Spring is in the air

The days are getting longer here in the UK and the air smells of spring. After a long winter, my mind is starting to turn towards the garden. The snowdrops are already out and the daffodils are just beginning to open.

It started me thinking about Regency gardens, and of the passage in Mansfield Park where Mr Rushworth is keen to have his own grounds remodelled by Repton. Garden design was revolutionised in the Georgian era by Capability Brown, who removed the hard lines and formal patterns of earlier eras and replaced them with soft and natural landscaping. The term, landscaping, came about because the gardens were designed to seem as though they were a part of the landscape instead of being something artificial and man-made tagged onto it. Following on from Capability Brown - so called because he spoke of the capabilities of a garden - was Humphrey Repton.

From Mansfield Park:

(Mr Rushworth) had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in the drawing–room; it was revived in the dining–parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very ungracious.

“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach now, is one of the finest things in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison— quite a dismal old prison.”

“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world.”

“It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done with it.”

“No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton will have every improvement in time which his heart can desire.”

“I must try to do something with it,” said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.”

“Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said Miss Bertram calmly, “would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.”

“That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”


Anyone wanting to see a Regency garden these days can visit one at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, where they have restored the garden to be in keeping with the era of the building. For more details, have a look on their website here

The gardens are beautiful and they give a good idea of the kind of views our heroes and heroines would have had from their windows.

Amanda Grange

I love research trips- Bath and Beyond!

I love any excuse for a research trip and a chance to escape a frantic and busy life, so when my husband suggested a trip to Bath at the weekend I was very excited. I thought I'd share some of the photos I took of the Assembly Rooms in Bennett Street, which are stunningly beautiful. It is so easy to imagine social gatherings taking place here in Jane Austen's time; you can hear the chatter and rustle of silk gowns just by looking into one of the rooms. The top photo shows the entrance, which some of you may recognise from the television adaptations of Persuasion.
The second shows one of the fireplaces in the Octagon room which is where card tables might be set up for those not interested in dancing and wishing to try their luck with a little gambling.
Lastly, is the Tea Room which was used primarily for refreshments and concerts. Meals were served throughout the day from public breakfasts to supper during dress balls. Food was laid out on side-tables and included such delights as sweetmeats, jellies, wine, biscuits, cold ham and turkey. Tea was the favourite drink, generally without milk, but occasionally with lemon or arrack (fermented cocoa).

In this extract from Jane Austen's Persuasion, Anne Elliot has met up with her old love, Captain Wentworth, at the Assembly Rooms. She has recently discovered that he is not in love with Louisa Musgrove and from the very recent conversation with him dares to hope that he may still have some feelings for Anne.

As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. "Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple!" was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr. Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation, must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings, than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.

The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert Room. He was gone -- he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret. But "they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out long before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection."

Upon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they could.

Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in. Elizabeth, arm-in-arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back of the Dowager-Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish for which did not seem within her reach; and Anne - but it would be an insult to the nature of Anne's felicity to draw any comparison between it and her sister's: the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous attachment.

Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half-hour...

Jane Odiwe

We go to the US!

Or at least a US blog! If you haven't joined us yet on the
Risky Regencies, where we're the guest bloggers, come on over and join the fun. There are competitions to enter and a chat about the difference between Regencies in the UK and the US, so what are you waiting for? See you there!

Do You Worry About Your Heroes?

Do you worry about your hero – the one you are writing now or perhaps the one you are currently reading about? Do you fret about what is going to happen to him when you close the book? There are all kinds of things to worry about with historical hindsight –if he is a soldier or a sailor you know what battles lie ahead. You know about cholera outbreaks and the Indian Mutiny, riots and stock market crashes.

Or do you worry about more superficial things? What will your hero look like in ten, twenty, fifty years? I get depressed just thinking about Victorian fashions in trousers and ghastly leg of mutton side whiskers. And then there’s the physical side of things – will that chiselled jaw sag, the thick hair develop a bald patch, that flat stomach become a comfortable paunch?

The beautiful young man in the picture is twenty two years old and the year is 1826. I bought the print on the strength of a glimpse amongst a pile of others in the picture on an auction room’s website. He is a follower of Byron, quite obviously – the Turkish weapons and pipe and the slippers by the fireplace signal that. The litter of correspondence on the mantelpiece show that he has pretensions to be a man of letters, the elegant Biedermeier sofa and the studied elegance of his clothes demonstrate that he is a follower of fashion.

But who is this intellectual exquisite? When I got him out of the frame and bleached out the foxing I found the title at the bottom: The Author of Vivian Grey. It is Benjamin Disraeli, future Prime Minister, confident of Queen Victoria – “We authors ma’am…”

Now have a look for Disraeli on the web. The picture at the top of the Wickipedia entry will do. Oh dear. Now I worry about my heroes even more.

Louise Allen

Ostrich Feathers and Scented Candles

Last week was quite a week.

On Monday, I went up to London to attend the RNA’s Romantic Novel of the Year Lunch which took place on Tuesday at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. It was a great event and thoroughly enjoyable for everyone who was there.

In spite of the weather and the travel difficulties, the room was full and buzzing with excitement. Last year, the tables had been decorated with balloons and streamers, straining for the ceiling. This year, there were scented candles floating lazily in large glass bowls, and arrangements of red and black ostrich feathers in matt black candelabra, looking like exotic head-dresses at some rather off-beat ball.

There were video screens, too, where we saw the covers of all the short-listed books and heard their titles and stories as we waited for the moment when the winners were announced. First, the winner of the Romance Prize — India Grey, for Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire’s Pleasure. Then, the winner of the Romantic Novel of the Year — Julia Gregson, for East of the Sun. You can see the winning authors, and read more about them, and the other finalists, on the RNA’s website here.

The RNA — which celebrates its 50th birthday in 2010 — has also inaugurated a Lifetime Achievement Award. The first recipient of the engraved star trophy was Judy Piatkus, a publisher who really believes in romantic fiction, and who gave many RNA members their start in publishing. If the audience’s reaction was anything to go by, her award was hugely popular.

Many historical authors were at the lunch. Among others, I saw Louise Allen, Anne Herries, Carol Townend, Mary Nichols, and Elizabeth Bailey, who also does a fantastic job as the RNA’s volunteer press officer. If you’ve seen newspaper articles about the award, raising the profile of romantic fiction, Liz probably had a hand in them.

And when I eventually arrived home, late on Wednesday, a box of author copies was waiting for me — the US edition of His Reluctant Mistress, which will be published in North America in April and in the UK in June. I will admit to having taken some out and stroked them. It doesn’t matter how many books I write, it’s still a thrill to receive real, printed copies and to know that the book will actually be out there for readers, I hope, to enjoy.

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

Tantalizing Secrets

The third book in the Secrets series is out on the 24th February from Samhain. It's set in my home town of Leicester, and my heroine, Arabella, lives in a reimagined version of Belgrave Hall, a pretty manor house now in the city, but originally built a mile or two outside. Originally, this was conceived as a trilogy, but I've received so many requests for stories for some of the characters featured in the series, that I'm thinking of extending it.
Oh, and isn't the cover pretty? Ann Cain rocks!

Arabella Mason is too busy investigating her brother-in-law’s “accidental” death to entertain thoughts of love. She’ll go to any lengths to ease her sister’s grief, even accept the help of the distressingly attractive Viscount Bredon, Peter Worsley. Instead of answers, the trail of clues only leads to more questions. Who was her brother-in-law, really…and why does Peter, who poses as her brother in public, make mincemeat of her resistance in private?

