a confinement which they grumble against most bitterly. This first interview fixes the fate of the young woman looked at, as they call it, but the supposed first interview in presence of all the relations on both sides takes place some days after, during which time the father of the bride-elect sends a list of what gowns, petticoats, pearls, diamonds, linen, plate etc he intends to give with his daughter to the bridegroom-elect, who frequently expostulates on the scantiness or bad taste of the goods, naming what pleases him better. When the assembly of relatives takes place and the matchmaker, the young man begs this most essential personage to ask for such a young woman by name in a profound whisper; she does so; he is then permitted to touch her hand. From that moment they are considered man and wife. The arrangements for the ceremony are public and all’s said. There is no difference in the religion of this class of persons from that of the noblesse.”

Jewels, especially diamonds, figure a lot in accounts of noble life and dress, and not only at weddings. This is the jewel I had in mind in His Cavalry Lady when I was describing Alex’s visit to the Hermitage in St Petersburg (shown at the top of this post).

Alex thinks it’s hideous. What do you think?

However, since it's April and the second book of the Aikenhead Honours trilogy is out in the USA and Canada, I should probably be blogging here about His Reluctant Mistress and Vienna, plus all the amazing celebrations that took place during the months of the Congress of Vienna.

Reading a diary of the event kept by a local bureaucrat was very interesting. In the first weeks, he recorded absolutely everything that happened down to the last detail. By Christmas, he appears to have become bored out of his mind. He recorded only unusual events, and not even all of those. He was more concerned about the huge inflation in Vienna and the fact that his pay wasn't enough to cover food and heating. In fact, the Austrian Emperor had to give all his staff a pay rise. No wonder he was nearly bankrupt!

In the Riskies blog last week, I commented on the special napkin folding which was used at the Austrian Imperial court, but only when the Imperial family was present. Nowadays, it's is used only when the President of Austria hosts a state dinner, apparently. What's more, the secret of the elaborate folding is known only to two people at any one time. It's a state secret that goes with the job.

You may think such a thing would be easy to fathom. I did, until I looked at it. Here it is so you can decide for yourself. Are there any origami specialists out there who think they can replicate this from a single damask napkin? Looks like a very daunting piece of reverse engineering to me, but you may know better?


Joanna

Late PS: I have just discovered that I've been giving you the wrong date for UK paperback publication of His Forbidden Liaison, book 3 of the Aikenhead Honours trilogy. It's not July. It's September 2009. (The hardback will be out in July.) Many, many apologies to UK readers who have been misled and who will have to wait even longer. Grovelling apologies to all.

Extracts at last!

Just to let everyone know that my website has now been updated to include extracts from all three volumes of The Aikenhead Honours trilogy.

This is especially to tempt my UK fans, including the ones who have complained in (very polite) comments here on the blog that they are waiting too long for books 2 and 3.

US readers can buy book 2 (His Reluctant Mistress) next month and book 3 (His Forbidden Liaison) in May, but UK readers have to wait till June and July. Sorry, folks. If I'd been responsible for the scheduling I'd have tried to make it earlier.

You can reach the extracts on my books page, here.

Joanna

Trilogy Covers at Last

I’m delighted to tell you that I now have the covers for all three of The Aikenhead Honours trilogy, to be published in March, April and May in USA/Canada and, in the UK, in June and July. I think they are just gorgeous. I hope you do, too.

His Cavalry Lady
Dominic Aikenhead, Duke of Calder, meets Alex, the Cavalry Lady — except that she appears to be a man, Captain Alexei Alexandrov! She has lost her heart to Dominic, but how can she ever show him what she feels? For years, she has served as a man, and no one has penetrated her disguise. Does she dare to risk everything by showing herself to Dominic as the passionate woman she really is? And how will he react if she does?


His Reluctant Mistress
Lord Leo Aikenhead, the second brother, is a renowned rake at whose feet many women have fallen. Not one of them has touched his heart. Then he meets the beautiful singer Sophie Pietre, who has absolutely no intention of succumbing to Leo, however much he pursues her. But in the midst of the dangers and intrigues of the Congress of Vienna, Sophie’s very life may depend on Leo’s aid. Will she be able to resist him then?


