The Renaissance Betrothal

Popular since the Middle Ages, betrothal ceremonies frequently involved some sort of ceremony or symbolic act. This is believed to date back to the time of ancient Rome. In Anglo-Saxon England the joining of hands to seal the betrothal was common as we know from the term ‘handfasting’ to signify a betrothal. In fourteenth and fifteenth century Italy, the betrothal was sealed by a handshake between the parents, or at best the father of the bride and the prospective groom.

In sixteenth century France this ritual was known as les accords. There would be the giving of a ring, often a gimmel ring which was in two parts, one to be worn by the prospective groom, the other by the bride, the two joined together to form the wedding ring. Records indicate the drinking of wine to toast the agreement, or taking part in a sumptuous feast ‘in the name of marriage’, or simply be sealed with a kiss.

The betrothal ceremony confirmed that these two people promised to marry one another, an agreement which could be considered more legally binding than the marriage ceremony itself. Once betrothed, if a couple had sexual intercourse, then they were considered married. And a betrothal contract could only be broken if both parties agreed.

Not that the young woman concerned had much say in the matter. Marriage was less about love and more about wealth, position and power, which meant, as we romantic novelists know, plenty of opportunity for extra-curricular activity in the way of affairs. Henry IV is reputed to have enjoyed at least 60 mistresses with whom he sired numerous illegitimate children, and three or four maîtresse-en-titre.

But with Henriette de’Entragues he perhaps took on more than he’d bargained for she had set her sights on nothing less than marriage, and with it a crown. She therefore insisted upon a promesse de matrimonio before agreeing to surrender her maidenhead, allegedly still intact, and becoming his mistress. In a weak moment of overwhelming desire, Henry agreed that if she could give him a son, then he would marry her. A decision which was to create untold problems in the years ahead, and leave Henriette fighting a battle for what she perceived to be her rights, at whatever the cost.


Next came the fiançailles when the bans were published. The parents, bride and bridegroom would visit the curé together to attend to this important matter. Then came the Epousailles which of course took place in church. The bridegroom was not allowed to enter without giving a considerable sum in alms, and guests were chosen to attend the wedding breakfast with an eye to the money they’d be likely to give. A bowl was handed round at dinner into which donations for a ‘nest-egg’ for the couple could be dropped.

Henry left such traditions to the bourgeoisie, but provided well for all his children, whatever their status, and was a loving father. Those he had with Henriette shared the royal nursery with the legitimate heirs he had with his queen, Marie de Medici, much to that lady’s displeasure. But Henry loved to play with them, and it was so much more practical to keep them all together in one place. The people of Paris were highly entertained by the fact that his mistress and queen were often enceinte at the same time.

The Queen and the Courtesan, published 29 June, can be found as a paperback or ebook here: 

Amazon

The Calendar of the French Revolution

Happy Bastille Day, all. Vive la France!

The French Revolution in 1789 was supposed to create a new order in France. Out with aristocratic tyranny, in with republican democracy! Liberté, égalité, fraternité!

Well, not quite. As part of the process of ousting monarchy, the French Revolution swept away many of the trappings of the Ancien Régime, or attempted to. One of the things they changed was the calendar.

Various versions of the revolutionary calendar existed from 1789 until 1792. But the dates were confusing. What was the start date, January 1, 1789, or July 14, 1789 (the storming of the Bastille)? Since financial transactions especially suffered from this confusion, the legislature made a final decision in 1792 when the French Republic was established. By naming 1792 Year One, the Calendar of the Revolution is in reality the Calendar of the Republic. In France, the same calendar is known as both calendrier républicain as well as the calendrier révolutionnaire.

The Calendar of the Revolution consisted of twelve months of thirty days each and started at the autumnal equinox. The months received new names derived from nature, the nature mainly the weather around Paris. The years are written in Roman numerals.

