Three-Armed Heroine?

Blogging again this month to show you the long-awaited cover of Delight and Desire, the ebook prequel to Bride of the Solway, both out in September from the Harlequin website. Delight and Desire will be available from Wednesday in the Historical Undone ebooks series here, as an ebook only. Bride of the Solway is available here, both in print and ebook formats.

It's a pretty cover, I think. However, the thing that really intrigues me about this cover is that fuzzy section just below the heroine's left elbow. It looks as if someone didn't quite erase the picture underneath. Any guesses as to what it is?

I'm so intrigued that I'm going to offer a print copy of Bride of the Solway to the best suggestion for what it might be. The prize will go to whichever suggestion I think is best, which may well be the one that makes me laugh the most.

My own suggestion is that it's a phantom third arm for my heroine, complete with white evening glove. Now it's over to you, folks!

Joanna
http://www.joannamaitland.com

Apology for missing my post/news

I am sorry I've missed a couple of posts here. I've had various problems not least my husband in hospital and I just have not had the time to write a Regency letter or to think about posting. I hope to get back to normal soon but for the moment I'm snowed under with various things I need to do.

On the news front I have a new book coming out with HMb in September. This is the Lord's forced Bride/ Anne Herries. It is the second in my Melford dynasty series. There are several more to come in this series, some of which have been published in USA. In November I have a war saga coming from Severn House as Linda Sole. I am writing a new series for M&B and have several single titles to come. I recently received my gold pin and a lovely letter for having written fifty or more books for them which was very nice.

I hope next month I may be able to get back to writing something for you.

Love to all Anne Herries

Win a copy of Krakow Waltz

Do you like historical romances with unusual settings? If so, then my new book, Krakow Waltz, might be one for you. It's out this month in paperback and as an ebook and is set mostly in what we now call Southern Poland.

Poland has had a chequered history and for most of the 19th century didn't exist as a country. Following the Napoleonic Wars, the Treaty of Vienna (1815) carved it up between the neighbouring powers: Russia, Prussia and Austria. However, the city of Krakow was designated as a self-governing "free city" and stayed that way until it was annexed by Austria in 1846.

Part of my family comes from Krakow, in fact my mother was born there, and so it's a city I've visited many times over the years. By some miracle, the historic centre survived the Second World War and so you can walk around today and get the feel of how the city would have been at the time my novel is set in 1817.

In the novel I names the streets where the main characters live and have set scenes in notable places that still survive today including the 15th century Collegium Maius (the oldest part of the University) and the famous 14th century gothic St Mary's Basilica in the main market square. If you visit Krakow do visit these places and if you walk the streets of the old town you'll be able to get a sense of how some of the action in Krakow Waltz is played out.

Balice forest, a notable venue for duels in the 19th century, is now where Krakow airport is situated. (A little like Hounslow Heath which is now London's Heathrow airport.) And Castle Szalynski in the countryside is loosely based on Niedzica Castle in Southern Poland. I revisited Niedzica the summer and will post some photos next time I blog.

To celebrate the publication of Krakow Waltz there is a giveaway contest on goodreads.com. Closing date is 31st August so hurry to be in with a chance to win one of three copies.

Kate Allan

What's in a Kiss?

We writers of historical romances spend a lot of time trying to get across how our heroes think, feel and behave when in love. But do we get it right?

Sir Leslie Stephen, reviewing Jane Eyre in the Cornhill Magazine in 1877, thinks not. He says of Charlotte Brontë’s Rochester:

‘He does not appear to me to be a real character at all, except as a reflection of a certain side of his creator….He is supposed to be specially simple and masculine, and yet he is as self-conscious as a young lady on her first appearance in society, and can do nothing but discourse about his feelings… Set him beside any man’s character of a man, and one feels at once that he has no real solidity or vitality in him. He has, of course, strong nerves and muscles, but they are articles which can be supplied in unlimited quantities …

Ouch!

So, how do men think, feel and behave when in love? The diaries of the artist Benjamin Haydon (1786-1846) may help to answer this question.

Haydon liked sex as much as the next man. In April 1813, he wrote: ‘I felt this morning an almost irresistible inclination to go down to Greenwich and have a delicious Tumble with the Girls. … After a short struggle, I seized my brush, knowing the consequences of yielding to my disposition, & that tho’ it might begin today, it would not end with it.’

He was twenty-seven and beginning to look for something more than a quick ‘Tumble’. In August, he wrote: 'I begin to be weary, heartily weary, of vice. There may be pleasure in guilty enjoyment, for fear of discovery, & snatched in the hot, icy fury of passion, yet surely the confidence, the rapture of legitimate pleasure with a lovely creature, is a million times more exquisite.’

In April 1815, he meets a girl he fancies. It is evening; he is ‘accidentally’ alone with her:

‘She sits - you venture to sit near her! You slip gently from the edge of your own chair to the edge of hers, which you affect to conceal! and which she affects not to see! an involuntary sigh; you put your arm on the back of her chair without daring to touch her lovely shoulder - awed, for fear of offending, you dare, agitated and shaken, to touch her soft hand! She withdraws it not! You press with a start of passion the gentle, helpless hand to your full and burning lips!’

It reminds me of the Goin’ Courtin’ song in the film Seven Brides for Seven Brothers:

‘You sidle up, she moves away
Then the strategy comes into play.’

And this is what happens next:
‘Your floating eyes meet hers, looking out under her black locks with lustrous tenderness. Down sinks her lovely head under your heated cheek, and you feel her heavenly breath, breathing quickly into your neck! You move your lips gently to meet hers, but are unable to reach it, buried as it is in your neck. O God! with the look of an Angel she turns up her exquisite mouth, & as you kiss it, your lips cling, with a lingering at every little separation and you suck ecstasy till your brain is steeped in steam! You press her with an intensity of grasp. She suffers all, trembling, depending, smiling. Does not this speak all a man could wish?’

The ending is delightful: ‘One bounds home like a deer, and rushes to rest that one may dream.’

Haydon, plainly, got a huge kick out of that kiss. And that’s all it was. They were disturbed by a servant and he comments that her reaction was ‘a dreaming sort of distraction at having been kissed by a Man’. Though, of course, that may just be male fantasy. Nevertheless, he obviously felt like a conquering hero.

Haydon’s diaries were private, written for his own pleasure. What I think is so interesting about them is that they offer a rare glimpse into how men really feel about love. For me, these extracts are an eye-opener.

Elizabeth Hawksley

Seven years, six diaries

Little did I think, when I started writing Darcy's Diary in 2003, that I would go on to write heroes' diaries for all six of Jane Austen's novels but somehow it was compulsive and I couldn't stop until I'd finished! I think the thing I have enjoyed most about writing them is that it has given me an opportunity to look at Austen's novels and characters in a new way, and given me a different way to enjoy them.

Here are some of the highlights of the last seven years for me.


Finding out that Robert Hale, my lovely hardback publishers, wanted to publish the first one. Until then, I was known for my Regencies and Darcy's Diary represented a departure for me.

Even better was seeing the reaction from readers and hearing how much they loved the book.