A successful politician and confirmed bachelor, Peter has bedded the loveliest women in society. He never imagined he’d wind up in a Leicester backwater, helping a pretty widow investigate his brother’s untimely death. As his suspicions of foul play grow stronger, the danger rises—and so does his desire for Arabella. One kiss, and she snatches away all his resolve, leaving him wondering which he wants more…

To find his brother’s killer? Or keep Arabella safe—and make her his?#

Excerpt:
The coach lurched to a halt and they were flung forward. Peter flung out a hand to stop Arabella hurting herself, and was rewarded by a handful of fabric and a brief contact with one soft breast. He took her arm and hauled Arabella back on to the seat as the carriage pulled to a halt.
Breathlessly she stared at him and they both heard a gruff voice. “Stand and deliver!”
“Good Lord!” The gleam of battle sparked in him. Cautiously he settled the pistol in his pocket so it came easily to hand.
The door of the carriage was wrenched open. A heavily muffled figure stood outside. “Out,” the man commanded.
Peter descended and held his hand out to help Arabella. To his surprise, she wasn’t looking in the least shocked. If he didn’t know her better, he would have thought she was angry.
Lounging against the open door of the carriage, Peter stared at the highwayman. Their assailant was so muffled up it was difficult to make out much about him, but Peter noted the man was no taller than he was, and wasn’t grossly overweight. He’d pulled a cocked hat low down on his forehead and a muffler up over the lower half of his face.
Peter thrust his hands in his pockets, touching the rounded end of the pistol. In the other pocket, he had a knife, usually carried for more mundane purposes but it might come in useful too, given the chance. He kept Arabella in view, prepared to push her to the ground. Some highwaymen wanted more than jewelry and cash; he wasn’t about to allow that.
Arabella lifted her chin and glared at the man. There was no doubt about it now—fire flashed from her dark eyes. She was angry. Peter hoped she wouldn’t do anything foolish. He wished he could see the coachman but that was impossible without turning.
Their aggressor swore, fluently and, much to Peter’s surprise dropped the hand holding the pistol to his side. “Jewelry. Money.”
Then Arabella did something that took Peter completely aback. She put her hands on her hips and thrust her face forward in the age-old position of the fishwife. It said a lot for Peter’s newfound attraction that he found her pose delightful. “And who do you think you are threatening? Get in the carriage this instant!”

Linkie - http://lynneconnolly.com/TantalizingSecrets.html

A Reason to Rebel

I am delighted with the cover for my first e-book, A Reason to Rebel, due to be released by Samhain on 21st April. My heroine, Estelle Travis, is torn between the duty she owes to her father and the desire to live her life by her own rules. I think the inner conflict she battles with has been captured perfectly by the artist in her expression. And as for the hero, well...I'm not surprised that one look at him and Estelle's inhibitions flew out the window!

Do let me know what you think of the cover and be sure to look out for A Reason to Rebel, due to be released on 21st April in e-book format ISBN9781605044965 priced at just $5.50.

Wendy Soliman

A writer's life can be a cold one!

When writing I always research meticulously, I want the details and background to be as authentic as I can make them However, this past week I have been "living history"! We ran out of central heating oil and have had to rely on a couple of electric heaters and a small open fire in my study. Being so cold made me think what it must have been like 200 years ago in most houses. My son said I could have kept busy, and warm, by spring cleaning the house. Instead I huddled in several layers of woolly clothes - hot water bottle tucked under my jumper and felt very hardly done by indeed.
It made me think about how people managed before the wonder of central heating arrived - then I recalled having been obliged to scrape the ice of the inside of my bedroom window when I was a child, and of taking my vest and pants into bed with me in the morning and getting dressed under the covers. It's strange how quickly one forgets these things.
Today the oil arrived and life will return to normal - but being warm is not something I shall take for granted any more.
In spite of the Arctic conditions both inside and outside my home, I still continued to work. I now have an agent, Kate Nash, to look after my projects. At the moment she has two Regency romantic suspense, a Jane Austen retelling and a Victorian saga to find homes for. I'll let you know what happens to them. I can't tell you the relief it is to be able to send off a manuscript and then forget all about it, leaving the hassle and worry to Kate.
The Ghosts at Neddingfield Hall- out now- 9780709087901 Robert Hale. Available from Amazon and all good bookshops. Don't forget you can order all my books from your local library in the UK.
Fenella Miller

The Second in my Season In Town trilogy

This is an excerpt from my Regency coming later this year. I gave you a little bit of the first last time and this is an unedited scene from the second.

Anne Herries/The Debutante of Hanover Square/Mills & Boon

Coming in June 2009

The cover is for The Homeless Heiress and the copyright of Mills & boon Ltd

Enjoy!

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Max Coleridge said as the urchin attempted to pluck a kerchief from the pocket of his companion. His hand shot out, grasping the dirty boy around his wrist with a grip of iron. ‘That is thieving, my lad, and it will land you in prison. You will end with your neck stretched at the nubbing cheat if you continue this way.’
‘Let me go guv,’ the boy whined. ‘I ain’t done nuffin’ bad, honest I ain’t – and I ain’t had nuffin’ ter eat fer a week!’
‘Indeed?’ Max’s right eyebrow arched. ‘Should I believe you I wonder? And what should I do with you supposing that I do?’
‘Let the ruffian go and be done with it,’ Sir Roger Cole advised. ‘I dare say he deserves to be handed over to the beadle, but it requires far too much effort.’
‘Your trouble, my friend, is that you are too lazy,’ Max replied with a smile that robbed his words of any offence. ‘No, I shall not let the boy go for he would simply rob someone else and eventually he will die in prison or at the rope’s end.’ His grasp tightened about the lad’s arm. ‘Tell me your name, lad. I shall take you home and tell your father to keep you off the streets.’
‘Me name’s ‘Arry,’ the boy muttered sullenly. ‘I ain’t got no home nor no farvver or muvver neivver. Ain’t’ got no one. Let me go like the gent said, sir. I won’t trouble you no more.’
‘No family at all?’ ‘Arry shook his head and Max sighed. ‘Unfortunately, if I let you go, you would trouble my conscience far more than you imagine. I shall take you with me. You are going to school, ‘Arry – whether you like it or not.’
‘School? Wot’s that?’ ‘Arry asked and wiped his running nose on his sleeve. He eyed the large man suspiciously. ‘You ain’t one o’ them queer nabs are yer?’
‘I am certainly not,’ Max denied with a wry smile. ‘If you are hungry you will like school – you will be fed three times a day, if you behave yourself.’
‘Food fer nuffin’?’ ‘Arry stared at him suspiciously. Wot’s the catch, guv? ‘As to be a catch. No one does nuffin’ fer nuffin’…’
‘No, I dare say they do not where you come from,’ Max said. ‘In return you will have to give up a life of crime – and grime – and learn a trade…’
‘I ain’t goin’ up no chimneys!’
‘Good grief, I should hope not,’ Max said. ‘You might like to be a carpenter or a groom perhaps – or even a politician?’
‘You shouldn’t put ideas into the boy’s head, Coleridge,’ Sir Roger said. ‘A politician indeed!’
‘He could not do much worse than those we have in power at the moment,’ Max replied wryly. ‘But I would advise an honest trade – perhaps a baker?’
‘I like cake,’ ‘Arry said his eyes suddenly bright. ‘I pinched some orf a baker’s stall once on the market.’
‘There you are then,’ Max said, hiding his smile. ‘The future looms brighter already, ‘Arry – a baker you shall be…’
‘You are mad, quite mad,’ Sir Roger said and grinned. ‘It is hardly surprising that you are not married, my dear fellow. I do not know whether any sensible woman would have you.’
‘I dare say she wouldn’t if she knew my habit of picking up boys from the streets,’ Max replied and smiled at his friend. ‘Excuse me, I have a rather dirty ruffian to scrub before I present him to someone who will teach him a few manners…’ He neatly avoided a kick from the struggling urchin. ‘I should give up if I were you, ‘Arry. I could always change my mind and hand you over to the constable, and then you might never eat cake again…’

Kidnapped!