His Forbidden Liaison
Lord Jack Aikenhead, the youngest and wildest of the brothers, is an incorrigible gambler and playboy. He finally begins to discover what responsibility means when his spying expedition to France is caught up in Napoleon’s return from Elba. He knows he cannot fulfil his mission without the help of Marguerite Grolier, a spirited silk-weaver from Lyons, but she is forbidden to him. He must treat her as a sister, or forfeit his honour. Marguerite, however, is not bound in any way. And she has absolutely no intention of treating Jack like a brother!

I can't really decide if I have a favourite. What do you think? I admit there's a certain allure about those sexy silk stockings...

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

Christmas 1814

Since today is a special day, I thought you might like to read how some of my characters spend Christmas. I’m including a short extract from the second of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy, the story of Lord Leo Aikenhead and Sophie Pietre, the woman with the most beautiful singing voice in Europe.

In His Reluctant Mistress, Leo and Sophie spend Christmas in a tiny Alpine village where they are snowed in. For fear of spoilers, I shan’t explain how they come to be there, or why, but I hope you will still enjoy the atmosphere. And the hint of mystery, too…


*************************
They had left the church behind them. Its bells had welcomed Christmas and fallen silent at last. The villagers had returned to their homes, calling out greetings to each other as they closed their doors against the cold.

Sophie and Leo walked slowly back to the edge of the village and the welcoming warmth of their inn. The only sound now was the scrunch of their boots on the crisp snow. Above them, the sky was huge and cloudless and filled with stars. Behind the village houses, snow-shrouded fir trees stood sentinel, motionless as guardsmen on parade. There was not even a whisper of wind.

Sophie sighed with pleasure. She felt a great sense of peace in this place, isolated from the outside world and from the dangers that threatened there. She found herself wishing that the roads would never re-open. She glanced up at Leo, wondering what thoughts were going through his mind. Did he feel the same?

He flashed a smile at her and tucked her arm more closely into his. He had insisted that she take no risk as they walked, though he must have known perfectly well that the firm fresh snow was not at all slippery.

Sophie had been happy to accept his excuse and his arm, for it was almost the only time they had touched since their arrival in the village. Leo had been scrupulously polite throughout, but Sophie knew that he was deliberately avoiding her whenever he could. He had to join her at mealtimes, of course, for they were supposed to be cousins. But the rest of the time, he was nowhere to be seen. She had no idea what he did all day. She had asked him, once, and received some mumbled excuse about seeing to the horses. Feeble, indeed. The inn had servants to do such menial chores.

Tonight, walking arm in arm, he was more relaxed than he had been since their flight from Italy began. Was it the coming of Christmas? The service had clearly affected him deeply, even though she doubted he had understood a word of it. The tiny village church had been crammed with people, all singing with gusto. Sophie had been asked to sing, too, for the whole village had heard her practising at the inn. She had chosen her favourite German carol, ‘Stille Nacht’, which she had sung very quietly, and unaccompanied. She had put her whole heart into it. It was probably the most moving performance she had ever given, anywhere. And it was for Leo.

‘May I say—’ Leo stopped to clear his throat. ‘May I say, madame, that your singing tonight was utterly perfect? I have never heard anything so beautiful.’

His words set up a glow around Sophie’s heart. She would treasure them, always. ‘Thank you, Lord Leo,’ she replied softly. She wanted to say something more, to build on this unexpected closeness, but it was too late. In ten paces, they would be back inside the inn.

The landlady took Leo’s heavy coat and Sophie’s fur-trimmed pelisse while they both removed the snow from their boots. ‘There is a fine fire in your parlour, signora, if you would please to go up?’ The woman was beaming at her in a peculiar way. What was going on?

Sophie went upstairs to change her boots and her gown. Then, curious, she made her way to the private parlour where Leo was to rejoin her. From the corridor, it looked a little odd, as if it was lit only by the flickering firelight. She stepped into the room. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘How wonderful!’ The landlady was standing proudly beside a small Christmas tree covered in tiny white candles. It reminded Sophie of the millions of stars in the midnight sky outside. So very beautiful.