From Wikipedia:

Autumn:
Vendémiaire in French (from Latin vindemia, "grape harvest"), starting 22, 23 or 24 September
Brumaire (from French brume, "fog"), starting 22, 23 or 24 October
Frimaire (From French frimas, "frost"), starting 21, 22 or 23 November

Winter:
Nivôse (from Latin nivosus, "snowy"), starting 21, 22 or 23 December
Pluviôse (from Latin pluvius, "rainy"), starting 20, 21 or 22 January
Ventôse (from Latin ventosus, "windy"), starting 19, 20 or 21 February

Spring:
Germinal (from Latin germen, "germination"), starting 20 or 21 March
Floréal (from Latin flos, "flower"), starting 20 or 21 April
Prairial (from French prairie, "pasture"), starting 20 or 21 May

Summer:
Messidor (from Latin messis, "harvest"), starting 19 or 20 June
Thermidor (or Fervidor) (from Greek thermon, "summer heat"), starting 19 or 20 July
Fructidor (from Latin fructus, "fruit"), starting 18 or 19 August

The calendar changes didn't end with the months. Within each month were three weeks of ten days apiece, called décades.

The year ended with five extra days to fill in the discrepancy between the order of the French calendar and the disorder of the physical year, which refused to use less than 365 days (or 366 days in leap years).

In the French Calendar of the Revolution, today, July 14, 2012 is 25 Messidor CCXX. A Gregorian-Revolutionary Calendar converter is here. (use Internet Explorer).

The adoption of the final form of the new calendar didn't end France's calendar woes. The French still had to communicate with the outside world which used the Gregorian calendar. The onus of translating between two calendars added another level of tedium and confusion to the dating of events.

The Calendar of the Revolution came to an end some thirteen years after its adoption, when Napoleon declared the day after 10 Nivôse An XIV as January 1, 1806.

Thank you all,
Linda
Linda Banche
Welcome to My World of Historical Hilarity!
http://www.lindabanche.com

Picture is the Calendrier républicain de 1794 from Wikipedia

Vikings and Christians

Far After Gold by Jen Black is up on Amazon Kindle at a very low price!
Amazon 

The paperback has been lying forgotten on my shelves for a couple of years since Quaestor ceased trading in 2010 due to the owner's ill-health. The book had just over a year of life as a viable paperback, and I suddenly thought - why waste all that effort? why not put it up on Amazon Kindle?

Checking my pc, I didn't have a file for it. None of my USB sticks held a copy. The thought of re-typing it all from the paperback, or scanning it, was not encouraging. Finally I found a copy on an old hard disc, which reminded me How Things Have Changed in a few years!

So I began with an old computer version. I put it into text to take out all the Quaestor formatting, and then began the laborious task of putting all the punctuation back in again. It takes time. As I inserted paragraphs and suchlike, I began tweaking the words themselves; a word here, a deletion there, but soon, I was taking out and rewriting whole chunks. All I can say is I wrote FAG, as I call it, about six or seven years ago, and I've learned a lot since then.

So, it's now a smart, sexy, romantic tale of a young Christian girl bought as a slave by a young Viking warrior.

Here's an excerpt:

“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 halted 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? Should she speak now, before it was too late? 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. 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 seawater and seaweed in her nostrils. She drew a swift, choked breath of air. Her last moment in the world had arrived, and she could not free her tongue to speak. Dear God…. She shut her eyes, awaiting 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 steel 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?”

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

Visit Jen's blog today and learn fascinating facts about castles -
http://jenblackauthor.blogspot.com

Furious at being frightened and then gentled like a nervous horse, Emer seized the hated collar and hurled it far out over the loch.

4 star review from RT Book Reviews for Hostage to Fortune

 E-book & Print. BUY: http://www.amazon.com/Hostage-to-Fortune-ebook/dp/B006GQFCE6/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1340417377&sr=8-2&keywords=hostage+to+fortune

HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE
by Maggi Andersen
Genre: Historical Romance, E-book, England, France
Sensuality: HOT
Setting: 1792 England and France

RT Rating

This is an adventure not to be missed. The excitement mounts as danger appears around every corner. The devastation of the French Revolution is a backdrop to the well-executed plot. Love is in the air for three couples, but will they survive to realize their dreams?