What is the enduring appeal of Scotland as a setting for the historical romance? Is it that it seems a mysterious land of legend and folklore, with a history that is dramatic, fascinating and frequently violent? Is it the beautiful, rugged landscape? And is that ruggedness reflected in the strong, passionate nature of the hero?

For me the appeal of setting a book in Scotland was to draw on the places I know and love. I set my book Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress in Wester Ross in the Highlands at the beginning of the nineteenth century. My “version” of Kidnapped is a homage to the classic novel by Robert Louis Stevenson. A few years ago my mother-in-law gave me an ancient copy of the book as a birthday present. I had read and enjoyed Kidnapped many years before and now I picked it up again and was plunged into a world of romance and intrigue and adventure. I'm dating myself here but I also love the 1979 TV version with David McCallum as Alan Breck Stewart!

Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress will be published by Harlequin
Historicals in the US in March and by Mills & Boon Single Titles in the UK in October. Those readers who know the original story and read my re-imagining will realise that my version only draws on half the original tale. I'd love to write a sequel! Here is an extract:

I knocked on the study door and went in, Mrs Campbell following me. The minister was seated at his desk with Mr Sinclair in a chair beside the fire. Mr Sinclair looked up when I came in. He had a thin watchful face tanned a dark brown from sea and sun, a face with character and resolution in the line of his jaw. I gave him a cool nod, which seemed to amuse him, and addressed myself to Mr Campbell.
“You wished to see me, sir?”
I spoke very politely but I saw the flash in Mr Sinclair’s eyes that suggested he thought this obedience out of character. A faint smile curled the corner of his firm mouth. I turned a shoulder to him.
“Catriona… Yes…” Mr Campbell seemed flustered, which was unusual to see. He gestured me to the long sofa. This piece of furniture was the most uncomfortable in the house and necessitated me to sit upright as though I were a bird perched on a twig. This did nothing to improve my temper, especially as Mr Sinclair seemed deliberately to lounge back indolently in his chair with a sigh of contentment as he sipped his brandy and watched me over the brim of the glass.
Mrs Campbell had followed me in and now hastened to see to her visitor’s comfort. “You have had sufficient to eat and drink, Mr Sinclair? May I fetch you anything else?”
I watched the gentleman smile his thanks and put Mrs Campbell at her ease. He had a very easy charm. I could not deny it. When Mrs Campbell went out again her face was flushed peony pink like a young girl’s.
“Well now,” Mr Campbell said, shuffling the papers on his desk, “there are matters to be settled, Catriona. Matters to do with your future. We have been thinking that now your parents have passed on, the natural place for you is with your remaining relatives.”
I thought that he meant my mother’s family, who lived far, far away on the south coast of England. My mother had made a scandalous match twenty years before when, as a young debutante, she had visited Edinburgh, fallen in love with my father, a poor schoolmaster, and eloped with him.
“Can I not stay here?” I asked. “Here in Applecross, I mean,” I added, in case poor Mr Campbell had thought I was suggesting I should live on his charity indefinitely.
“I could help the new schoolmaster, or act as companion to old Miss Blois...”
Mr Sinclair smothered what sounded suspiciously like a snort. I looked at him.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” I said frigidly.
There was laughter in his eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Balfour,” he said, “but I cannot see you as companion to an elderly lady. Nor as a schoolmistress, for that matter.”
I set me lips in a thin line. I did not see what business it was of his. “You do not know me very well, Mr Sinclair,” I said. “My father taught me himself, having no prejudice against the education of females. I can teach reading and write a very fair hand.”
“I do not quarrel with your father’s abilities as a tutor,” Mr Sinclair said lazily. “I simply have seen no evidence that you have the temperament required to do the job yourself.”
I was so cross at his presumption that I almost burst there and then. “Well, I do not see it is any concern of yours,” I began, but Mr Campbell made a slight movement and I subsided, holding fast to the fraying shreds of my temper.
“It would not serve, Catriona,” he said. “Applecross is a small place and it is time for you to go out into the world, the sooner the better. I have already had three requests from gentleman for your hand in marriage and have no desire to be turning more away from my door.”
I was astonished. Not one single gentleman had approached me with a view to marriage and I could not imagine who could have asked Mr Campbell for permission to pay their addresses to me. I stared at him in puzzlement.
“Who on earth…”
Mr Campbell ticked them off on his fingers. “McGough, who farms up beyond Loch Ailen, young Angus the shepherd and Mr Lefroy of Callanish.”
This time there was no doubt that Neil Sinclair was laughing. His shoulders were positively shaking. I tried to ignore him whilst inside me the anger seethed at his presumption.
“McGough has buried three wives already,” I said, “young Angus is kind but a mere lad, and Mr Lefroy wants a housekeeper he does not have to pay for.”
“A wife is more expensive than a housekeeper in the long run,” Mr Sinclair observed laconically.
I swung around and glared at him. “Do you know that for a fact, sir?”
His dark eyebrows went up. “Not from personal experience, madam,” he drawled, “but I do know on the strength of a few hours acquaintance that you would no more make a biddable wife than you would a suitable lady’s companion.”

Nicola Cornick

The Smuggler Returns

The Smuggler Returns is published by My Weekly Pocket Novel this week. It's available in WH Smith, Tesco and Asda and if you miss it, copies can be ordered by post from DC Thomson's subscription department.

The story is set in the first decade of the 19th century in Cornwall. Jane Tregarron refuses to accept an arranged marriage that will save the family fortunes. Running out of the house in anger after an argument, she slips and falls...

‘Miss?’
Jane started. A shadow appeared over her.
‘Miss?’ the voice repeated. It was smooth, calm but with an understandable veneer of concern. But he was someone she did not recognize. Who could it be?
‘Miss? Are you all right?’ A hand touched her forearm.
Jane turned her head. A young man crouched beside her, the wind tussling his damp, ash-coloured hair. A tall man with an aquiline nose. Something in the strong line of his jaw was familiar. His high cheekbones. His nose.
There was little chance of a real stranger being here. No one came to Penhaven without reason. Had she lost her memory? Who was he?
‘I slipped,’ Jane said. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’
His eyes regarded at her closely. ‘Can I assist you?’
His boots were highly polished. New boots, she was sure.
‘You know this ground is thoroughly wet?’ he said.
‘I didn’t chose to fall over,’ Jane heard herself day before she had the wherewithal to bite her tongue. She had no reason to be piqued with him. Perhaps if she had been less hasty, she would not have fallen.
‘I think, if you can stand, I should help you up. Let us at least find somewhere dry for you to recover?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jane swallowed. ‘I’m not feeling completely all right. When I fell, it hurt and it’s still painful.’
‘Here.’ He stood up. The swallow-tails of his dark grey coat flapped in the breeze. He gave her his arm. Rain splashed down onto the stones of the path behind him.
He gripped her under both her arms and pulled. Strong arms; muscles like rock beneath her touch, Jane suddenly felt shy about holding onto him. He was a stranger, after all.

(c) Kate Allan, 2009

LOST IN AUSTEN Revisted

One of my Christmas presents this year was a DVD of Lost in Austen. So last Sunday afternoon I sat down at my computer (the TV was hijacked by family members) and watched the four-part series all in one go.