A moment later, she heard Leo’s indrawn breath behind her. Was this tiny wonder new to him? She had been told that English Christmas customs were bizarre and uncouth. She turned, smiling, to explain, but he shook his head at her. Silence. His eyes were wide. She was sure she could see a hundred tiny reflections dancing there.

‘You approve, signora?’ The landlady’s words broke the spell.

Sophie started, then beamed at the woman. ‘Happy Christmas, dear lady.’ She handed over the money she had prepared. ‘And thank you for the tree. It is perfect.’

The landlady risked a quick glance at her palm. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. It was a hugely generous gift.

But Sophie had not finished. She handed over silver coins for the other servants, too. She said they were simply gifts to celebrate Christmas, and to thank the little inn for the splendid service she and Leo had received. But, in truth, they were thank offerings for the days they had spent together in the peace of this place, and for the days they might still have to come.

The landlady’s thanks were effusive, but eventually she left them alone.

Leo looked about him. He had become a little uncomfortable, Sophie thought, now that he was alone with her. He was trying to find an excuse to leave, but she would not permit that. Not until she had finished what she had set out to do. She crossed to the fireplace and lifted the jug of mulled wine that sat by the hearth. ‘Glühwein, Lord Leo? It is wonderfully warming after a midnight walk through the snow.’ Without waiting for his answer, she poured two glasses and offered one to him.

He looked a little taken aback, but he could not refuse without appearing impolite. In all their time on the road, he had been scrupulously, infuriatingly polite.

Sophie raised her glass in a toast. ‘Happy Christmas, Lord Leo. And may we all reach Vienna well ahead of any pursuers.’ She grinned. ‘Even in your amazingly uncomfortable carriage.’

It was the ice breaker she needed. He laughed, and drank. ‘Excellent. As good as any mulled wine I have ever tasted.’

‘I should imagine so,’ Sophie replied, sipping her own wine and savouring its comforting warmth. ‘It is one of the traditions in these parts, along with the tree.’ She nodded towards the twinkling candles. ‘And there is another tradition here, on Christmas Eve. After church, we exchange—’ She stopped short. That would not do. ‘We give gifts, as you just saw me do to the landlady and her servants.’

‘Charming.’ He downed the last of his Glühwein and crossed to the fire to refill his glass.

Sophie took another tiny sip, set down her glass, and straightened the skirts of her red silk gown. It was her favourite because it became her so well. The fabric shimmered in the firelight, glowing with deeper reds and golds and purples. The tiny gift that had been hidden in her bodice was now held tightly in her fingers. She fixed her gaze on his back, and waited.

He turned, his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘Is something wrong, madame?’

‘No, Lord Leo. Nothing at all. But it is Christmas Eve, and I have a gift for you.’ She opened her clasped hands and showed him what she held.

**********************

If you want to know what Sophie’s gift was, I’m afraid you’ll have to read the book! The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy will be published in the USA and Canada in March, April, and May 2009. In the UK, book 1 is already available. Books 2 and 3 will be published in paperback in June and July 2009. Ben’s story, His Silken Seduction, will be published in Harlequin’s Undone! ebook series, in July 2009.

Finally, I’d like to take this opportunity of wishing peace and happiness now and in the New Year to all of you who love historical romance and also to everyone you love.

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

You CAN keep a good story down!

One of the problems for writers of historical romances — or should I say challenges? — is keeping the right balance between the history and the love story. Researching the history is endlessly fascinating; there are so many wonderful incidents just crying out to be included.

I usually have lists of such incidents. Some of them make it into my stories, some don’t. Some are in early drafts but end up being cut at the editing stage. “Murder your darlings”, as writers have been advised to do. Well, yes, I do, though with lingering regret.

One of the stories I wanted to use in The Aikenhead Honours trilogy relates to Napoleon’s advance on Paris after his escape from Elba. I thought I might be able to include it in Jack’s story. It’s widely known that Napoleon marched from the south coast to Paris without a single shot being fired. King Louis XVIII sent soldiers against Napoleon, but in every case they defected and joined their Emperor. The first of those amazing encounters, just south of Grenoble, does actually figure in His Forbidden Liaison.