Then there was the moment I discovered that Sourcebooks had bought the US rights to Darcy's Diary and that they were releasing it in paperback under the title of Mr Darcy's Diary. It was the first time any of my books had been published in the US and it was a brilliant moment.







Learning that Penguin had bought the US paperback rights to the other diaries, or at least the ones I had written at the time, ie Mr Knightley's Diary, Captain Wentworth's Diary, Edmund Bertram's Diary and Colonel Brandon's Diary.









Meeting some lovely fans at the recent RNA conference at Greenwich, London and hearing how much they loved the books, particularly Mr Darcy's Diary. I guess that's most people's favourite! I have a soft spot for Colonel Brandon's Diary, which recounts the story of his tragic first love before moving on to the events of Sense and Sensibility.







And last but not least, finishing Henry Tilney's Diary. It's taken me longer than the others, partly because it was more complex in many ways, and partly because I wrote Mr Darcy, Vampyre in the middle of it. But the main reason it took so long was because, when I originally finished it, I wasn't happy with it. I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong with it, but I knew that it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be. So I did what every writer does in that situation, I put it away for a while and let my thoughts simmer.

When I returned to it, I knew what was wrong. I'd created several passages where Henry and his sister read aloud to each other, and the book they read from was The Mysteries of Udolpho. This seemed an obvious choice because it was Catherine's favourite book. But somehow Udolpho didn't really gel with the diary.

I knew I wanted to keep the idea of reading aloud from a genuine Gothic novel of the era, because I wanted to infuse the diary with the flavour of those books as their plots were central to Northanger Abbey, but Udolpho had to go.

Then began a re-read of many of the classic Gothics - until I came to A Sicilian Romance. Without giving away any spoilers, its theme of a dead wife, a cruel husband and mysterious goings on echoed the themes of Northanger Abbey and allowed me to comment on the main action whilst giving a flavour of the books that Catherine Morland loved to read - and confused with real life.

So Udolpho was out and A Sicilian Romance was in. Suitable passages had to be chosen and new scenes written around them, so that they not only gave a glimpse of Catherine's imaginary world but also pointed up the main themes of the novel.

At last it was finished. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and sent it off to Robert Hale - and waited. It was a tense time. Believe me, it's not easier waiting to see if a publisher likes your book when you're on your seventeenth novel than it is on your first. Luckily they loved it and it will be out in hardback next year.

I'll keep you posted on further developments. Until then, here is one of Henry and Catherine's early meetings, as recounted in Henry's diary:

Monday 25 February
What was my delight this evening to find that Miss Morland was at the Upper Rooms. I was amused to see that she smiled upon seeing me again, instead of pretending not to notice me or favouring me with a cool nod, both of which greetings are very much in vogue with the usual young ladies in Bath.


Remembering how much I had enjoyed dancing with her before I offered her my hand, but instead of accepting with alacrity she looked mortified. My pride was salvaged when she explained that she was engaged to Mr John Thorpe for the first dance and so she must decline. Mr Thorpe, however, was nowhere to be seen, leaving his fair partner to sit alone and embarrassed at the side of the room when she should have been enjoying herself. So much for the honour of Mr Thorpe! However, it gave me a pleasing insight into the character of the lady, for it is rare thing in Bath - or anywhere else for that matter - to find a young lady who will forego a pleasure merely because she has given her word elsewhere. Miss Morland, I felt, was worth knowing.
Thorpe at last arrived. Without a word of apology he said only, ‘There you are Miss Morland, I have kept you waiting!’ which even a young lady possessed of far less wit than Miss Morland must have already deduced.

I flattered myself that she would rather have had me as a partner, for her eyes kept drifting to me. I remarked as much to Eleanor, who quickly lanced my pomposity and said I was becoming conceited.
‘It it not remarkable that Miss Morland should prefer you to Mr Thorpe,’ she said. ‘Indeed, it would be remarkable if it were otherwise, for I can think of nothing worse than standing up with him. He cannot remember the steps of the dance and does not even try. He has bumped into three different people in the last three minutes, without a word of apology. I will say this for you, Henry, you know how to dance.’
‘High praise indeed!’

Eleanor’s hand was sought and although the floor was crowded, Miss Morland let her in. I had the satisfaction of seeing them dancing and talking together. I rather hoped Miss Morland would be free for the next dance but she was standing up again with Thorpe, and having been disappointed in my first choice I led Miss Smith on to the floor. Miss Smith, alas, was no substitute for Miss Morland, for if she was not laughing at a young lady who had torn her gown, she was regaling me with an account of her conquests.
‘Do you see that gentleman over there, the one with the blue coat? He has told me on three separate occasions how lovely I am and he has five thousand a year. Mama is certain he will offer for me any day. But I do not think I will accept him. I do not like his cravat.’
‘Then on no account consider it,’ I said. ‘It is possible to compromise in certain areas when choosing a partner for life, but never on a cravat.’
She looked at me in admiration.
‘That is exactly what I think,’ she said. ‘You are amazingly clever.’
‘It is very good of you to say so.’
‘Papa says I am the cleverest girl he has ever met. Captain Dunston remarked upon it as well. But I think he is a very stupid fellow.’
‘He must be,’ I said; a remark which she did not understand, but which made her smile, for she liked to think of me sharing her opinion of the Captain.

At last tea was over, and I found Eleanor and Mrs Hughes in order to take them home. Mrs Hughes exclaimed upon the chance of having met with her friend Mrs Thorpe again. She spoke of Isabella’s prettiness and John’s fine figure, which last was something of a slander on the word fine, for I never saw such an ill-looking fellow. From there she began talking of her own children, and we were glad to speak of them, for we were both conscious of the great kindness she is doing us by coming to Bath and acting as Eleanor’s chaperone.
Back in Milsom Street, Mrs Hughes declared herself tired and retired for the night but Eleanor and I sat up for some time, talking.
‘You seemed to be well entertained by Miss Smith,’ said Eleanor, as we sat by the fire in the drawing-room. ‘I saw you laughing twice and smiling often.’
I recounted our conversations and she said, ‘Oh dear!’

‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Did you make any new friends? Miss Thorpe, perhaps, or Miss Morland?’
‘Miss Thorpe is not to my taste, but I would like to know Miss Morland better,’ said Eleanor. ‘She has engaging manners.’
‘Did you have much chance to speak to her?’
‘No, very little, only to exchange commonplaces. We asked each other how well we liked Bath, and talked of how much we admired its buildings and surrounding country. I asked her whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback, and she asked the same of me.’
‘And what did you discover?’ I asked.
‘That she drew, played and sang as much as any other young lady who is not especially accomplished: that is, a little; and that she rides very little as she prefers to walk and there is not always a horse to be got.’
‘Well, that is honest enough! Would you like to see more of her, do you think?’
She considered the matter.
‘Yes, I think I would. Would you?’