I think it’s only when you see all the episodes back to back that you realize how very clever it is. Because it really sucks you through that bathroom wall and into Eliza Bennet’s new/old world. Lost in Austen could easily have become a caricature of Pride and Prejudice. Just a touch more exaggeration or a heavier hand with the comedy, and it would have gone overboard. Instead, by being restrained, it takes Pride and Prejudice seriously enough to be a true tribute.

Of course you have to suspend disbelief to even watch it. People don’t step out of their bathrooms into Regency England. But wait – it isn’t Regency England. Amanda steps through her bathroom into a novel. Now that’s pure fiction.

But the funny thing about the whole film is that Lost in Austen manages to persuade us that P&P isn’t fiction, it’s somehow real. I had quite a jolt when Amanda tore a copy of Pride and Prejudice into pieces and threw it into the pond. Somehow, I didn’t want a reminder that P&P is just a novel.

Hats off to the actors. These actors had to play their roles on many levels it makes me dizzy to think of it. They had to be the original P&P characters, while at the same time, they followed a completely different script. Added to that, they had to work around the intrusion of the modern world into a period drama in the figure of Amanda, who constantly reminds them that there is a world beyond Jane Austen. Yet they not only pull it off and portray characters who are convincing, but they even add new dimensions to the JA’s characters. We believe them to be people from Pride and Prejudice, and the thrill of watching the drama is to see how these people who are so familiar to us will react to the new and unexpected twists in the plot. They were so convincing that fans on any number of websites have been voting to see which of the actors – Colin Firth, Matthew Macfadyen or Elliot Cowan portrays Darcy best.

Hold on a minute – Elliot Cowan didn’t do Pride and Prejudice!

I emerged from my three-hour stint squint-eyed but full of admiration (in case you didn’t notice). As a postmodern take on Austen, Lost in Austen succeeds in being lots of things at once: a spoof, a loving tribute to Austen, a time-travel tale, a reinterpretation of Austen’s characters, a critique of the social restrictions of regency England, a parody of other Jane Austen film adaptations, and, strangely enough, and most importantly, a romance, with Darcy as the hero.

Mr Darcy (played so skillfully by Elliot Cowan -- I swear his eyes kept changing colour with different emotions) emerges from this unlikely production still very much the romantic hero – not only the hero of P&P, but of Lost in Austen as well – dripping with water and magnetism, of course.

Though I admit to finding Wickham (the new and revamped version) very appealing indeed.

Monica Fairview, whose THE OTHER MR DARCY is coming out in June 2009.

A Mothering Sunday Special

This is the new cover of More Than a Governess, which is being published in the UK in a special two novel edition along with Kathryn Albright's novel the Angel and the Outlaw. It's a very different cover from the original North American publication, but ideal for Mothering Sunday. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you think of it.

Below is an extract from More Than a Governess: Juliana is desperate to find work, and she screws up her courage to confront Major Collingham, hoping to convince him that she is just the person he needs to look after his children! Enjoy