The second story I had been hoping to include is about Napoleon’s arrival in Paris. Elizabeth Longford, in Wellington — The Years of the Sword, recounts this:

Napoleon entered Paris on 20 March without a shot being fired in anger.
Indeed the only blow struck on Louis XVIII’s behalf was said to have been by an old woman selling chestnuts. When she shouted ‘Vive le Roi’ a man
roared back 'Vive l’Empereur’ — and she hit him on the head with her ladle.

I thought it would have been a vivid incident for my tale, but in the end I found it didn’t fit and so I had to discard it.

But now that His Forbidden Liaison has gone to the printers, I find myself wondering what my readers would have said if I had included it. Elizabeth Longford’s biographies provide splendid research resources. But selling chestnuts? At the end of March? I leave you to make up your own minds.

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

A trilogy in four parts!

I have just finished writing the third story in my Regency trilogy, The Aikenhead Honours so I can now give you provisional publication dates.

In the USA and Canada, the three stories are to be published in consecutive months. Dominic’s story — His Cavalry Lady — should be published in March 2009; Leo’s story — His Reluctant Mistress — should be published in April 2009; Jack’s story, the third (but not final!) part of the trilogy — His Forbidden Liaison — should be out in May 2009.

In the UK, His Cavalry Lady was published last month (September 2009). The hardbacks of books two and three will be out in the same months as the North American editions. The paperbacks will be in the shops two months later: that’s His Reluctant Mistress in June 2009 and His Forbidden Liaison in July 2009, though they will probably be available earlier on the Mills & Boon website.

I’m afraid I have no information yet about dates in other markets such as Australia/NZ but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything. And I’m sorry that those UK readers who have already read Dominic’s story will have to wait so long for the next one. I admit it’s my fault; I just couldn’t write them any faster.

As I said, this is to be a trilogy in four parts! Yes, I do know that’s a contradiction in terms. It happened like this. There are actually four heroes in these books: the three Aikenhead brothers (Dominic, Leo and Jack) and Ben, Jack’s best friend. Together, the four of them make up the Aikenhead Honours spying ring. I hadn’t intended to give Ben his own story, but my editor suggested I might like to write it as a novella, for Harlequin’s new historical e-book line, Undone. So that’s what I’m planning to do. And that’s why this trilogy will, in the end, have four parts.

I hope that you enjoy them all. There is already an extract of Dominic’s book on my website. My next task is to put up extracts of Leo’s book and Jack’s. As for Ben’s story… Well, I have to write that one first! I’m hoping that the e-book will be published at the same time as Jack’s story, in May 2009, on the Harlequin website, so that you don’t have to wait to find out what happens. After all, it's potentially a matter of life and death, since he has a bullet in him...

Joanna
www.joannamaitland.com

TAKING THE RIGHT ROAD

I spent a fascinating day in the Maps room at the British Library recently. I needed to know what Marseilles and Lyons looked like in 1815 for the third book in the Aikenhead Honours Trilogy.

Jack’s story, His Forbidden Liaison, starts in Marseilles where Jack and his fellow-spy Ben have been sent by the Duke of Wellington to try to suss out the extent of support for Napoleon. Suddenly, their careful plans are thrown up in the air. It’s not a question of whether there might be support for Napoleon in the future. He’s actually landed, only a few miles along the coast!

The story takes them from Marseilles, to Lyons, and then to Paris. All the while, Napoleon is making the same progess from Mediterranean coast to capital, gathering enthusiastic support along the way. It’s an exciting, and dangerous story, for my hero and his friend. But they do have help along the way, from Marguerite, a remarkable Lyons silk-weaver, with some interesting uses for a brass candlestick.

Lyons seems to have had a complete make-over after the fall of Napoleon in 1815. In 1813, on the south end of the peninsula between the rivers Rhone and Saone, there was a huge oval place des victoires, a grand tree-lined cours impérial leading up to a semi-circular monument, and a projected imperial palace with huge formal gardens. A year or so after Waterloo, there was almost nothing on the map but fields. All traces of imperial grandeur had gone.