Verity is an actress whose father is in a French dungeon. To free him she must deliver Anthony Beaumont in trade. She travels to London to seduce Anthony into following her to France. She doesn’t plan on falling in love. Then, he hares off on his own to France to locate his brother-in-law. Verity follows him, reluctantly taking along his daughter who refuses to be left behind. Unfortunately, they just miss joining Anthony, as soldiers of the Revolution reach their destination ahead of them and capture him and his brother-in-law. Will everyone finally be reunited, or will they face the guillotine? (MAGGIANDERSENAUTHOR.COM

Turning Historical Fact into Fiction

Sebastian Faulks has described himself as a novelist whose books happen to be set in the past. ‘For me,’ he said, ‘the use of historical settings is to cast the present in a more interesting and broader light.’ People are clearly more important to him than circumstantial detail. Some novels are so deeply researched they seem like non-fiction in disguise. In a romance too much information can kill the story dead by boring the reader. Even so, we must do our research and set the scene as accurately as we can. We can take some liberties, for the sake of the story, but if we veer too far from the facts as we know them, the reader may feel cheated and lose faith in the work. If a mistake crops up, an anachronism, this will jar the reader, and jerk them out of the story back to the present.

It’s wise to avoid controversy or anything doubtful which has a hint of being anachronistic. It hasn’t so much to be correct as to feel correct. E.g: Soldiers did play baseball in the American Civil War. I believe they also played in a Jane Austen novel too. But the reader may found that hard to accept.


Societies traditions, moral mores and customs help to build the picture, but this is where even the most fanatical historian can come unstuck. Many time periods, such as the Regency, have become so stylised that you may actually be considered to have written an historically inaccurate book if you do not follow the “popular perceptions” of the period. Presenting a realistic, complex view of Society during a specific era can be the thing that makes the difference between a passable yarn and a gripping story.

Marie de Medici

It’s surely about striking the right balance. The story is the most important thing, but it must be firmly rooted in its world. It must not simply be a costume drama. I certainly needed to conduct a great deal of research for a trilogy set in Sixteenth Century France. The past must be made as relevant as the present. The problems are the same, human emotion, conflict and behaviour. Falling in love and losing that love are just as painful. Bernard Cornwell said: ‘Essentially the background has to be right because it’s the detail of the background that pins down the fiction in the foreground.’

The Queen and the Courtesan is what might be called biographical fiction, in that I have fictionalised the facts. Marie fell in love with Henry IV, to her misfortune, as it embittered her in a way. Rejection was something she could not deal with, because of experiences she'd suffered as a child. I think the hardest part of writing historical fiction based on fact, is that you can’t simply let your imagination run loose. I usually write character-driven relationship sagas but with this trilogy I had to search out every detail. It was almost like being a detective, finding out what these people were really like, the intrigues they were involved in, and what their motivation was. Fascinating, but scary too at times as I needed to read widely to gain every viewpoint before I could write with any confidence.

Henriette d’Entragues isn’t satisfied with simply being the mistress of Henry IV of France, she wants a crown too. Despite his promises to marry her, the King is obliged by political necessity to ally himself with Marie de Medici, an Italian princess who will bring riches to the treasury. But Henriette isn’t for giving up easily. She has a written promise of marriage which she intends to use to declare the royal marriage illegal. All she has to do to achieve her ambition is to give Henry a son, then whatever it takes through intrigue and conspiracy to set him on the throne.

The Queen and the Courtesan, published 29 June by Severn House, can be found as a paperback or ebook here: 

Amazon

The Gentle Wind's Caress released

My historical novel, The Gentle Wind's Caress, has been released in paperback and in digital formats. Yay!

The Blurb:Halifax, 1876. On the death of her mother and sister, Isabelle Gibson is left to fend for herself and her brother in a privately-run workhouse. After the matron's son attempts to rape her, Isabelle decides to escape him and a life of drudgery by agreeing to marry a moorland farmer she has never met. But this man, Farrell, is a drunkard and a bully in constant feud with his landlord, Ethan Harrington. When Farrell bungles a robbery and deserts her, Isabelle and Ethan are thrown together as she struggles to save the farm. Both are married and must hide their growing love. But despite the secrecy, Isabelle draws strength from Ethan as faces from the past return to haunt her and a tragedy is set to strike that will change all of their lives forever.