A liveried footman admitted her to the house and showed her into a small study on the ground floor while he went off to carry her message to his master.
Too nervous to sit down, she stood in the middle of the room and looked about her. The walls were lined with oak panels from floor to ceiling, in the same manner as her cousin's drawing room, but there all similarity between the two houses ended. The panelling in Major Collingham's study gleamed and several lively hunting scenes hung on the walls. She was just wondering if any of the figures depicted could be the master of the house when a deep voice sounded behind her, making her jump.
'You wished to see me, madam?'
'Oh—I did not hear you come in!'
'I am sorry if I startled you,' responded the Major, sounding not a whit remorseful.
Juliana looked at him. In her cousin's hallway she had only seen the back of his head. Now, staring up into the harsh, unsmiling face, her spirits began to fade. He was very tall, and dressed with military precision—there was nothing of the dandy about him, she noted with approval; the long limbs encased in buff-coloured pantaloons and black boots hinted rather at the athlete. His blue coat fitted perfectly about his broad shoulders and the crisp whiteness of his shirt and cravat enhanced his dark complexion, tanned by years in the sun—she knew he had been a soldier, and guessed he had seen action in the Peninsula. His bearing was upright and looked as solid and unyielding as his countenance. His voice, when he spoke again, was tinged with impatience.
'Well, madam, what can I do for you?'
'I—I came because—because you require a governess.'
Her words came out in a rush.
'Then it is my secretary, Brasher, you should see. I made it quite clear in the advertisement.'
He turned to go.
'Oh, I have not seen the advertisement—and it is you I wish to see, Major Collingham.'
He stopped and turned to face her.
'Not seen the—then how the devil…?'
His frown was not encouraging, but she screwed up her courage—she must do this for Thomas and Amy's sake.
'I am a cousin of Mr Pettigrew, the lawyer. I overheard your conversation with him this morning, about requiring a governess urgently. It—it is a fortunate circumstance for you, sir, that I am looking for just such a post.'
'I see. Well, if that is the case, I am of course delighted that you have come, but my secretary can handle the details—'
'But I do not wish to talk to your secretary, Major.' She swallowed. 'I—I want to talk to you about my terms.'
The major raised his black brows.
'Terms?'
'Yes.' She drew a breath and put up her chin. 'I believe you require a governess to take up the post immediately sir. Well, I am free to do that, upon condition.'
The Major stared at her. Juliana returned his gaze steadily, praying that he could not hear the rapid thudding of her heart. His countenance relaxed a little.
'I see this is not going to be the work of a moment.' He moved to his desk. 'Pray will you not be seated, miss…?'
'Miss Wrenn, Major.' She sat down on the edge of the chair, facing him.
'Well, Miss Wrenn, it is true that I am in need of a governess, but, as the employer, I was of the opinion that it was my place to set the conditions.'
She did not flinch from his hard gaze. Mrs Churwell had told her to have faith in herself, and she must do just that.
'In the normal course of events, yes, but you do not appear to be having much success; you told my cousin you would pay a king's ransom for a governess who could—ah—stay the course was your term, I think?'
He laughed suddenly, and the rather harsh lines of his face softened into something much more attractive.
'Quite right, Miss Wrenn, I did. Very well, why do you think you would suit my requirements?'
'Because I have had an excellent education, I am used to dealing with children and can teach them all the usual accomplishments of reading, writing, a little arithmetic and geography, the use of globes; my French and Italian are very good, I play the pianoforte and the harp, I paint and draw , I am a skilled needlewoman and—'
'And you are desperate for employment.'
She blinked.
'You do not deny it, Miss Wrenn.'
'No, sir.' She looked him in the eye and said with more confidence that she was feeling, 'But I have imp—impeccable credentials.'
He sat back, folding his arms across his chest and fixing her with a hard stare.
'You are very young for such a post.'
'I am one-and-twenty, sir.'
'What is your experience?'
She clasped her hands in her lap.
'I was educated in a select seminary in Clapham until I was seventeen years old, and had some teaching of the younger girls while I was there. I learned all the usual accomplishments, and was especially good at languages—a gift from my father, I think. My mother's demise made it necessary for me to come home and for the past four years I have had the care of my brother and sister.'
'And what has changed, that you must now seek employment?'
She looked down at her hands. It was not easy to admit her straitened circumstances to a stranger, but it must be done. 'My father died a month since and all his effects were seized to pay his debts. That is why we are staying with my cousin, until I can find a way to support us all.'
'And how old are your brother and sister?'
'My brother is twelve years old, sir. My sister just nine.' She looked up at the Major, but his face was impassive. She said, with a touch of defiance, 'I am not looking for sympathy, sir.'
'I have offered you none. You have been very frank, Miss Wrenn, so let me be equally open with you. I am a widower and have been so for the past eight years. My three children have been in the care of my mother—their grandmother—in Hampshire. Unfortunately, my mother died twelve months ago. Bonaparte had just escaped from Elba and it was impossible for me to leave my regiment at that time, so my sister took the children in; she lives nearby with her own young family. After Waterloo I was eager to settle my affairs and return to England, but it took me until a few months ago to complete my duties and get away.' He paused and sat forward, resting his arms on the desk. 'While in the care of my sister, my daughters were taught in the schoolroom with their young cousins, but I was naturally desirous to have the children with me, so I moved them back into Kewhurst, their old home, with a governess to look after them while I completed my business prior to taking them all to Lancashire. To date, as you pointed out to me, Miss Wrenn, I have been singularly unsuccessful in my choice of staff. The first governess lasted less than a week and left the house claiming that the place was haunted. The second I turned off when I discovered her addiction to strong liquor. The third, well, I thought she was settled, so I came on to London to put my affairs in order. I sent for the children to join me, and instead of the governess, they came with their aunt and their old nurse, and the information that the governess had discharged herself.'
'Oh…dear.'
'As you say, Miss Wrenn, oh dear.'
'How old are your daughters, Major?'
'Gwendoline is twelve years old, and Wilhelmina is eight. They are quite normal, Miss Wrenn—high spirited, perhaps, but not demons.'
'I do not doubt it. But you said you have three children, sir?
'Yes. My son Giles is fifteen years old and for the past few years has been under the tutelage of a learned reverend. When I arrived in Hampshire I discovered that this gentleman has accepted a much more attractive position as bear-leader to a young gentleman embarking upon the Grand Tour. However, Giles need not concern you; once we are settled in the north, I will engage another tutor for him.'
'You said you are leaving town at the end of next week?'
'Yes, on Friday. I have property in Lancashire that requires my attention. I want the governess to travel with us, and to take charge of the children on the journey.' Again Juliana found that harsh stare fixed upon her. 'After what you have heard, are you still eager for this position, Miss Wrenn?'
She sat up and adopted her most businesslike tone.
'I think it would suit very well, sir, if we can agree terms.'
'Miss Wrenn, I hardly think you are in a position to made demands….'
'Then we need discuss this no further.' she rose. 'Let me see, today is Saturday, your advertisement should be published on Monday, at the earliest. No doubt your secretary is very efficient; if he interviews the candidates quickly, I suppose it might be possible to engage a suitable person in time to travel on Friday, assuming he has received suitable references, of course…'
He held up his hand.
'Very well, Miss Wrenn, you have made your point. Can you supply me with suitable references?'
'I am sure Mr Pettigrew will vouch for my character, and you may apply to Miss Shaftesbury at the Academy in Clapham. As to my education, you can test me, if you so wish.'
'No, I do not so wish!' he growled at her. 'Pray sit down again, madam, and tell me these terms of yours.'
Resuming her seat, she gave him a beaming smile.
'They are not really so outrageous. I will engage to look after the children, Major Collingham, and educate them for the next four months, that is, to the end of September. I would like you to pay me a lump sum at the end of that time.'
'How much?'
Julia took a deep breath and named her price.
'What?'
She winced, but held her ground.
'You said you were willing to pay a king's ransom for this service, sir; I think you will agree that it is hardly that, but it would be sufficient for me to rent a little house in, say, Harrogate or Bath, and support my family by teaching. That is all I ask, Major.'
There was no more she could say. Juliana forced herself to sit still while the Major stared at her, his fingers drumming on the desk top. The remuneration she was asking was high, but discreet enquiries of her cousin had convinced her that the Major could afford twice that sum. Now she only needed to hold her nerve. She smiled to herself; perhaps she had something of her father's gambling spirit after all. At last he spoke.
'Very well. I will have Brasher draw up an agreement today.'
She found she had been holding her breath, for it now came out in a long sigh.
'Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint you.'
'I trust you will not. I shall make sure you do not get a penny if you do not keep your side of this bargain. One more thing. What do you propose to do with your siblings for the next four months?'
She hesitated.
'I am hoping to persuade my cousin—'
He shook his head.
'Pettigrew is a lawyer and a bachelor. I'd wager he knows less than I do about children. You had best bring them with you. They will be companions for Gwen and Minna on the journey, and there will be plenty of room for them at Blackthorpe.'
'Th-thank you.'
He stood up and came round the desk towards her.
'Then let us shake hands upon it, and I will send for the children.'
Juliana rose and put out her hand. As he took her fingers in his strong grip she looked up into his face and wondered how she had ever managed to bargain with such a man. At close range he was even more intimidating. His eyes were as hard as granite; his countenance bleak and unforgiving. Dangerous. But even as she began wonder to if perhaps she had made a mistake, she saw a gleam of amusement in his grey eyes.
He said, 'Now what are you thinking, Miss Wrenn?'
She did not even consider prevaricating.
'That you would make an implacable enemy, sir.'
His grip on her hand tightened.
'True. But I am also a very good friend. Which would you have, Miss Wrenn?'

Sarah Mallory/Melinda Hammond

Guest blogger of the month - Jen Black

We'd like to welcome Jen Black to the blog. Here she is talking about her new book, Far After Gold. Over to you, Jen!

Thank you!

FAR AFTER GOLD is a historical romance set in the North West Highlands in the tenth century. I don't doubt that anyone who has been to Ullapool will recognise the setting of Skuli Grey Cloak's steading, and may even recognise the cover pictire as Sandwood Bay on a misty day. Over the thirty or so years I've spent camping, caravanning, BnB-ing and hotel-ing in the area, I've often wondered about the history of the place in those far off days when Christian and Viking learned to live together as settled neighbours. Coupled with the glorious landscape, the tug was irrisistable and this story is the result of letting my imagination run wild.

Kidnapped from her Christian home in the Hebrides, Emer sees the handsome pagan Viking who purchases heras an enemy to be defeated. Escape is never far from her mind. Her only problem is where to run to, and how to stop herself falling in love with him.

Nicola Cornick reviewed it:
"In Far After Gold, Jen Black brings history to vivid and passionate life. The book gripped me from the very first page and drew me in. The writing is lovely, fluent, powerful and evocative. The exploration of the clash between the Viking and early Christian cultures adds layers to the conflict. But it is the characters and their love story that compels the reader’s attention.
Emer is a wonderful heroine, sympathetic and engaging. Even when she is in desperate straits she displays dignity, strength and generosity of spirit. She draws others to her through her kindness and warmth. Flane is a hero to match her, courageous and strong. The chemistry between them is scorching hot and the love story both seductive and tender. Watching these two characters change and grow throughout the book is a delight. Well-drawn secondary characters also add depth and charm to a compelling love story. This book lived on in my imagination long after I had finished it."

The book is published on January 30th

And here's an excerpt:

Half a day later the coastline emerged slowly out of the sea. The ship turned, ran straight into the heart of Alba, and mountains rose up on every side. Peeping over the edge of her blanket, Emer saw high hills fringed with trees, but not a single dwelling. The inlet narrowed and the bustle of the crew announced that landfall was imminent. She rose to her knees and peered over the high gunwale. The water was browner than the indigo of the open sea, and weed decorating the rocks at the water’s edge indicated that the loch was tidal a long way inland.

Steep mountainsides rose to one side, with no breaks for landfall. On the other, mountains backed bright meadows that ran down to the shore, and a smooth shallow headland jutted out, pimpled with a cluster of buildings and bright colours where wives and children waited to welcome their men home from the sea. The sail rattled down, and oars took the ship in an arc towards the jetty. Fear of the unknown rose and lodged like a lump of dry bread in Emer’s throat. She sank back in her corner, hauled the blanket over her head and ignored the screams of excited children and women. The glad cries of homecoming she could not share, that made her want to weep for what she had lost.