My most urgent research task was to identify the roads around the old port in Marseilles. I had spent a year in the city as a student, but that was no help at all. The Marseilles where I lived was, and is, huge and sprawling. I needed to know how much of it was there in 1815.

What I found was fascinating. There was a maze of twisting medieval streets on the north side of the port, while on the south side, a much more modern and spacious layout had been adopted, with a canal running round what looked to be warehouses. The famous broad street running up into the city from the old port, La Canebière, was there, but wasn’t tree-lined as it is now.

And the names had changed, of course. The city end of the old port was called the quai impérial in 1814, but had become the quai de Monsieur by 1820. (It’s now the quai des Belges.) The place impériale of 1814 had become, predictably, the place royale by 1820. One which hadn’t changed by 1820 was the tiny place du cul de boeuf, which has a rather rude translation, I’m afraid. It amused me so much that I’ve used it in my story.

My favourite, though, was further out beyond the gate in the city walls, on the road north to Aix-en-Provence. There I found the place pentagone. Of course, with that name, it was not square at all, but a huge non-symmetrical space. However, its previous name had been place des 13 escaliers, the square of 13 staircases. Doesn’t that conjure up a wonderful image?

Joanna

PREVIEW OF HIS CAVALRY LADY

Boulogne, June 1814

It was the smell that woke him.

For fully three seconds, Dominic lay quite still in the Lion d’Or’s best bed, trying to make sense of the strange messages tumbling into his brain. Dark. Silence. Smoke? Fire!

He flung himself out of bed. Light! He needed light! And where the devil were his breeches?

A terrified neighing ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Then a whoosh, as if a giant were sucking in a monstrous breath. Followed by red, hellish light.

The smoke had turned to flames. The Lion d’Or’s stables must be on fire!

Dominic threw wide the half-open window, stuck his head out and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Au feu! Au feu!’ It was surely loud enough to wake even drunken grooms.

He dragged on his breeches and crammed his feet into boots. A voice rang out below. At last! Then more voices. A woman’s despairing wail. And the ominous crackle of the fire taking hold in dry straw and ancient timbers.

Dominic took the stairs three at a time. In the yard, the silence was turning into utter chaos. Yelling, cursing men milling around in the eerie light. No one fetching water. No one saving the horses.

He grabbed the nearest groom by the shoulder. ‘Get to the pump,’ he ordered in crisp French. ‘Start filling buckets. And you—’ he seized another by his flapping shirt ‘—rouse all the men from the house. Get them into a line to pass the buckets. You two. Don’t stand there gawping. Start getting the horses out.’

In the space of half a minute, Dominic had turned the commotion into the beginnings of order. The terrified horses were being led to safety. Water was being brought. But the flames had a head start. And they were winning.

The front part of the stables and one side of the doorway were ablaze. One panicked horse was refusing to be led through. It was fighting against the halter, rearing, eyes rolling, hooves flailing. With a cry of pain, the groom dropped to the ground. The horse fled back into the stables.

Dominic lunged forward, hefted the unconscious groom over his shoulder and raced across the yard to the inn. By the door, a maidservant stood motionless, wide-eyed with fear. ‘You, girl.’ He laid the boy ungently at her feet. ‘Make yourself useful. Look to his hurts.’ He did not wait to see whether she obeyed. He had to help save the horses. Only one other man left to do that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The smoke was now so thick that it was difficult to see. And to breathe. Dominic looked around for something to use as a mask over his face. If only he had thrown on a shirt. But he had nothing. He would have to continue as he was. Taking a deep breath of the cooler air in the yard, he plunged into the hell of the burning stables.

Still at least half a dozen terrified horses to save. Possibly more. He could barely make out the back of the stable. It was full of smoke, though not yet ablaze. But he could hear the sounds of hooves thundering against stall boards. At least some of the horses must still be tethered. He raced to the back of the building, keeping as low as he could, to avoid the choking smoke. Let the groom deal with the horses nearer the door.