‘I?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Yes, Henry, you.’
‘Now what makes you ask that?’
‘Because you have spoken of little else since we returned,’ she said.
‘Am I so transparent? It would seem so. Very well then, I will confess I like her, what little I know of her. She is interesting,’ I replied.
‘And, moreover, she likes you.’
I was flattered, and thought it was something to be added to Miss Morland’s store of virtues. But I did not allow Eleanor to see it.
‘She hardly knows me, and what little she does know of me she must think very odd,’ I said. ‘I talked nonsense to her when we first met, for what else can one talk in the Upper Rooms with someone one has never met before?’
‘But oddness is always forgiven in a man who is young and handsome.’
‘Be careful or such praise will go to my head.’
‘Why? I said that it is forgiven in a man who is young and handsome, I made no mention of you!’ she said with a laugh.
It was good to hear it. She has not laughed once these past two months. I am glad we came to Bath.

Amanda Grange

Regency Surgery - Not For the Fainthearted!

I often think that the Regency would be a wonderful period to live provided I had a lot of money, no social conscience and the best of health. The unpleasant consequences of being unwell were brought home forcibly the other day when I visited the Old Operating Theatre Museum and Herb Garret at St Thomas’s Hospital in Southwark. (http://www.thegarrret.org.uk/)

In 1703 St Thomas’s church was built as part of the hospital and the roof space was taken over by the hospital’s apothecary to dry and store herbs and to make up remedies.

Amongst the less appetising cures is Snail Water, used as a remedy for venereal disease. The recipe is as follows:
Take garden snails, cleansed and bruised, 6 gallons
Earthworms washed and bruised 3 gallons
Of common Wormwood, Ground Ivy and Carduus [cardoon] each one pound and a half
Pennyroyal, Juniper-berries and Fennelseeds each half a pound.
Cloves and Cubebs [pepper-like berry] bruised, each 8 gallons

Digest them together for the space of 24 hours and then draw it off in a common Alembick.

Keats was an apothecary student here and opposite the church is the site of his lodgings. He qualified but never practised.

St Thomas’ was a charitable hospital so most of its patients were too poor to pay for medical treatment. Anyone who could afford it would be treated at home, including having surgery performed, and, in the absence of any understanding of the causes of infection, this was probably a wise choice.

Patients were strictly segregated by sex, even when they were operated on. The men’s operating theatre does not survive, but in 1822 part of the roof space of the church was converted into an operating theatre for women. The entry then was through a now closed door and not, I was relieved to discover having climbed them, by way of the steep and narrow winding stairs that are the only way into the garret these days.

The new theatre was made with tiers where medical students and dressers (the surgeons’ assistants) could stand and observe the surgery. A skylight was created in the church roof to light the space and the floor had a gap between its boards and the ceiling below. This was filled with sawdust to prevent blood dripping through into the church.
It must have been a terrifying experience to face surgery with no anaesthetic and in the midst of a crowd of students all craning to see what was going on.
The museum’s information sheet quotes surgeon John Flint South (1814)
…the first two rows…were occupied by the other dressers, and behind a second partition stood the pupils, packed like herrings in a barrel, but not so quiet, as those behind were continually pressing on those before…There was also a continual calling out of “heads, heads” to those about the table whose heads interfered with the sightseers…

An original wooden operating table is still there – not so bad, until you look closely and see the cuts in the wood, just like those on a butcher’s block, where the saws and knives had cut through flesh to the wood below.

Under the table was a box of sawdust. The surgeon would kick it so it was underneath the worst of the bleeding and someone stood by to replace it when it would absorb no more.

As well as the blood-loss and pain there was a terrible risk of infection. The surgeon would operate in his ordinary clothes, merely changing his coat for another kept just for operations and rarely cleaned or changed. You can see an operating coat hanging by the door in the first view down into the theatre.

Outside the operating theatre is a collection of early surgical instruments – not much more cheering than the theatre itself, but with their own horrible fascination.
It was a relief to creep carefully down the twisting stairs in the church tower and escape into the foodie haven of Borough market, although oddly, my appetite was rather poor!

Images of love

This beautiful carving was created in 2006 by Bulgarian sculptor Pencho Dobrev during an Arts festival in Caerleon near Newport in South Wales. Artists in wood from all over Europe took part and many of the sculptures were moved to adorn various gardens and public spaces. But this one remained alone and neglected, in a field near the river where the competition had taken place. So when I returned to Caerleon a few weeks ago I was delighted to see it had been moved.
Since the earliest days of the human race men have carved images using stone, wood or deer antler. Sailors spent their off-duty hours creating scrimshaw: detailed pictures and lettering on walrus tusks or whale teeth. The Chinese and Indians used ivory; taking hundreds of hours to create elaborate ornaments and jewellery. Michaelangelo's David and the Pieta are magnificent, marble almost transformed into flesh.
But for me this image, hewn out of a single trunk, is one of the most beautiful and moving I have ever seen. The carving speaks of loss and grief, of comfort offered and strength drawn from loving arms. It symbolises the pairing of man and woman, and the uniting gift of love. It is timeless. Where is it now? Standing beneath a massive beech tree in St Cadoc’s churchyard. Which seems to me the perfect setting.

Jane Jackson.

Delight and Desire

Bride of the Solway, my tale of passion and adventure in the Scottish borders, is published for the first time in the USA and Canada in September. UK and Australian readers had it a while ago. (And for anyone who has forgotten about Ross and Cassie, there's an extract on my website here.)

Readers of Bride of the Solway were intrigued by the deep and lasting love between Colonel Robert Anstruther and his wife Isobel. So, for the very first time, I have written a prequel -- it tells the tale of Robert and Isobel's stormy twilight courtship, some fifteen years before they reappear in Bride of the Solway.

The prequel, Delight and Desire, will also be published in September, in the Harlequin Undone series of ebooks, available from the Harlequin website here.

Sadly, I don't yet have the cover of Delight and Desire. But here is the opening instead! It's Scotland, in Spring 1800...

The light and the place were magical, as ever. As was the silence. Soon the twilight would come, to make everything perfect.

Major Robert Anstruther tethered his horse and started towards the castle. Here, at Caerlaverock, he could be alone, to reflect on his future in the enfolding tranquillity of the moated ruin. He paused a moment to gaze up at the castle’s stout gate towers, their red colour deepening in the first rays of the setting sun. How many marauding armies had been repulsed from here, in the centuries when Scotland and England were separate, warring kingdoms? Nowadays, the kingdoms were joined and at peace, at least with one another. Wars were fought overseas.

As if to remind him of his own role in those wars, a sharp twinge of pain lanced through his injured leg. He muttered an oath and shifted his weight. He had expected to be fully fit again by now, and able to rejoin his regiment, but it would take some time yet. He grimaced. His army career must take second place for now, since his poor father could not survive much longer after that last seizure. Robert, as the only son, had had to promise to set about finding himself a wife.

In the gathering dusk, the mist was rising from the moat, starting to shroud Caerlaverock as if to hide it from prying eyes, like some fairytale castle. Such a magic and mysterious place should be home to the ghosts of ancient warriors, cut down in bloody battle, or perhaps to nymphs and naiads, rising from the watery depths, their golden curls glistening. Robert began to stroll towards the gate, musing on those strange thoughts. In all the years he had been coming here, in the twilight of dawn or dusk, he had never once met another human being. Nor a spirit, either. If they were here, they kept themselves well hidden.