Gangplanks rumbled out and men trundled barrels ashore. When everything grew quiet, she squinted out over the folds of the blanket. The older lord and many of the crew had gone. Flane stood by the mast. She hoped he would forget about her. She closed her eyes and prayed to St Patrick as hard as she had ever prayed in her life. Emer never heard the soft footsteps, and when a hand yanked the blanket away, she jerked back so fast she banged her head against the stern post. “Ow.”

“Get up.” He was laughing, but his rich voice was firm and authoritative. She ignored him. When his foot drew back, she guessed his intention and scrambled to her feet rather than be kicked. He was so much taller now that she was close to him. She refused to look up. Her eyes were level with the smooth brown skin of his chest. The laces of the leather jerkin were open and he wore no tunic or undershirt. Muscles and tendons moved and flickered beneath the brown skin only a finger’s width from her nose. The scent of him curled into her nostrils.

“Come with me.”

Emer stood rooted to the deck. Flane reached the gangplank, turned and beckoned. Emer scowled and did not move. Flane clicked his fingers. Astounded, Emer lifted her chin, turned her head and stared pointedly out to sea. From the corner of her eye she saw one sailor nudge another and both stopped what they were doing to watch what would happen next. Memories of the overseer and his cane flashed through her mind, and she decided moving might be her wisest choice even though he treated her like his favourite hound. Pride stiffened her spine as she came to a halt before him.

“My name is Flane.” He tapped his chest and repeated the words, as if she were stupid, and then sighed. “Trust me to pick a girl who doesn’t understand the language.” He drew his dagger, and the fierce blade flashed silver in the sunlight. Emer’s heart leapt into her throat. Would he kill her because she could not speak his language? What other reason could he have? She met his blue glance for an instant even as she took a swift step back, ready to run, heedlessly, in any direction.

He caught her wrist and dragged her in close. Her heart thudded wildly at the sudden contact of chest, hip and thigh. Panic stricken, mesmerised by his steady blue gaze, she stood there in the thin sunlight with the sound of water lapping against the ship and the smell of him in her nostrils. She drew a swift, choked breath of air. Her last moment in the world had arrived. She shut her eyes, waiting the bite of cold steel at her throat.

Dear Lord, accept my soul this day…He hooked one finger under her leather slave collar. Surprised, she opened her eyes and flinched at the sight of the steel blade flashing wickedly in the sunlight.

“Steady, steady,” he murmured, as if to a nervous animal. “I thought you’d rather be free of this.” He gave a couple of gentle tugs on the leather collar at her neck, and before she grasped his intention, the blade sliced through the hated thing. She never even felt the coldness of the blade. He dangled the strip of leather with its attendant piece of rope in front of her. “Do you want to keep it?”

Furious at being frightened and then gentled like a nervous mare, Emer didn’t hesitate. She seized the hated collar and hurled it far out over the loch. He laughed. “Good for you. Now, come with me.” A mixture of shame and indignation burned through her as she followed Flane over the heavy timbers that made up the jetty. Head down, dodging coils of rope, empty sacks and closed kegs, Emer decided she would take the removal of her slave collar as the first of many positive things that were about to happen. She did not realise Flane had stopped walking until she almost collided with the pale leather of his jerkin.

“You understand me,” he stated.

She backed off a pace or two, and looked up warily. “Yes.”

The Norsemen first settled the islands two hundred years ago and many islanders now spoke Norse with their neighbours. Dutifully sewing tunics and chemises under her mother’s watchful eye, she had learned the language by listening as her father taught it to her brother. She had picked it up faster than Donald, and teased him about it. Her chin wobbled at the warmth of the memory and she pressed her lips together to keep the tears at bay.

“That’s good. We’ll deal well together.” Emer doubted it, but did not dispute his statement. “Your life will not be hard here.” A tingle of hope ran through her, and she hoped he meant it. But …he was a Viking, and he…owned her. It was her duty to escape if she could.

She ventured a question in the new language. “Where is this place?”

“It’s called Skuli’s Steading. It’s about sixty miles from the Alban king’s settlement at Inverness.”

“I do not know Inverness.”

“Sixty miles as the crow might fly would take you to the eastern seaboard and Inverness, but Skuli’s Steading is my home.”

If she concentrated hard, she understood him. “Home!” Emer let out a snatch of bitter laughter. “How far is Skuli’s Steading from my home? From an island called Pabaigh?”

“Pabaigh?” He shook his head, frowning. “Is it close to Skye?”

Emer shrugged. “I don’t know. My aunt is there.”

“Skye lies to the south of here. Maybe someone there will know of your island.”

He never knew the impact of his words. As realisation dawned, tears pricked her eyes and she stared at the sky through a sudden blur. Thank you, Lord. She’d guessed they were sailing north, away from Africa, but fear still gripped her that the ship headed to some distant part of Gotland or Russland. She looked round. This was the destination. Skye was nearby. There would surely be a chance to escape now. Elation streamed through her at the thought she might see home again.

Flane took hold of her arm, and she was very much aware of the warmth of his hand on her skin. His pale brows angled towards his nose, and he drew breath to speak and then changed his mind. They stared at each other in silence. Stubble pricked through the sunburned skin of his jaw, and sunlight glanced off a single gold earring. The breeze blew a wisp of straw-gold hair across his mouth and in a casual, habitual gesture he hooked the hair behind his ear, but what held her still was the intensity of his eyes.

In a small voice, Emer asked a question. “Why me?” The smile that grew slowly across his face was confident, knowing. He let go of her arm, lifted his hand to her face, let it hover in the air for some moments before he touched her cheek. The back of his bent fingers glided gently down to her jaw. “You are lovely.”

“You paid silver for me because you like how I look?”

“What else could it be? I saw you huddled against the stockade in the slave market and…I don’t know. I felt that…I wanted to do this.” His palm cupped the back of her head, pulled her forward and his mouth descended on hers. His warm tongue probed her mouth. With a grunt of shock, Emer recoiled and struggled against his broad chest.

He let go of her. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.” His lazy grin mocked her.

“I do not allow men to handle me.”

“We’ll soon see about that. Why do you think I bought you?” One silver eyebrow tilted up. “How did you get into the slave market?”

Emer took another step away from him, poised to run if he should try and grab her again. “Vikings seized me, dragged me to their ship – I still have the bruises, look – and sold me. Satisfied?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl. I didn’t snatch you. I paid out good silver for you and brought you here.” His arm indicated the Steading and the hillsides. “Is this not better than the slave market? You ought to be grateful, so get rid of that pig-headed look. You could have done a lot worse.”

“Pig-headed! Worse? My father is chieftain of Pabaigh!”

He leaned close, blue eyes sparkling. “I have only two words for you.” He spoke slowly and with emphasis. “Moorish Africa.”

Emer recoiled, and then inhaled slowly. She should not let him see he frightened her, even if her heart beat like a mad thing and her knees trembled beneath her gown.

“You may not like where you are, but you would like Africa a lot less. We passed a Moorish galley just as we left the Liffey. You escaped Africa by that much.” He indicated a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger. “I can always sell you on to the Moors if you don’t please me.”

Emer shuddered. No one ever got home from Africa. It was even worse than Russland.

“Well? Will you please me?” She met the laughing challenge of his blue eyes, and something opened and warmed within her. It was an odd sensation, totally unexpected; as if she stood before a huge glowing fire and the heat reached out and enveloped her. She could not remember any man having such an effect on her. Perhaps…he was certainly more handsome…better looking than…anyone on Pabaigh.

She caught at her thoughts. He should be her husband, not her master. “My father would repay the silver, if you returned me to him.”