The except:‘He’ll be here soon.’ Hughie sat by the fire darning a sock. ‘The snow has likely held him up.’
‘What keeps him out night after night?’ She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘He drinks more than a sailor does on his first day back at port!’
 Hughie grinned.The sound of scratching made Isabelle frown. The snowstorm grew in intensity. She could no longer see the outbuildings. The scratching sounded again. ‘What is that?’
Hughie shrugged. ‘The trees on the window upstairs?’
Isabelle stepped away from the window, nibbling her fingertips. There would be no market day today. She went to walk into the scullery when a thump hit the back door. She opened it and cried out as Farrell landed at her feet.
Hughie dashed to her side and together they stared at her husband’s bloody form.‘Heaven’s above!’ Isabelle bent to touch him. He stirred and moaned. ‘Help me bring him inside, Hughie.’
They grabbed him under the arms and dragged him down the step and onto the kitchen floor. His coat was missing and his wet woollen vest cloaked him like another skin.
Farrell opened and closed his eyes. ‘Isabelle…’
‘What happened to you?’ She took a dishcloth from the table and knelt to wipe the blood oozing from a cut in his forehead. She gestured to Hughie. ‘Get me some blankets off the bed and a pillow too. He’s too heavy to lift, so I’ll have to make a bed in here for him.
’As Hughie ran to do as she bid, Isabelle quickly made him a cup of sweet tea and held his head up to pour a little into his mouth. Next, she rubbed Farrell’s cold hands between her own. Hughie ran into the room with the items she asked for, and Isabelle placed the pillow under Farrell’s head. ‘Heat a warming pan, Hughie.’
Farrell’s eyes fluttered, he moaned between blue lips.
Isabelle ran into the scullery and found an old pair of gloves. She returned and tugged them onto his icy hands. ‘Lord, what have you done to yourself?’
He murmured and opened his eyes. She tucked the blanket around him more securely. ‘Lie still.’
‘No…’She put the cup to his lips again. ‘Drink this now. You need to get warm.’
He slowly eased himself up onto one elbow. ‘Got to hide.’ He wheezed and then coughed. His split lip began to bleed freely again.
‘Hide?’ She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘They’ll find me here!’ He tried to get up, but she pushed him back down. 
‘Who?’
‘Had to run…’
Hughie knelt down beside them. ‘Has he lost his mind?’
‘Heaven knows, silly man. It’d be hardly surprising if he has, being out in this weather all night.’ She made Farrell drink again. ‘Take his boots off, Hughie.’
‘No!’ Farrell reared up. ‘I must hide.’ He gripped Isabelle’s arms until they hurt. His eyes were wide and frightened. ‘I can’t hide here. They’ll find me.’
In a panic, Isabelle glanced up at the door as though the riders from Hell would burst through it any moment. She flung away his hands, alarmed. ‘What have you done?’ Her voice sounded high to her ears.
‘They nearly caught me. Had to run.’ Farrell panted, throwing off the blanket, struggling to sit up. ‘They saw my face. I must go!’
Isabelle stood and hugged herself, fighting rising terror. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

To Purchase:
Amazon USA
http://www.amazon.com/Gentle-Winds-Caress-Anne-Brear/dp/1908483326/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1338918193&sr=1-5
Amazon UK
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00705A120

Not Quite Regency

This is probably a good time to tell you about my new book Reluctance, released on 6th April. It is my first release for MuseItUp, and I'm really proud of this book. Writing it was a good experience, not least because I got to describe the countryside around my home!

There’s a National Trust property called Gibside http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/gibside/

not far from me, where George Bowes made immense wealth from the coal trade. We often walk by his house and the orangery, which are roofless shells now, but the stables and the Palladian chapel are probably just as they were in his day. He had no sons to follow him, so his daughter inherited everything and was reputed to be the richest heiress in the country. She made a most unfortunate marriage which scandalised society at the time. So much is true.

 I thought I could use the basic thread, and the setting, and make a very good story out of it. The reasons people married then, as now, are many and varied, and I wanted to explore why a woman might give up her wealth, independence and property to a scoundrel.

 My heroine, Frances, was the character who initially formed in my mind. Well educated, and with an aversion to marital duties after her first marriage, she had absolutely no incentive to marry again. Yet she would do so. What was it that changed her mind? That’s the question that intrigued me.

 I think the best thing about the hero/heroine is that they are first and foremost friends. From that, comes everything else. He, for different reasons, is also against marriage, but to say more would give away the plot. There's a villain, and he is very keen on marriage - but for all the wrong reasons! 1803 is an important year in my heroine's life and nothing will be the same once it is over.

 I’ve always lived within forty miles of where I am now in the Tyne Valley, Northumberland. The only continent I haven’t visited is South America – and I’ve no plans to do so! With a degree in English/History and recently retired from library management, I write almost every day – usually historical adventures. I’m currently writing about a male protagonist in sixteenth century France, and have at last got him back to Scotland where both he and I feel more at home.