Perhaps things had changed since his last visit, years ago? He had been out of the country a long time. He fancied that Caerlaverock was eternal, though. Its serene beauty never changed.

He had just crossed the moat on the rickety makeshift bridge and was going down into the dark narrows between the gate towers when he heard it—a silvery, tinkling laugh, floating on the drift of mist rising from the rushes. Some nymph was here, it seemed. And she had awakened just in time for the twilight that Robert so loved.

Intrigued, Robert crept down the stone passage, straining eyes and ears for any clue to where his nymph might be. Logic told him that he had imagined the sound, that there could not possibly be any fairy woman here, no matter how magical these ruins might seem. And yet he found himself putting one foot softly and warily in front of the other, in case a crunch of gravel should scare her away. If she was here, he wanted to see her, to touch her, before she melted back into the silent waters of the moat.

Another sound, carried on the mist. Not a laugh this time, but a song, a female voice humming a low, mysterious melody. It spoke wordlessly of lost love and heartbreak. Local legend said a water nymph would always mourn the love she could not have. But if an earthly man could kiss her, the nymph would be anchored to the human world for ever, and in thrall to the man who had shown her what human love could be.

Robert shook his head against his own fanciful imaginings, but he still crept silently forward to reach the open courtyard, beyond the gloom of the passage. He had to know.

She was there! High up on the battlements, on top of the tower, surrounded by mist, she seemed to be dancing on the air. It was difficult to see her clearly against the rays of the setting sun, but he had an impression of naked limbs clad in a damply clinging gown of filmy white, and a mane of red-gold hair hanging in loose curls around bare shoulders, glinting as it caught the dying light. She was dancing back and forth, weightless and floating, her naked arms raised towards the sunset.

She could not be real! But even so, no man could see such a vision without wishing to possess it. That seductive voice was luring him on, catching at all his senses. She must not be allowed to dissolve back into the mist. A water maiden’s kiss must surely be worth any risk? Kissing her, embracing her—would it be like trying to catch flowing water, impossible to hold, and as elusive as quicksilver?

Keeping to the shadows, he circled the courtyard until he came to the tower. He could hear her still, but she was hidden from him now by the vast bulk of the stonework. He crept up the spiral stairs, his eyes wide against the gloom, his ears attuned to the floating notes of her melody. The pain of his injury was pushed aside in his heart-thumping eagerness to reach the top, to snatch his prize. When he emerged, would she be gone? No, he could still hear her voice, drifting on the mist-laden air in long watery notes, sometimes so soft they might be no more than a breeze from the estuary and the sea beyond. But there was no breeze. The evening was totally still. Only the rising mist was moving, to protect the ruin from mortal eyes while its queen, this beautiful nymph, ascended her battlement throne. If he could capture her…

The light was just above him. He was about to emerge. He pressed his body against the wall of the staircase and stopped to listen. She sounded very near. He risked a rapid glance round the stonework and only just managed to swallow the gasp that rose in his throat. She was there! A beautiful illusion, perhaps, but almost near enough to touch.

She was smiling rather wistfully, humming still, and her eyes were closed. Her face was lifted towards the west. In the low sunshine, her curls were glowing like a fiery halo around her head. She seemed to be dancing with some invisible cavalier, holding out one long slim arm as if waiting for her partner to take it and kiss her hand. It was an invitation no man could resist. Robert stepped out into the light, clasped her outstretched fingers and pulled her into his arms, eager yet dreading the inevitable moment of loss when she faded into chilly, watery nothingness.

But she was not cold. Nor was she light as thistledown, like the fairies of his childhood tales. His nymph was cool and almost alive, as if she were already half-way to the earthly reality that he could offer her with his kiss, and with his body. He drew her closer and stroked a hand over her flowing hair, letting its silken strands caress his palm. Her magic was already possessing him totally. And he must possess her in turn.

His pulse was racing. His whole body was a mass of surging heat and desire. Yet his first kiss was gentle, hesitant, the merest touch on a mouth that was cool and unresponsive. Nymph-like, she was not ready to yield. But neither did she pull away.

It was enough. Now he began to kiss her in earnest, with only one insistent thought hammering through the raging chaos of his mind. If he could make his nymph respond to him, she would be earth-bound, and his, for ever! As the kiss continued, less gently now, he felt slim arms glide round his neck, touching his skin, his hair. He was making her ever more real. He would make her his! If he wanted to hold her, he must make love to her. But not by force. She could still flee, still melt into the mist. She must be made to want him, to long for him as he was now longing for her.

Joanna

Guest blog - Elizabeth Bailey

Elizabeth Bailey will need no introduction to our blog readers. Elizabeth is famous for her wonderful Regency romances but here she talks to us about her love of all things Georgian. Over to you, Liz!!

Thank you! It's lovely to be here.


Huge picture hats and charming straw bonnets; lashings of lace and tulle; yards of gathered floating muslin and bosoms upthrust by tightly boned stays. Powerful thighs encased in close-fitting breeches; elegant colourful tailcoats with flowing hair brushing the collar; white starched cravats and tasselled polished boots. Horses and carriages, vast estates and mansions filled with treasure. It’s a world of privilege and slowed down time, far from the rush and bustle of the twenty-first century.



Although the fictional Georgian world is necessarily a romanticised version, it harks back to an era of endless fascination. We know that the sharp class divisions and the inequities in life were unfair, that those who worked had to toil for hours to produce articles that would now be cut out in minutes by machine. We know life was harsh, that odours we would consider offensive were legion, that disease was rife and often incurable. But somehow the harshness adds to the piquancy of the period, pointing up the glamour enjoyed by the rich.

For the novelist, it’s an era riddled with possibilities. Where your modern author struggles to find legitimate obstacles to put in the way of achieving goals, the historical writer has them readily to hand. Communication can take days instead of being instantaneous; rules forbid women access to male dominated areas; travel is long and arduous; clothing is restrictive; food and drink can be inaccessible; and it is all too easy to become lost in a maze of dangerous alleyways or vast acres of uninhabited countryside.

Having recently shifted from romance to crime, I find myself faced with a whole new game of delightful options. Scientific advances are few and evidence depends on critical observation rather than forensic sampling. My sleuthing heroine has to have her wits about her and be able to get people in all walks of life to open up and talk. She needs to notice things, and she needs witnesses to help her draw conclusions about events surrounding the murder.

This is a world with little by way of police or procedure, but plenty in terms of blood, guts and stained clothing. It’s a world of easy death and frequent killings, but there was a working judicial system - flawed, but it was there. And the fascination of delving into the solving of murder mysteries has proved too tempting to resist.

But I can’t let romance drift out of my personal Georgian world. My heroine sleuth falls in love in book one, and each new book will feature a new romantic couple while my sleuth has her husband’s support to solve the next murder. I can’t give you the title as my agent is in process of selling it, but watch this space!

Meanwhile, I’ve started a critiquing and mentoring service designed to help unpublished authors reach publication standard. My main criteria are for authors to have choices about how much guidance they need, to make the service affordable and to be available for discussion afterwards.