He shook his head, grasped her arm and walked her towards a wooden hut built out over the loch. “Soon everyone will know you belong to me.”

The phrase “belong to me” echoed in her ears as Flane pulled her into a warm, dim interior of the hut, full of dark corners, firelight and steam. Shadowy women in various states of undress clustered around a central hearth. No one seemed unduly disturbed at the interruption, though some discreetly covered themselves.

Flane addressed one of the women. “I brought a girl back from Dublin. She needs to get rid of the lice. I don’t want to be scratching like a dog fox tomorrow.” Emer glared at him. He caught her look, and must have interpreted it correctly, for he reached out and held up a strand of her snarled, tangled hair. “It was a slave market. You couldn’t have avoided it.”

Thank you, Jen, the book looks great. If you'd like to read more about Jen's book, visit her blog.

Margaret Dashwood, a heroine in a new book, Willoughby Returns, a Sense and Sensibility Sequel by Jane Odiwe

In Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, Margaret Dashwood, the youngest sister has a minor role. We learn in chapter one that she was a good-humoured, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense; she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

At thirteen Margaret is too young to be 'out' and we only see glimpses of her as she observes her sisters' behaviour. She does not miss a trick; telling Elinor that she thinks Marianne is engaged because she has witnessed Mr Willoughby stealing a lock of her hair. I love the following extract, which shows how keenly Jane Austen observed the foibles of the young.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the Park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made everybody laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person, whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red, and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, -

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne, with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F."

My new book, Willoughby's Return, starts three years after S&S finishes and at eighteen going on nineteen, I thought it was time to give Margaret a heroine's role. Her story is intertwined with that of Marianne's who encourages Margaret to follow her heart.

At this point in the book she is staying at Delaford Park with her sister. It is the day after a ball when she has met and danced with a young man, a nephew of Colonel Brandon.

Margaret escaped as soon as she could into the gardens outside. She made her way to the yew arbour with a favourite book, although she suspected before she had even reached the seat that she would not find time for much reading. Margaret sought solitude in order to daydream and spend her time in reverie without being disturbed from her pursuit or having to answer impertinent questions. From her vantage point on rising ground behind the house, she could see the road below, but there was nothing much to interest her there; not even a carriage rumbling by to take her notice. Opening her book she began to read, but the printed words soon swam before her eyes in a muddle. All she could see was an image of Henry in her head. Henry’s handsome face was before her, smiling with that expression, half tender, half mocking.

“I wish Mrs Jennings were right for once,” she thought, “how lovely it would be if Henry were to call.”

She twisted sideways, pulling her feet up onto the bench and wrapped her cloak around her legs against the cold seeping up from the ground. Just as she was wishing that Henry were there by her side her attention was caught by the sight of a horse being led by its master along the roadside. The man was talking to the horse, which appeared to be in some pain as it limped along. Margaret watched with her heart in her mouth as it became apparent that the young gentleman was none other than the very person she most wished to see.

From her seat, concealed amongst the yew boughs, she was quite hidden from the road. She observed him walk the length of the thoroughfare until he came opposite her viewpoint. Margaret could sit no longer and watch. Jumping up, she ran out from her hiding place and down the slope of the lawn, past the sun-dial, through the yew avenue and along the narrow path, to an ivy covered door set within the garden wall. Trying to turn the rusty key in the lock gave her difficulty and she feared she would not be able to accomplish this task before he had long passed by. At last the key turned and the door opened with a creak. She glimpsed his retreating figure and called out his name.

“Mr Lawrence, Mr Lawrence, good morning!” Margaret saw him stop and look around in surprise.

“Why, good morning to you, Miss Dashwood,” he answered with a bow. “What a pleasant surprise. However, I am dashed if I know how you discovered my whereabouts. If I were of a suspicious nature I might think you had been spying on me.”

Margaret chose to ignore this impudence. “What has happened to your horse?”

“I am not certain except to say he appears to be lame, a stone in his hoof, I daresay. I must get him to the farrier to have him looked at.”

“Pray tell, Mr Lawrence, where were you headed?” asked Margaret knowing that his destination must be Delaford House. “You appear to be rather far from home.”

“I came to call on you, Miss Dashwood, as you are well aware,” he answered and gazed so directly into her eyes that she could not look at him.

She looked back toward the house for somewhere to fix her eyes. “You could have the groomsman look at him, but I do not think you will be able to lead your horse through this doorway. Besides, this part of the garden has too many narrow pathways, there is not enough room for a man and his horse.”

“No, but there is a post just along here where I might tie him up, so he can rest. And as you say, I could alert Jackson. I can fetch my horse in a little while, after he has been seen. In the meantime you could show me round the garden.”

“Will you not come up to the house and say how d’ye do?” asked Margaret as she watched him tie up his horse. She felt rather uneasy about having stopped him now. If Marianne or more particularly, Elinor had found out that she had behaved in such a manner, they would be shocked. Not only shocked but horrified that she had been so outspoken. And she was not sure that being alone with him in the garden would be approved of as pleasing conduct.

“I do not think that will be necessary,” he smirked. “After all, I only came to see you and no one need be any the wiser. Will you not show me round? I remember an old yew arbour at the top of the lawn where I played hide and seek as a small boy with Uncle William. Is it still there?” He smiled at her so artlessly that Margaret was instantly charmed.

“Yes, I was sitting there when I saw you. There is a capital view of the road and it is the best place in the world to hide.”

“Show me.”

Margaret knew it was wrong but as much as she told herself that she should insist on their going up to the house, her feet immediately disobeyed her. They left their dewy prints on the rain soaked grass and climbed the ascent to the ancient arbour, Margaret conscious that he followed closely behind with loping strides. The yew arbour loomed before them, like a giant plum pudding, its entrance almost concealed by foliage. Margaret stopped just outside.

Henry swept past and was swallowed up out of sight by the giant arms of the dark yews. Margaret looked about her. What should she do? To follow him would be most inappropriate. She heard Henry call her name.

“Miss Dashwood, look here,” he called.

Willoughby's Return, a Sense and Sensibility Sequel to be published by Sourcebooks Fall 2009

Jane Odiwe

Illustrations:

Willoughby cutting Marianne's hair by Brock
Photo of Efford House, location for Sense and Sensibility, 1995
Drawing of yew arbour and sundial by Ellen Hill

New Trilogy by Anne Herries

A Country Miss Of Hanover Square/Anne Herries/ Harlequin Mills & Boon

This is the first book of a new Regency trilogy coming to you this year. The first paperback will be out in May/June this year. the cover is of my newest available Regency.

I hope you enjoy the excerpt!