I aim to write my blog three times a week and you can visit it here: http://jenblackauthor.blogspot.com

I send the odd missive to Facebook and Twitter (@speckledbirds) and that’s about it.

Read Reluctance and let me know what you think of Frances and Jack. Here are the links:

http://museituppublishing.com

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Reluctance-ebook/dp/B007ROL46Q

Happy reading!

Jen Black

Free novel: The House of Women

Free historical novel: The House of Women is available for free on Amazon Kindle USA and UK from Friday 27 until Sunday 29th April.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-House-of-Women-ebook/dp/B00557VUN4/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_5

A Sprig of Broom

A Sprig of Broom was the first novel I had published - way back in l978. I re-published the novel just before Christmas. Why did I write this book in the first place? Well funnily enough I was inspired by a day trip my late husband, John and I took in l977.

It was a lovely sunny day in midsummer. We decided to go to the Yorkshire Dales, and tootled here and there, rested by beautiful rivers and by some odd quirk ended up in Middleham. When you arrive at Middleham you think you are in a village but actually it is a town, albeit very small. It has wonderful, lovely Georgian cottages, a smattering of welcoming pubs and all dominated by this romantic castle.

I discovered that the castle was once the home of King Richard the Third; I didn't know much about him but I was tremendously moved by a potent atmosphere in his castle. It was so quiet and peaceful, open to the skies but there was not even the sound of birds. It's a lot more commercial now but then there was just this lovely lady at the office. John and I fell in love with Middleham and the castle. I went onto research King Richard and found much to admire. Here was a man very far removed from Shakespeare's version.

John and I often went back to Middleham. We would rent a cottage and I would spend a good deal of time wandering the castle. Wenslydale itself is gorgeous, there were lots of lovely walks that we enjoyed.

I did write my book A Sprig of Broom, oddly set not in Middleham but in Wales (another favourite place but more of that at some other time) however, I did manage to, in my opinion, put the matter straight regarding the kind of man Richard was.

Just one other amusing anecdote that illustrates horses for courses (excuse the pun folks). When we arrived home I phoned my parents. I was talking to my Dad and he asked where we had been. "A little place called Middleham," I said, expecting to have to explain exactly where that was.

"Oh," says dad, an avid horse racing follower. "Mark Johnson trains there."

So I discovered two things about Middleham - Richard the Third and horse racing stables - both came to fascinate John and I on our visits. There was something so medieval about seeing those horses thunder across Middleham Moor. I have so many happy memories of Middleham and what a stroke of luck ending up there one lovely sunny Saturday afternoon.

The Reluctant Marquess ~ A Georgian romance new release!

Buy Link: http://www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=112

Amazon Kindle:  http://www.amazon.com/The-Reluctant-Marquess-ebook/dp/B007I8N2W0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1332407549&sr=8-1

Amazon Print:http://www.amazon.com/The-Reluctant-Marquess-Maggi-Andersen/dp/1908483091/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1332407549&sr=8-2 

 

"Readers will love the delightful tale of love in an arranged marriage. As troubles buffet the new couple and their love is tested, readers will be rooting for them to make it through."
                                                                                               ---Romantic Times Book Reviews, May 2011
Charity Barlow wished to marry for love. The rakish Lord Robert wishes only to tuck her away in the country once an heir is produced.
A country-bred girl, Charity Barlow suddenly finds herself married to a marquess, an aloof stranger determined to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. She and Lord Robert have been forced by circumstances to marry, and she feels sure she is not the woman he would have selected given a choice.
The Marquess of St. Malin makes it plain to her that their marriage is merely for the procreation of an heir, and once that is achieved, he intends to continue living the life he enjoyed before he met her.
While he takes up his life in London once more, Charity is left to wander the echoing corridors of St. Malin House, when she isn’t thrown into the midst of the mocking Haute Ton.
Charity is not at all sure she likes her new social equals, as they live by their own rules, which seem rather shocking. She’s not at all sure she likes her new husband either, except for his striking appearance and the dark desire in his eyes when he looks at her, which sends her pulses racing.
Lord Robert is a rake and does not deserve her love, but neither does she wish to live alone.
Might he be suffering from a sad past? Seeking to uncover it, Charity attempts to heal the wound to his heart, only to make things worse between them.
Will he ever love her?