I think it’s high time power over their own work was put back into the author’s hands. As novelists, we build our own worlds within the known one, and they are so personal we really ought to be allowed to have more control over what happens to them.

My Georgian world may be similar to that of another historical author, but each is unique, reflecting the writer’s own love of that particular past. What I love most about writing in the Georgian world is that I can invite readers into my particular world, which is close to the real one but belongs exclusively to me.

I so agree, Elizabeth, each of us has our own style and brings something of ourselves to our novels, but we all love the Georgian / Regency period.

If you want to know more about Elizabeth's critique and mentoring service you can contact her on eabailey @ tiscali.co.uk

Pepper Cove and Ralph's Cupboard: Some Cornish legends

This month, I'm delighted to introduce as guest blogger Julia Justiss, author of the third in the Regency Silk & Scandal continuity. Julia's book, The Smuggler & the Society Bride, takes the disgraced Lady Honoria Carlow and plunges her into the midst of danger when she is exiled to a remote Cornish village. Here Julia shares some of her research into the legends of Cornish smugglers. Over to you, Julia!

An area that for more than two centuries was synonymous with a dangerous, illicit trade generates many myths and legends. As I discovered when I researched the background of the smuggling coast of Cornwall, locale for THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE, even place names whisper of its smuggling past.

Pepper Cover, north of Porthcothan, was named for the boatloads of the spice that used to be landed there. North of Hayle, the coast road to Portreath passes Ralph’s Cupboard, where openings in the rock were used to store contraband. Hayle itself was also a landing point; tourists can visit a house, once a youth hostel, in which a sloping trench leads from the ground floor down to an arched tunnel that runs north toward the coast.

At Lelant, an old granite cottage (now a private home) used in the 19th century as a “kiddlewink” (beershop) had a cave excavated beside it for storing contraband, and it’s said the church at Lelant itself was used to store illegal spirits.

Perhaps because they would be less likely to be searched by zealous revenue agents, churches were sometimes put to use in the trade (with or without the knowledge of the local vicar.) South of Mylor, at Penrhyn, local legend claims that a tunnel led from the coast into St Gluvias' Vicarage. At Gunwalloe, caves along the beach were said to be linked by a tunnel leading to the belfry of a local church.

Mullion Cove in Mounts Bay was another favorite landing place. In fact, it’s said that the area residents were once so incensed when a government brig captured the cargo of a local smuggler that they raided the armoury at Trenance, opened fire on the brig, and recovered the smuggler’s illegal goods!

It wasn’t the only attack. At Prussia Cove, one member of the famous Carter smuggling family set up a small battery of cannons on the cliff to warn off revenuers; on one occasion, he fired on a cutter when it approached too close to his storage sites.

Caves were the most popular hiding places, but farms and outbuildings were also used, sometimes with “false walls” behind which contraband was concealed. The sunken road leading to Penpol Farm at Sunset Creek near Truro made that farm, with its caves and woods, a favorite haunt of area smugglers.

Reverend Hawker, vicar of Morwenstow, wrote many tales about the smuggling in his parish. One tells of the “Gauger’s Pocket” at Tidnacombe Cross, on the edge of the moor near the sea. Into this crevice, overgrown with moss and lichen and sealed by a moveable piece of rock, smugglers would drop a bag of gold for the local revenue agent in exchange for his cooperation in “keeping the coast quiet” during their run. (The picture on the right is of Morwentstow church seen from the sea.)

Near Padstow, another tale claims a farmer carrying goods inland, spotting a distant exciseman approaching, lifted a nearby gatepost from its socket, dropped the brandy tub into the hole, replaced the gate and greeted the king’s agent cheerfully when he passed by a few minutes later.

For more tales of Cornish smuggling, see http://www.timetravel-britain.com/articles/country/smugglers.shtml and the Smuggling Museum in Polperro: http://www.polperro.org/museum.html

I’ve always loved stories and legends (any wonder why I became a writer?) In Annapolis, where I grew up, there were several colonial-period houses with resident ghosts. My favorite has a mischievous spirit who, after the family were seated for dinner, would make a noise at the front of the house; when the family rushed out to investigate, he would blow out the candles in the dining room.

Are there any legends or tall tales associated with your area or home town? Houses where things go “bump in the night” or notorious deeds were done? Please share!

Read more about The Smuggler & the Society Bride at Julia's website www.juliajustiss.com/

Louise Allen

To Love Again

It's been a while since I last posted but I've enjoyed reading everyone's news. Hopefully my life is back on track - at least until we have to start packing the house in order to move in November. We have the junk from 36 years to dispose off!!
I'm delighted to tell you that I sold my first long novella to People's Friend in June and it will be published in October and also three novellas to Linford Romance for large print. A Mistaken Identity, which I sold last year, is coming out soon - September 1st - but I have not seen the cover yet.
Here is the cover of my latest My Weekly Pocket Novel, To Love Again. The hero looks more like a Victorian villain than a romantic Regency gentleman. I hope his dour face didn't put off my readers.
Enjoy the remainder of the summer - think of me, with my head in a cupboard trying to decide what to throw away, whilst you laze about on the beach.
Fenella Miller

Wayward Women!

It’s the summer and my thoughts if nothing else are turning to travel. I’m very fortunate in that I have visited lots of countries and read up on something of their fascinating history. I’ve driven across Africa, sailed to the North Pole (or as close as we could get) and camped in the Arabian desert. I’ve had some adventures. And that was in the late twentieth and twenty first century with sophisticated maps and global positioning systems all designed to help a traveller on her way.

I don’t mind admitting that if I had been born in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century I am not sure that I would have been as much of a traveller. My spirit would probably have been curious but whether I would have translated that curiosity into action is quite another matter because in that period it was not really the done thing for ladies to travel - unless they were following their husbands, of course.

There were some adventurous exceptions to the rule, and I came across one in the shape of Elizabeth, Lady Craven. Elizabeth was a woman who travelled beyond the more fashionable countries of Europe at a time when it was very unusual for any lady to do so of her own accord as a private individual. But then Elizabeth Craven was something of an original. Born in 1750, Lady Craven was a society beauty, famous for her published plays and her apparently excruciatingly bad verse and equally famous for her indiscreet love affairs. In 1780 she left Lord Craven and went to France, settling for a little in a house near Versailles. She did not like to stay in one place for long, however, and between 1783 and 1786 she travelled extensively around France, Italy, Austria, Poland, Bulgaria, Russia, Greece, and Turkey. Sometimes she journeyed in comfort in her liveried coach, accompanied by servants. Sometimes she rode side-saddle and alone.

In 1787 Robert Walpole suggested that Lady Craven publish an account of her travels, and A Journey through the Crimea to Constantinople appeared in 1789. In it Lady Craven describes manners, customs, and landscapes, pronounces Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's favourable account of Turkey a forgery, and constructs a self-image of redoubtable British vigour. A second edition appeared in 1814.