Prologue
The Spanish Peninsular: 1812.
Three men lay slumped on the earth, which had been baked hard by the fierce Spanish sun. Harry Pendleton had his back against a rock. Of the three he was in the best shape. Max Coleridge was lying with his eyes closed, his blood-soaked shirt stuck to his chest in this damned awful heat. Gerard Ravenshead was fanning Max with a large leaf, trying to keep the flies from settling on his wound. A neck-cloth was wound around a deep cut at the side of Gerard's head.
'I thought we were done for,' Harry said. He was speaking his thoughts aloud, saying what they all felt. 'What a mess!'
'You can't blame yourself for it, Harry,' Gerard said and looked at him. 'They knew we were coming. Someone must have warned them.'
'Ten killed, and the three of us only got out by the skin of our teeth.' Harry stood up and walked over to take a look at Max. 'Somehow they must have got wind that we planned a surprise raid to take prisoners…'
'One of the servants,' Gerard replied and shrugged. 'In this damned war I'm never sure whether we are fighting the French with the Spanish or the Spanish and the French.'
'I wouldn't trust their generals as far as I could throw them,' Harry growled. He looked at the blood trickling down Gerard's face. They had wrapped a kerchief round his head, but it wasn't doing much good. 'Your wound is still bleeding. Do you want me to take another look at it?'
'You saved my life once today,' Gerard said and grinned at him. 'You don't have to nursemaid me, Harry. I'll manage. We have to get Max back to the village, and by the looks of him that means carrying him between us.'
Harry pulled a wry face. 'The way you've been behaving out here I've sometimes felt as if you meant to throw your life away…' Gerard had gained a reputation as something of a dare devil.
'There were moments when I didn't much care if I died,' Gerard admitted. He took a swipe at a fly buzzing about his face. 'But when you're facing death things come into perspective. I intend to live and return home and one day…'
Gerard left the sentence unfinished. Harry nodded. He knew something had been eating at his friend. He suspected it was to do with a young woman Gerard had been courting – and the tiny scar at his temple that he'd noticed when they first met in Spain after a year of not seeing one another. Gerard often rubbed at it when he was thoughtful, and the look in his eyes told Harry he was remembering something that made him angry.
'I know what you mean,' Harry said. 'Soldiering is blood, sweat and tears – and that is the easy part.' It was listening to the screams of dying men and knowing you couldn't save them that hurt the worst. 'Come on then. Help me get Max on my back and I'll carry him.'
'I can walk…' Max mumbled. 'Just give me a hand up…'
'Don't be a damned fool,' Harry replied. 'You'll be carried as far as we can make it. When we get near the village Gerard will fetch help.'
'I could walk with help.' Max's face set stubbornly as he attempted to rise. 'Damn you, Harry. I'm not a baby…'
'But I'm the superior officer here so you will do as you're told,' Harry muttered. He grinned at Gerard. 'There's one thing, we're bound for life by this day's experience. It's something none of us will forget – and if any one of us can help the other in future we will…'
Max grunted as they hauled him to his feet, and Harry took him over his shoulder. Gerard nodded, his eyes hard but appreciative of his friend's stubborn determination to take on the burden. He wasn't sure he could have done it himself, though he would have tried.
'Comrades in war and peace,' he said. 'Let's get back. My head is fit to burst and Max needs attention…'

Online course on Jane Austen run by Oxford University

The Department for Continuing Education at Oxford University is running an online course about Jane Austen, lasting for 10 weeks starting on Monday 26th January. Applications are still being accepted on what looks a very interesting course.



The tutor is De Sandie Byrne, who was formerly Fellow and Tutor in English at Balliol College, Oxford.

I had a quick look on Amazon and they carry some of Dr Byrne's books including Jane Austen - Mansfield Park (Readers' Guides to Essential Criticism).



"There are no formal entry qualifications for this course," the Oxford website says, "all you need is enthusiasm, commitment, a high degree of motivation and a willingness to engage in discussion with others. "

It looks wonderful. For more information about it, click here


Amanda Grange (with thanks to Austenblog for the information)

Thin ice

I spent a day recently exploring Hyde Park and Kensington Palace and gardens with my copy of “The Picture of London for 1807: being a correct guide to all the curiosities, amusements, exhibitions, public establishments and remarkable objects, in and near London” clutched in my frozen fingers.

I’d gone there to find some information for Christine Merrill, one of the US authors of the Regency continuity I’m working on - she needed to know what species of tree her hero and heroine might accurately be kissing behind.
The answer was, not very much in 1815, not if they wanted to preserve their privacy. According to my guidebook “A few years since, Hyde Park was a little deficient in wood, many of the old trees having decayed; but recently some judicious plantations have been made, that will greatly enliven its general appearance.” And, looking at the trees now, it is obvious that 200 years ago they would have been very young indeed. Christine’s hero and heroine were going to have to find somewhere else for their embraces.

The parks and gardens looked fabulous in the frosty mist and all that was missing, I thought, were skaters on the ice.

According to The Picture of London “In severe winters, when the Serpentine River is frozen over, the ice is almost covered with people. One winter there were counted more than 6,000 people at one time on the ice. A number of booths were pitched for the refreshment of the populace; and here and there was a group of six, eight or more, fashionable young men, skating, and describing very difficult figures, in the manner of a country dance, with particular neatness and facility of execution. In general, however, the English do not excel in this very exhilarating and wholesome exercise.
From the number of accidents which happen annually on this river when frozen over, his majesty gave the Humane Society a spot of ground on its banks, on which they have erected a most convenient receiving house for the recovery of persons apparently drowned; it cost upwards of £500 and is worthy the inspection of the curious. The society, during the time of frost, keep men on the river to guard the unwary from danger, and to relieve those who may require their aid.”

There’s no sign of the “convenient receiving house” now, but I have suggested it to Christine as a possible retreat for her amorous couple. Whether she’ll use it I don’t know - perhaps the risk of being interrupted by the life savers would be too much for even the boldest of heroes.

The photograph is of the Long Water (Hyde Park bank) from Prince Albert’s Italian Gardens and the print from the French series Modes et Manières published in the early 19thc.

Louise Allen

Another day in the life of a writer

Yesterday was the day from hell! I had received an email from my agent requesting three hardback copies of my latest book, Bonded Heart (scramble to find padded envelope large enough to hold all three, then realise I've run out of pre-printed labels. Print sheet of labels, and pack books.) She also wanted two hard (paper) copies of my pitch package for Devil's Dance, the book I shall write after the current work-in-progress is finished, plus an electronic copy of the package as a single Word document. The package consists of a 5-page prologue, two chapters plus an 11-page outline of rest of story. And would I also include a copy of the press release and photo featuring Bonded Heart printed in this week's local papers.

I was about to leave home for the post office when my 94-year-old father rang, could I pick up some dog food, and would I please type out a speech he plans to give at the monthly Dunkirk Veteran's lunch that day. (How could I refuse?) Picked up dog food, posted parcel, then on way back got waylaid by old lady who was feeling shaky and needed a steadying arm to get her back home (next to the papershop and on my way) Took dog food to Dad, collected speech and promised to have it back within the hour. Arrived home, made quick cup of tea, typed and printed out speech in large bold easy-to-read font and took it round to delighted father. Walked briskly home, trying to convince myself that this additional fresh air and exercise were excellent stress-busters. (Not convinced) While I was trying to amalgamate the separate files of DD prologue, chapters and outline into one electronic Word document, there was a loud thud. A bird had hit the window. I've already put celtic stickers on the glass to warn them. What more do they want, signs? When I looked out I saw one of my bullfinches huddled, panting and looking decidedly dazed. Bullfinches are usually very shy and quite rare. We have three pairs who are regular visitors to our bird table, and I've known them all since they were eggs. Left him to recover and went back to computer. Writer friend had given me detailed instructions on how to amalgamate separate files which I followed. But each time I inserted a page break then tried to insert the next file, the old header remained. If I changed it manually for the following doc, it also changed the one behind. My computer nearly ended up in the field next door! In the end, with all the files saved in order and as a single document, I went back to the beginning and inserted an entirely new header just giving the books initials, my initials and sequential page numbers. That worked, so I hit send. By now it was after 4pm, I'd lost my planned afternoon on the current wip and I had the beginnings of a headache. I checked the bullfinch who was taking a few tottering steps and trying to look as if he'd just landed for a rest, and made another cup of tea. It was too late to start my planned work on the current book. So I tackled a mountain of ironing, made an apple crumble and a tray of apricot, ginger and walnut flapjacks, and felt virtuous if still frustrated. Still, as Scarlett said "Tomorrow is another day". It can only be better.

Jane Jackson.

Bonded Heart pub. Severn House. £18.99 UK $27.95 USA

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