 

 

Excerpt:

In the corridor outside her chamber, he barely touched her gloved hand with his lips as he bid her goodnight.

“Robert?”

He turned back to her, his brows raised, looking every inch a marquess. “Yes?”

She put her hand to the emeralds at her throat. “Shouldn’t you return these to the safe?”

“That might be wise.”

“Come in and help me take them off.”

He followed her into her boudoir, as she removed her gloves. The room was empty for she’d told her maid not to wait up.

His touch on her neck felt cool and impersonal. He slipped the necklace into his pocket and turned to go. Charity touched his arm. “Won’t you kiss me goodnight?”

He bent his head and touched his lips briefly with hers. She put a hand on his chest, feeling tension there. He was always annoyed with her and she struggled with the unfairness of it.

“Stay a while?”

“I thought you didn’t wish me to make love to you.”

“Not in the salon. Here, in my chamber.”

His blue eyes blazed hot with anger. “Perhaps Lord Southmore can oblige. He knows where to find your chamber.”

Charity slapped his face. The noise seemed to reverberate around the room in the long silence which followed. They stared at each another, breathing heavily. “I did not deserve that. I find your behavior disappointing, my lord.”

Robert raked a hand through his hair. He gave a crooked grin. “That makes your true feelings clear then, my dear, doesn’t it?”

He turned on his heel and left her chamber, closing the door behind him. The room seemed too quiet with just the ticking of the mantel clock. Charity put her hands to her flaming cheeks.

His rebuff hurt as surely as if he’d thrust a knife in her heart.

 

Maggi Andersen

http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

To Take Her Pride by Anne Brear

Writing under my new pen name of Anne Brear, my latest Victorian historical novel, To Take Her Pride, is set in 1898 Yorkshire.
 This is Aurora and Reid's story and will be available in paperback and ebook.

Back blurb:
Aurora Pettigrew has it all, a loving family, a nice home, a comfortable life. She’s waiting for the right man to offer her marriage, and the man for her is Reid Sinclair, heir to the Sinclair fortune and the love of her life.
But, Reid’s mother, Julia, is against the match and her ruthlessness unearths a family secret that will tear Aurora’s world apart.
Unwilling to bring shame on her family and needing answers to the allegations brought to light by Reid’s mother, Aurora begins a long journey away from home. She leaves behind all that is familiar and safe to enter a world of mean streets and poor working class.
Living in the tenements of York, surrounded by people of a class she’d never mixed with before, Aurora struggles to come to terms with the way her life has changed. By chance, she reconnects with a man from her past and before he leaves with the army to war in South Africa, he offers her security through marriage.
Aurora knows she should be happy, but the memory of her love for Reid threatens her future.
When tragedy strikes, can Aurora find the strength to accept her life and forget the past?

Excerpt:

Aurora walked along the streets of York, head down against the wind. The end of summer was proving difficult this year and warm days would be followed by squalls of rain and blustery winds such as today. Since Ethel Minton’s visit six days ago, Aurora had gone out looking for work and new accommodation. Each day she had come home despondent on both issues. Without a wage they couldn’t look at the better houses, and the poorer areas were the likes of Edinburgh Yard, which she and Sophia were adamant not to go back to. Noah and Lily had spoken as one offering their home to them, but Aurora was reluctant to agree as they’d be on top of each other, especially when the two babies came.

Aside from the anxiety of finding money and lodgings, she had become aware over the last few days of someone watching her. She couldn’t define what made her so sure someone was, but instinct told her she didn’t walk the streets alone. Then, last night, while closing the curtains a stranger lingered in the lane looking at her windows. As yet she hadn’t mentioned it to Sophia, who after the attack was nervous enough and jumped at any loud bangs or sudden shouts. Perhaps she should mention it to Noah, ask him to keep an eye out, and just hope that she was imagining it all.

Her feet throbbed as she turned into Coney Street. The baby kicked, a new sensation that Aurora marveled at in secret joy. She rubbed her stomach and hurried on. She needed to buy some buttons and thread, as Sophia was letting out all her skirts. She’d have liked to buy some linen material too, for a blouse, but every penny had suddenly become precious now neither of them was working.

She passed a tailor’s shop and was bumped into by two men coming out of the doorway. She apologized, even though it wasn’t her fault, at the same time the gentleman did too. Then she stopped and stared. Tom Sinclair stood gaping back at her, open-mouthed.