Lady Craven returned to live in England after the death of Lord Craven but the wanderlust was evidently in her blood because after her second husband died in 1806 she set off again, travelling to Germany and from there to Revolutionary France (Where she was accorded safe passage by Napoleon himself) and to Italy. She finally settled in Naples where, in her last years she was described “working in her garden, spade in hand, in very coarse and singular attire, a desiccated, antiquated piece of mortality, remarkable for vivacity, realising the idea of a galvanised Egyptian mummy,” a striking if not particularly flattering image of the old English aristocratic lady abroad!

Do you think you would have enjoyed travel in the late eighteenth/early nineteenth century? Would you have ventured abroad alone?

INSPIRATION

THE EARL's RUNAWAY BRIDE has garnered some wonderful reviews recently on the Romance Junkies and Cataromance blogs, and I am thrilled at the reception it has received. This book started (as most books do) from a tiny germ of an idea, when I was following the route of the British Army as it retreated from the French across the mountains of northern Spain.

Sir John Moore had taken command of the British forces in the Peninsula in 1808 and set about harrying the French troops, all 200,000 of them with Napoleon at their head (very brave when he had only about 23,000 men!) He drew them northwards and retreated to Corunna and Vigo where the British Navy was waiting (he hoped) to carry his army to safety. Napoleon sent a significant proportion of his army to chase the British across the mountains to the sea, hoping to destroy the British Army once and for all. Moore stayed one step ahead of the French and he established himself in Corunna, but the French were too close and he knew he would have to fight them if the British ships were to reach the harbour safely. Moore was fatally wounded during the battle in January 1809 but he remained conscious for several hours (and must have suffered horrendously, having been struck by a cannon shot that "broke his ribs, his arm, lacerated his shoulder and the whole of his left side and lungs.") He lived long enough to know that the battle had been won.

He was buried in the ramparts of the town, wrapped in a military cloak and is still revered by the people of Corunna as a saviour – the photo shows Moore's Monument during the Bicentennial celebrations in January 2009 and the second photo below shows some of the re-enactors who attended the ceremony.
I found the whole of this tour from Portugal northwards through Spain, following the army's route, incredibly moving and there are so many exciting stories still to tell about this period of the Pensinular War, like the dumping of the government chest – a vast fortune was pushed over the side of a ravine to prevent it falling into French hands – and the tales of how the people of Corunna stood and watched in sympathy as the British soldiers, ragged and starving, marched into the town to make their stand against the French. The British had not behaved particularly well towards the Spanish people during their retreat and there were tales of looting and pillage, but the people of Corunna fought bravely beside the British troops to fight off the French long enough for the British ships to evacuate the army, and it is said that while the British were marching their troops through the town to the harbour during the night, the townspeople put candles and lamps in their windows to light their way.

Very little of this is mentioned in the Earl's Runaway Bride, but it provides a wonderfully strong back-drop for the story. I am very grateful to Ian Fletcher for his wonderful tour (http://www.ifbt.co.uk/) - it has given me ideas for any number of new stories about this fascinating place. All I need now is the time to write them....

Sarah Mallory

Twenty Years of Family History

THE LOVEDAY VENDETTA published in hardback by Headline this month is the eleventh in the Loveday series. It takes the family drama to the second generation of this passionate, daring and adventurous family. But the younger Lovedays have not only inherited the family’s headstrong and wild-blooded traits that govern their tumultuous lives, they also have to face the curse of their ancestry and fight their own demons to conquer dangerous adversaries to recover their stolen heritage and uncover the truth behind the murder of a loved one…

The orphaned Bryn, who is Captain Adam Loveday’s ward, is determined to bring the murderer of his mother and brother to justice and reclaim his inheritance. His quest not only places his own life in danger but also that of Rowena Loveday, the oldest of the Loveday siblings. Rowena -ho has already faced the censure of the scandals created by her parents - is no complacent captive to her kidnappers, she is a formidable adversary towards anyone who would seek to destroy her reputation.

Beautiful and spirited she has long used her wiles to captivate handsome suitors, most of whom have seduction and not marriage in mind. Fiercely proud of her Loveday blood Rowena is determined to prove that she is a worthy daughter of that honourable heritage. Yet her mother’s reputation as a fortune huntress, adulteress and scheming daughter of the savage Sawle family of smugglers remains a blight upon her own good name and has made her distrustful of any suitor’s intentions.

Within the previous ten novels in the series there have been many dramatic love affairs and romances, but increasingly it has been the personality of the characters and their quest for excitement and adventure that has led them into exploits involving the major historical events of their times. In the later novels to keep the series exciting and fresh, although romance has been present, it has played a much lower key in the plots and the drama, and it is the psychology and motivation of the characters in their quest to triumph over adversaries and rivals that has taken a more important role.

So far the loyal fans of the series have demanded more of this and in THE LOVEDAY VENDETTA the younger generation continue to be ruled by their passionate natures as they face an enemy more evil and powerful than the Loveday family have ever encountered. Young and old must unite to protect their own. But will it be too late…

The knife edge atmospheric drama is fast moving and guaranteed to keep the reader turning the pages. The twist ending is a heart racing conclusion. THE LOVEDAY VENDETTA was the most rewarding and mentally challenging of the novels to write, but the diversity and high intensity of the family emotions drove the story forwards under its own momentum.

Although each of the books stand on their own, the series was written in chronological order of the family history. Rowena was born in the first book and the inner rivalry within the family set up the conflicts of future dramas to unfold in the lives of the family. Although mostly set in Cornwall their adventures take them to France during the Revolution and Napoleonic wars, America, Australia, and the London world of high society, the theatre and underworld.

The order of the series is Adam Loveday, The Loveday Fortunes, The Loveday Trials, The Loveday Scandals, The Loveday Honour, The Loveday Pride, The Loveday Loyalty, The Loveday Revenge, The Loveday Secrets, The Loveday Conspiracy, The Loveday Vendetta. All the books are currently in print by Headline and available through Amazon, The Book Depository and can be ordered from bookshops.

Kate Tremayne

Elizabeth and Darcy: The Iconic Romantic Couple

Laurel Ann from the fabulous Austenprose blog very kindly invited me to guest blog as part of her Pride and Prejudice without Zombies Group Read. If you've not been aware of all the fascinating posts do head on over there - there's something of interest for all fans of Pride and Prejudice. I was thrilled when Laurel Ann asked me if I'd write about the main hero and heroine of the novel especially as I've just finished a continuation of Pride and Prejudice.

Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy are perhaps Jane Austen’s most beloved characters. Pride and Prejudice was written more than two hundred years ago, yet these characters remain as fresh and irresistibly fascinating to us as they were for the first generations that read their tale, and remain the standard by which all other characters in a love story are judged. So, why do we love them so much?
Jane Austen tells their story through Elizabeth’s eyes so it’s easy to identify with this heroine who is lively, witty, and loveable as much for her faults as for her charms. We identify with her because we feel she is like us. She is capable of making mistakes, but having realised her errors, she changes and grows as a result. We see her character develop as the story enfolds. The first time we really meet Elizabeth it is at the Meryton Assembly where the proud Mr Darcy is also in attendance with his affable friend Mr Bingley. There is a lack of gentlemen at the ball, and Lizzy has to sit out for two dances. Mr Darcy is seen to be behaving in a particularly disagreeable manner. He only dances with Mr Bingley’s sisters and ignores everyone else in the room. Everyone has heard that he is a rich landowner, but his wealth and power coupled with his anti-social manners only serve to make him appear arrogant. He doesn’t seem to care that his words may be overheard or that his speech is insulting. In fact, he is almost goading Elizabeth whom he has heard described as a pretty girl. He actually makes sure that Lizzy is looking at him before he speaks. It’s almost as if he wants her to hear, and make her aware that he can attract, and have any woman in the room.
“She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
It’s a real put down, and as an unsurprising consequence, she dislikes him instantly! At this stage, we also think he’s horrid, and I doubt there are many people who stop and wonder at the psychology behind his behaviour. It’s only when their relationship starts to develop that we think about the undeniable ‘chemistry’ between them, and question their attraction to one another from what seems such an unpromising start.
To our utter delight, Mr Darcy finds himself attracted to her even though he is determined to find fault with her, and when she refuses to stand up with him for a dance we rejoice at her opportunity for revenge. The lively banter that ensues between them is what makes their relationship so satisfying. In every respect, Elizabeth proves herself equal in intelligence. She is no simpering female. When they are thrown together at the Netherfield Ball, Darcy begins to enjoy Lizzy’s lively conversation and pert manners. Although she is determined to continue her dislike of him, she agrees to dance with him before she can help herself. The conversation that flies between them is an exercise in brilliant dialogue as each of them tries to better the other with a witty retort. Elizabeth is beginning to realize that however fixed her first impressions of Darcy seemed initially, her opinion of him is changing. She recognizes that they have similarities in their characters; they both like to think that they can use their intellect coupled with a wry sense of humour to win an argument or to make a point all meted out in an economy of language.
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy - I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. "Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.” “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly." ” They behave for the most part as opposing forces that cannot help being attracted to the other. Elizabeth prides herself on reading the psychology of people – she likes to know what makes them tick. The infuriating thing is that she cannot make Darcy out, when she thinks she has the upper hand, he then seizes power to have the whip hand over Elizabeth. Just as we imagine that the couple is warming toward one another, something happens to make Lizzy despise Mr Darcy even more. She witnesses his snubbing of Mr Wickham and when the latter claims that Darcy has mistreated him she dislikes him even more. Elizabeth is swayed by Mr Wickham’s charming manner and has no reason to doubt his word. Darcy’s general behaviour has prejudiced her view of him, and so she takes Wickham’s part. One of the reasons we love Elizabeth is because she is fiercely independent and knows her own mind. When Mr Collins proposes, we know she should accept him, but she refuses to compromise on her principles being prepared to go against the wishes of her mother. Elizabeth knows her prospects to marry well are bleak due to her lack of a good dowry, and even though the likely outcome is that she will remain a spinster, she remains true to her beliefs unlike her friend Charlotte Lucas who ultimately marries Mr Collins. Elizabeth is determined to marry for love. We admire her because she is rebellious, but also because she recognizes her own faults. Elizabeth is not impressed by Darcy’s wealth and position alone, his character is what interests her, and initially she thinks he is rather shallow when he judges women by their accomplishments alone. He obviously thinks no woman is worthy of his consideration unless she is ‘accomplished’ and when he says he knows of only a half dozen women like this Elizabeth retaliates.
“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”
It is the continual sparring between Elizabeth and Darcy that we especially enjoy. One of them says something designed to provoke the other, and we wait with bated breath to hear their reaction. Darcy responds to Miss Bingley playing a Scotch air on the pianoforte by suggesting that Elizabeth might feel the impulse to dance a reel. Lizzy knows this is a veiled insult – he’s already mentioned that ‘every savage can dance’, and reels are generally danced by the lower orders.
Elizabeth replies, “…You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all - and now despise me if you dare.”
Of course, Mr Darcy does not dare. In order to fully understand Elizabeth’s character we must know something of the expected manners and customs of the time. Young women led sheltered lives amongst family members and had little freedom. Lizzy loves walking around Meryton and the surrounding area unchaperoned which at the time would have been seen as most inappropriate behaviour for a young lady. Walking through mud and jumping over stiles to visit her sister at Netherfield would not have been deemed as the correct way to conduct herself.
Darcy’s character is a composition in contrasts. On the one hand he exhibits reservations about the behaviour of certain Bennet family members, but Elizabeth’s own individual quirkiness and her efforts to go against convention only intrigue him. He likes what he sees as her athleticism, and when Miss Bingley tries to make Elizabeth appear less worthy in his eyes by pointing out her muddy petticoat, and the fact that he would not let his sister tramp about alone in the countryside, his increasing attraction to Elizabeth is observed when he remarks that ‘her eyes were brightened by the exercise.’ Mr Darcy famously refers to Elizabeth’s ‘fine eyes’, and indeed, Jane Austen uses eyes in many instances to show the growing attraction between the couple.
Here are a few instances: Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush.
Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her.
They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
When Darcy realises he is so in love with Elizabeth that there’s no turning back, he asks her to marry him. His proposal is ungracious; he declares he is going against his own sense in asking her to be his wife. Lizzy, in true fashion throws his words and proposal back at him saying she cannot return his feelings, and declares her anger at the way he treated Wickham.
“…from the first moment, I may almost say - of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
We know that Elizabeth would be set up for life if she marries him but her principles are admirable. She is not going to marry a man simply because he is rich. She is prejudiced against him for the characteristics she deplores – his haughtiness, his pride, and because he has assumed that she will jump at the chance to be his wife. At this point Darcy is outraged. As far as he is concerned he thinks he is offering what any woman could possibly want to make their dreams come true – his estate at Pemberley, and his fortune. He also wants to put the record straight about Wickham. Darcy writes Elizabeth a letter, and this is an interesting illustration of his character. Why doesn’t he go and see her, to explain in person? Perhaps his pride prevents it. After all, she has rejected him. He may be good at a quick comeback, but he seems more reserved when it comes to expressing his feelings and thoughts. I think we begin to question whether his haughtiness is simply masking a real insecurity; perhaps he is reserved and a little shy in company. It maybe that his discomfort in society and his inability to be at ease in social situations makes him appear to be arrogant when this is not the case. We learn from Mrs Reynolds, his housekeeper, who has known him since he was a small boy that he is far from being an intimidating tyrant. She describes him as being good-natured, sweet-tempered and generous-hearted. Praise indeed! In her turn, when Lizzy reads the letter with the explanation that Wickham tried to elope with Georgiana Darcy, her first impressions are questioned. We see another side of Darcy when he and Elizabeth meet again at Pemberley. Mrs Reynolds’s warm appraisal, his changed manner, plus his beautiful house and grounds make Lizzy see him through new eyes. She is beginning to fall in love with him. He is pulling out all the stops to impress her. It’s clear he’s been thinking about what she said to him, and he is trying to change for the better. He is kind to her uncle and aunt, and does not display his former snobbishness toward them. Darcy goes out of his way to be sociable inviting them all to an evening party and introducing his sister.
After learning the truth about Wickham, Elizabeth realizes that there is always more than one way of looking at things. She comes to know the real Mr Darcy as he lets his guard down and when she discovers the quiet way in which he saves her sister Lydia from ruin hence making it possible for their eventual alliance, Elizabeth knows she has been wrong to judge him. Darcy falls in love eventually for all the right reasons – Elizabeth’s intelligence and lively ways have captivated him, and he enjoys the fact that she is not afraid of him or sycophantic toward him. They both change to suit the other because they really love one another unreservedly. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth both make mistakes, but try to put them right and because they admit to their shortcomings, we love them all the more! Laurel Ann contributed this wonderful passage which shows so perfectly how Mr Darcy has changed for the better by the end of the novel. “Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” Mr. Darcy, Chapter 58.