Like a ghostly apparition, a slim shape in grubby white emerged from the swirling smoke, leading a horse. No more than a boy, from the little Dominic could see, and dressed only in a bedgown and boots. But a boy who knew horses, for he had covered the animal’s eyes to quiet it. ‘Well done, lad,’ Dominic gasped as they passed. No reply. The boy had his mind on his task. Just as Dominic must.

It was taking too many precious minutes to rescue the horses. All the time, the fire was engulfing more of the building. Yet the boy in the bedgown was fearless, always going back into the most dangerous area of the stable. He had a way with the terrified beasts, too. More than once, Dominic fancied he heard the lad’s voice, murmuring strong and low, urging the animal towards the flaming doorway. He had even started to cover the horses’ nostrils against the acrid smoke. Part of Dominic’s brain registered that he would find the lad after this was all over, and reward him for his bravery. He would have been proud to have such a boy in his own service.

Out in the yard again, Dominic caught a dripping cloth tossed to him by one of the inn servants. Gratefully, he covered his head, hoping that the boy had done the same. With this, there ought to be a chance of rescuing the remaining animals. Only a few more to bring out now. He ran back into the thickening smoke.

He found himself struggling with the tether of one of the last horses. The straining beast had pulled it tight in the iron ring. Its thrashing hooves were threatening to crack Dominic’s head open. If only he had a knife. Damnation! The rope refused come free. At this rate, they would both burn!

A strong, lean hand appeared out of the smoke holding a knife. Bless the boy! A single slash cut the rope. Then the hand disappeared again. No time to say a word of thanks. The horse, suddenly freed, reared up to its full height with a loud and terrified whinny. Dominic ducked under the deadly hooves and grabbed the trailing rope, forcing the animal down. He had to get this horse out. The fire was really taking hold now. Soon the stable roof would be aflame. There would be no more rescues then.

At last, Dominic managed to coax the horse through the stable doorway. Someone had taken an axe to the blazing wood so that the gap was wider and the flames were less fierce. The broken, smouldering timbers lay on the ground. Dominic thrust the rope into a waiting hand and raced back inside, ignoring the prick of sparks on the bare skin of his back and chest. He had tiny burns all over his body now. No doubt he would look as though he had a dose of smallpox when this was over. But he had to be sure that there were no more horses hidden by the smoke.

It seemed the lad in the bedgown had had the same thought. His eerie figure was just visible through the swirling darkness, searching among the stalls. Dominic ran towards the boy. ‘Is that all of them?’ he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the fire.

Before the boy could say a word, there was an ominous crack above their heads. Dominic caught a glimpse of a huge, flaming beam dropping towards them. Towards the boy! Dominic bridged the space between them with a single stride, grabbed the boy and thrust him aside. The beam hit the stable floor just inches from where they stood, showering them both with sparks. In seconds, the boy’s bedgown had caught alight.

Dominic made to tear it off him.

‘Non!’ It was a scream of anguish.

The boy must be a idiot. Surely he knew that it was better to be naked than to burn?

‘Non!’ the boy cried again, ripping the tail of his bedgown out of Dominic’s hands.

There was no time to argue. And only one solution. Dominic pushed the boy to the ground and covered him with his own body, rolling them both in the dirt to stop the sparks from taking hold.

And then he understood.

This was no boy. The lithe body straining against his own belonged to a fearless, and extraordinary, girl!

******************************

The book will be available in the shops in the UK at the beginning of next month. I hope you all enjoy it. And if you want to read a longer extract, the rest of that opening scene is on my website here.

Joanna

JULY COMPETITION WINNER!

The July competition was to name the second story in my Aikenhead Honours trilogy.

The answer is: His Reluctant Mistress. The winner is Sherry Haut who will receive a signed copy of the first book of the trilogy, His Cavalry Lady. It will be in the post to you tomorrow, Sherry. Congratulations and I hope you enjoy the story.