“Aurrie?” He frowned, puzzled.

She was the first to recover. “How are you, Tom?”

“My God!” Tom enveloped her in a tight embrace and for a moment she relished being held by him. It’d been a long time since a man had held her, and Tom was as close as she would get to Reid. He stared at her in amazement. “What are you doing in York?”

“Shopping.” She smiled brightly, acting as though them bumping into each other was an everyday occurrence. “And you?”

“Oh this and that.” His gaze roamed over her and his grin faltered as he took in her appearance. He’d never seen her in anything but beautiful clothes and neatly groomed. She put a hand to her hair escaping from her felt hat and blushed. He’d noticed her faded clothes beneath her coat, which also needed a sponge and brush. Her shoes hadn’t seen polish for weeks.

Tom turned to his companion. “Hal, my friend, I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

Hal, a tall, healthy-looking young man winked, a devilish smile in his eyes. “As you wish, my good fellow, but remember we leave on the evening train tomorrow.”

Aurora’s blush deepened, imagining what Hal would think of her. “You should have introduced me, Tom. He thinks the worst judging by that remark.”

“That’s more exciting than the truth though, isn’t it?” Tom’s smile flashed, but the amusement in his eyes had vanished completely. “There’s a tearoom on the corner. Let’s go.” He took her elbow and so shocked was she to see this serious side of him that she let him escort her into a small tearoom and assist her onto a wooden chair in the corner. He sat on the other side of the square table and lifted his hand to the passing waitress. “Tea and a plate of-of cakes…er…food, sandwiches and the like.”

“Tom, I—” The words dried in her mouth as she saw the agony in his eyes. “What is it?”

“I cannot believe it.” He shook his head and looked as if he was going to cry.

Her heart leapt to her throat and she leaned forward. “Good God, Tom, what?”

“What happened to you?” His voice came out on a whisper.

She sat back in her chair, again conscious of her appearance. “You must be shocked.”

“Shocked?” he squeaked and then clearing his throat, he held his hands out as if in question. “I thought you were travelling with your father’s aunt? That’s what your mother is telling everyone. Is this aunt without funds? Doesn’t your father know—’

“Please, Tom, stop.” She rubbed her forehead, wondering how to tell him, whether she should tell him. “I’m not with my father’s aunt.”

“I don’t understand.” He scratched his chin. “Aurrie, dearest, you look like hell. You’re so thin and…and shabby.”

She wanted to laugh at being called thin, especially when the front fastening corset she’d bought only two weeks ago no longer fitter her. The top button of her blue skirt was left undone and her white blouse strained across her breast, which she hid with her coat, but his expression of horror wiped the laughter from her instantly. Apart from the parts of her body concern with the child, the rest of her was thin, her hands and arms especially. “It’s a long story.”

“And I’ve got all day.”

“But I haven’t.” She stood. “I must go. It was nice seeing you again.”

“No.” He grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit down, causing the other customers to glance in their direction. “Don’t go, not yet.” He let go of her as she sat and the waitress brought over a tea tray, which she set out on the table. Tom watched Aurora the entire time and she knew he was full of questions. “I want to hear it all, Aurrie.”  

“Do you?” She pulled off her gloves, revealing her red and work-chapped hands and ignored his gasp of surprise at the sight of them. Dropping a cube of sugar into her cup, she then stirred it slowly with a teaspoon. “I don’t think you want to know, Tom, not really.” She gave him a sad smile, knowing his personality as one of fun and laughter, never taking anything seriously.

“I thought we were friends?”

“We were. When life was simple.”

“Aurrie, please. I can’t bear to see you like this.”

“This?” She waved at her worn clothes. “Good lord, Tom, this is a good day.” Her chuckle was brittle. “We had enough water last night for a bath so I washed my hair…’

“We?” He leaned forward over the table, cradling his teacup in one hand and took her hand in his other.

“My mother, Sophia. We live together.”

“Your mother Sophia?” His eyes widened. “Dearest, are you ill?”

“Mad you mean?” This time she did laugh. “I wish I was, but alas I’m quite sane.” She bent over the table until their faces were nearly touching. “Can you cope with knowing the truth, Tom Sinclair? The man who has never had a moment of responsibly in his life?”