My novel, Mr Darcy's Secret will be published by Sourcebooks in February, 2011. My editor just sent me the cover today which is beautiful - I'm so excited, and can't wait to hold it in my hands!
After capturing the heart of the richest man in England, Elizabeth Darcy believes her happiness is complete until mysterious affairs involving Mr Darcy’s past, and concerns over his sister Georgiana’s own troubled path to happiness present Elizabeth with fresh challenges to test her integrity, honour, and sweet nature as she fights her old fears and feelings of pride and prejudice. However, nothing can daunt our sparkling and witty heroine or dim her sense of fun as Elizabeth and the powerful, compelling figure of Mr Darcy take centre stage in this romantic tale set against the dramatic backdrops of Regency Derbyshire and the Lakes amongst the characters we love so well.
Jane Odiwe

‘The Utterly Wonderful London Library’

The above quotation comes from the acknowledgements in a book by the highly-acclaimed children’s author, Mary Hoffman. And I have come across many similar tributes in books by other grateful members. Georgette Heyer, for example, was a member and found it invaluable when researching The Spanish Bride and An Infamous Army.

I added my own small tribute in Crossing the Tamar. I wrote: I could not have written this without the resources of the wonderful London Library – where else could I find The Times of 1808 and books on Cornish Mail coaches and a history of cock fighting all under the same roof?

So, what is the London Library (not to be confused with the British Library)? It is a members library in St James’s Square, just behind Piccadilly, founded in 1841 by the historian, Thomas Carlyle. 19th century members include Charles Dickens, George Eliot and Arthur Conan Doyle. 20th century members include Agatha Christie, John Betjeman and Jane Aiken Hodge. Current members include Tom Stoppard, Philippa Gregory and Diana Norman.

There are over one million books and over 8,500 new books are added annually. Of particular interest to historical novelists, are the literature (and fiction), history, biography, topography and arts sections. Personally, I love the quirky Science and Miscellaneous section, which has everything from smuggling, chocolate and costume to folk lore, cricket and sundials.

What I particularly like is that the library never discards books, so you can find – and borrow - an early 19th century guide to Dieppe, for example, or The Illustrated London News from 1860.

It’s a great place to work, too. There are several rooms to work in, including the original reading room with its deep leather armchairs, but, if you prefer, there are also desks tucked away in various odd corners all over the building. There is an outstanding reference library and free internet access through public terminals and Wi-Fi for laptop users.


If at home, or out of London, members have free, remote access to a wealth of resources, including JSTOR, the online archive. And the library will post books to members anywhere in the U.K. and Europe for just the cost of postage.

So, what does all this cost? The current annual subscription is £395. A lot, you may think, and, of course, it is. You can, however, pay monthly, which comes to just over £33 per month. Or, to put it another way, it’s a little over £1 a day – the cost of a daily newspaper. I was discussing this with a journalist I met there a week or so ago. She said, ‘An awful lot of other things would have to go first before I’d give up my membership.’

Judge for yourself. www.londonlibrary.co.uk

(Pictures courtesy of The London Library)

Elizabeth Hawksley

Cuture Shock

Just now I am researching for a book set entirely in India in the late 18thc and writing a trilogy which begins there in the early 19thc, so the British experience is very much on my mind. A visit to the fabulous recent exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery - The Indian Portrait - gave a fascinating insight into the life, and mind-set, of the earlier British inhabitants, the officers of the East India Company who seem to have thrown themselves whole-heartedly into princely Indian culture.

A portrait of William Fullerton (c1764) shows him reclining on a terrace smoking a huqqa, just like many of the Indian noblemen in the exhibition. Fullerton is wearing his wig and black tricorne hat, his crimson coat and knee breeeches - he must have been sweltering! - but a similar scene depicting John Wombwell in the late 18thc shows him wearing Indian dress and he seems very comfortable sitting cross-legged with his pillows and huqqa.

The picture at the top is from a collection of old prints of India showing the life of these East India Company officials. This one reclines at his ease in a completely European setting - furniture, globe, even his tall hat left on the table. And yet he is listening with drowsy pleasure to a quartet of local musicians.

These earlier Europeans seem to have adapted well to life in India - if they lived long enough. When they succumbed to disease or the heat they even adapted the funery monuments of home to their new life, as this graceful figure on a tomb in St John's Chuch, Kolkata shows. Many took Indian wives, some converted to Islam or Hinduism without causing adverse comment, most seem to have adopted Indian dress for much of the time.

The culture shock must have been extreme but the approach appears to have been one of curiosity and interest as they settled down to trade, sending back the silks and embroideries, the Kashmir shawls, the ivory and gems that adorned the ladies of Georgian Society back home. What did they make of scenes such as this of the Red Fort in Delhi in a cloud of Black Kite?

You cannot romanticise their presence, of course. The British East India Company were in India to make money - and they did, in staggering quantities, while enjoying all the privileges of the princely rulers and without, it seems, a thought for the ordinary people. But I cannot help liking them far more than the Victorians who followed them and condemned their adoption of local ways and shunned the wives and children of their marriages.

I'll leave you with this image of Empire - Queen Victoria dominating the scene in front of the Victoria Memorial in Kolkata.

Louise Allen

Mazey Day

A couple of weeks ago we went down to Penzance for Mazey Day. This takes place on Saturday of the final weekend of the annual Golowan Festival, the midsummer feast of St John (Gol Jowan) celebrated by a week of events around the town. These include traditional dances, live music and street theatre. In Victorian times it also included blazing tar barrels and people racing through the strrets with flaming torches - activities that the mayor and corporation considered too danagerous. So Golowan was banned. Then in 1991 the festival was resurrected in the form we see today. For me, Mazey Day is particularly special. The main street is closed to traffic for the day, decorated with greenery freshly picked that morning, and lined with stalls. (Not a tar barrel or flaming torch in sight) The weather was glorious: bright sunshine with a hint of cooling breeze. Then at 11 0’clock the procession, accompanied by several bands of musicians, separated by a class of children in costume and featuring every primary school in the area, made its way through the town. After months working with their teachers and local artists, this was their opportunity to display their costumes and the huge and mind-blowing effigies they have created. Watching the children, seeing their pleasure and glowing pride, brought a huge lump to my throat, and I was surrounded by a forest of upstretched hands clutching cameras, mobile phones and videocameras, all anxious to capture the parade.

Jane Jackson.