For other readers in North America, I’m afraid the story won’t be published until the spring of next year, but UK readers can buy it at the beginning of September. In the meantime, you can read an extract on my website here. Or, if you’re really keen to get reading, the Mills & Boon website has it for sale in their shop here.

The Aikenhead Honours
Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!

Introducing three of England's most eligible bachelors:

Dominic, Leo and Jack, code-named Ace, King, Knave

Together they are
The Aikenhead Honours
A government-sponsored spying ring, they risk their lives, and hearts, to keep Regency England safe

Follow these three brothers on a dazzling journey through Europe and beyond as they serve their country and meet their brides, in often very surprising circumstances

'Ace', Dominic Aikenhead, Duke of Calder in
His Cavalry Lady (Sept 2008)
'King', and renowned rake, Lord Leo Aikenhead in
His Reluctant Mistress (2009)
'Knave', and incorrigible playboy, Lord Jack Aikenhead in
His Forbidden Liaison (2009)


Best wishes and happy reading

Joanna

Napoleon Gets Everywhere!

I am currently working on the third book of the Aikenhead Honours Trilogy. It’s the story of the youngest of the Aikenhead brothers, Lord Jack Aikenhead, and it’s set in France during the Hundred Days between Napoleon’s return from Elba and the Battle of Waterloo. The story is called His Forbidden Liaison and will be published next year.

Napoleon certainly got around Europe. There are reminders of him all over the place. I’ve blogged before about his impact on Venice, where the French conquest ended the Venetian Republic in 1797.

Recently I was on the Danube, researching the Congress of Vienna and the various locations for the second book of my trilogy, His Reluctant Mistress. Vienna is a wonderful city and I’d like to go again, to spend a lot more time in the places we had to race through, like the Spanish Riding School and the Belvedere.

While we were on the Danube, we also spent half a day in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. In the days of Napoleon, it was called Pressburg, and was part of the Austrian Empire. It’s a delightful city, very small, but well worth a visit. The old part is like a smaller version of Prague with the same types of buildings and the same sweetie colours to them.




My surprise in Bratislava was in the main square, outside the French embassy, where I encountered this:



And from the front he looks like this, calmly gazing across the square. What I don’t understand, though, is why one foot is bare, and the other is booted. Anyone got any suggestions?



The locals don’t seem to object to his presence the way the Venetians did. Maybe it’s their sense of humour that accounts for the bare foot? That humour is certainly everywhere. Here’s my favourite example of Bratislava sculpture. I came round a corner, and there it was, on the edge of the pavement, coming out of a manhole. It made everyone smile.



Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

TIMING IS ALL?

Last weekend, as many of you will know, was the RNA annual conference. This year, it was at Chichester, in the south of England, near Brighton. Of course, as a Regency novelist, I should have been off to the Brighton Pavilion, but in fact there were much better things to do, and I didn’t leave the campus. We had a wonderful, and thoroughly inspiring weekend, as ever. There was time to catch up with old friends over the odd drink in the bar, there were amazing talks and workshops to start the creative juices flowing (as Fenella has already mentioned), and there were books everywhere. What more could a writer want?

In my case, what I wanted were copies of my own new book, His Cavalry Lady, the first of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy. Sadly, I didn’t have them. They’re not published until September, so it was asking a lot to have my own copies at the beginning of July. All I was able to do was to display a copy of the hardcover version, so that delegates could see what the cover would look like when it was available in the shops.

I came home from the conference on Monday, driving part of the way through blinding rain, and sat down with a cup of tea. I’m afraid I then fell asleep. Obviously, I must have been working exceptionally hard all weekend or that would never have happened, would it?

And on Tuesday morning, the postman rang the bell to deliver — yes, you’ve guessed it — a box of copies of His Cavalry Lady. I’m running a competition on our newsletter for a signed copy of it and I can now promise that the winner will receive her prize as soon as the draw is made at the end of the month.

Meanwhile, if you’d like to read an extract of His Cavalry Lady, you can find it on my website here.


Joanna

http://www.joannamaitland.com/

SPOOKY COINCIDENCES AGAIN: VIENNA, THIS TIME

I’ve blogged before about spooky coincidences I’ve met during my writing. Here’s another one. This one’s not about Scotland, but Vienna.

The second book of my Aikenhead Honours trilogy, His Reluctant Mistress, is set mostly in Vienna during the Congress. By European standards, Vienna was a very small capital, with only about 200,000 inhabitants. During the Congress, another 100,000 visitors arrived and most of them stayed from September 1814 until May 1815. The city was bursting at the seams.

The Viennese were, at first, very proud to be hosting the Congress which was not expected to last more than a couple of months at most. The Austrian Emperor, Franz, ordered splendid preparations to be made, especially for the many royal guests. Three hundred carriages were freshly varnished in dark green, with the imperial arms picked out in yellow on the doors, and 1400 horses, plus grooms and coachmen, were organised to serve them. Many Austrians volunteered for duty. The humble people were paid and usually worked as domestic servants, often with spying on the side. Sons of noble houses volunteered to serve without pay as equerries and pages in the palace.

One really mind-boggling problem was protocol. When the palace is full of emperors and kings, who takes precedence? Monarchs were very prickly about that sort of thing. There are rules for it nowadays, but in 1814 there had never been such a gathering and there were no established rules.

In the end, it was decided that monarchs would take precedence according to age. That meant that the oldest monarch at the Congress, the King of Württemberg, went in to dinner first among the royal visitors. Unfortunately for the charming young Austrian Empress, whose dinner partner he was, the King of Württemberg was a most disagreeable man, coarse and ill-humoured. He was so enormously fat that a half-moon had to be cut out of the dining table to accommodate his huge belly. Vienna called him the Württemberg Monster.

The Württemberg Monster was also homosexual and was much taken with the handsome young sons of the nobility who were acting as pages. Over dinner on one occasion, he made advances to one of these young men, but he made the fundamental mistake of addressing him using the “thou” form of German (du) which is used only for family and intimates. The young man was affronted. His deference to a monarch vanished. He drew himself up to his full height and announced to the King of Württemberg that he was a baron and that even his own sovereign, the Austrian Emperor, would never dream of addressing him in such a familiar and demeaning way.

And the coincidence? In His Reluctant Mistress, I named my villain — who was created long before I read about this incident — the Baron von Beck. The young nobleman who confronted the King of Württemberg, and who is almost the only minor aristocrat named in the reference books on the Congress, was called, coincidentally, the Baron Beck. The real Baron Beck was obviously an upstanding young man. My villain is neither young nor upstanding, but I haven’t changed his name. I decided that it was just meant to be.

Joanna

TRAVELLING IN REGENCY TIMES

I’ve just finished His Reluctant Mistress, the second book of The Aikenhead Honours Trilogy. Much of the story takes place during the Congress of Vienna but it involves quite a lot of travelling. How did people get from A to B, and how long did it take, especially when the weather was bad?

We tend to assume that travel in those days was very slow. It didn’t have to be. When the Duke of Wellington was sent to take command of the allied forces in Flanders, he left Vienna on 29th March 1815, arriving in Brussels on 4th April. His mode of travel was not easy, though. He travelled by carriage with two companions, Colonel Fremantle and fourteen-year-old Lennox. Their meals were cold, though splendid: foie gras and fine claret are mentioned. They were allowed exactly 4 hours of sleep a night. Wellington remained as well turned out as ever. No wonder he was called the Beau. But the other two slept by the fire in their clothes and probably looked thoroughly disreputable by the time they reached their destination.

Even ladies could travel at an astonishing pace when it suited them. The Duchess of Courland, ex-mistress of King Louis XVIII’s foreign minister, Prince Talleyrand, was in Paris on 19th March 1815 when the King fled the city for exile in Flanders. Napoleon was reported to be approaching Paris. (The reports were right. The following day, Napoleon was carried shoulder-high into the Tuileries palace.) The Duchess fled for Vienna to seek refuge with her daughter and Prince Talleyrand. She reached there late on Friday 24th March, having covered the distance in just 5 days. Her daughter was less than pleased to discover that, in her panic to escape, the Duchess had left her two small grandsons behind!


Joanna