Review:
If you're looking for a fairy tale with a twist, then look no further than To Take Her Pride. The characters may not fill out all the classic roles precisely, and you'll get to meet the entire townspeople around the "castle", but they are beyond a doubt entertaining and very adeptly written. It's a great read that reminds the little girls in us that sometimes the princess has to become Cinderella in order to be a good queen one day.
Books N Beans

 To Take Her Pride is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon.com and Amazon UK

Also from the Book Depository which has free world wide delivery.

Inspired by fairy tales

I’ve always loved fairy tales: African fairy stories, Old Peter’s Russian tales, Grimm’s fairy tales and the western classics – Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty and the Beast, The Goose Girl, The Frog Prince. The themes of love, sacrifice, keeping promises (the theme of the Frog prince) transformation (in The Goose Girl and Cinderella) justice (again in Cinderella) are epic to me and timeless, worthy of exploration in romances and modern stories.

Cinderella, the story of selfless devotion rewarded, is a popular theme for many romance stories, with the ‘prince’ often an Italian or Arab billionaire who sweeps in to transform the heroine’s drab, oppressed life. I’m sure there are romances to be written about the ugly sisters, too – positive stories where they grow from their petty spitefulness and obsession over balls and dances into generous, complete women, who also find love. That element of the happily ever after and the unexpected is strong in both fairy tales and in romance and both appeal to me greatly.

Fairy tales can also be epic, dealing with issues of life and death. Look at Gerda and her determination to win her brother out of enchantment in The Snow Queen. Look at Sleeping Beauty, where the prince rescues the princess from the ‘death’ of endless sleep.

Recently I did my own ‘take’ on Sleeping Beauty in my ‘A Christmas Sleeping Beauty’. I made it a story of transformation for both my heroine, Rosie, and the prince Orlando, who starts as a very arrogant and selfish young man who needs to learn to love and cherish. I didn’t want my Rosie to be passive, simply waiting to be woken, so she is active in the story both through her dreams and through her speaking directly to the hero in a letter. I also added more urgency by making it a ticking clock story – Orlando must wake Rosie in three days or he loses his chance forever.

The story of Beauty and the Beast has thrilled me since I was a child, with its dark and menacing beginning, the terrifying beast and Beauty’s courage and love for her father and ultimately for the beast. I was inspired by these basic tenets to write my own medieval version of Beauty and the Beast in my ‘The Snow Bride’. Magnus, the hero, has been hideously scarred by war and looks like a beast. He considers himself unworthy of love. Elfrida, my heroine, is also an outsider since she is a white witch, but she willingly sacrifices herself (as Beauty does in the fairy story) because of love, in her case her love for her younger sister, Christina, for whom she feels responsible. When she and Magnus encounter each other, I made it that they could not understand each other at first, to add to the mystery and dread – is Magnus as ugly in soul as in body? They must learn to trust each other, despite appearances, and come to love (just as in the original fairy tale).

I also added other fairy tale elements to ‘The Snow Bride’: magic, darkness, the idea of three (a common motif in fairy tales) spirits in the forest and more. Perhaps in the darker elements of my forest I was inspired by that other old fairy story – Red Riding Hood.

How about you? What inspires you in your reading or writing?

Lindsay
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net
http://www.twitter.com/lindsayromantic

Chastleton House - A Jacobean Gem

I wanted to spread the word about this little known Jacobean gem I discovered near Moreton-in-the-Marsh. There is no café but the atmosphere is very much like having stepped back in time and the house is 'conserved' rather than preserved..

Chastleton House was completed in 1612, with typically Elizabethan and Jacobean gardens which have a ring of fascinating topiary at their heart. The house belongs to the National Trust, but to preserve the fabric of the building and its furnishings, admission is by timed ticket and advance booking is recommended. The maximum number of visitors admitted per day is 175.

The house was once owned by Robert Catesby, one of the Gunpowder Plot instigators. Catesby mortgaged the property to Walter Jones, and when Catesby fell on hard times and was unable to keep up payments, Jones took over the property, pulled down Catesby's house and built a new, grand mansion, which is the Chastleton House that exists today.

Anne Fettiplace , daughter of Sir Edmund  Fettiplace and Ann Alford, married Henry Jones in 1609 and lived at Chastleton House. As the house was still under construction at the time of the wedding, the Fettiplace Coat of Arms were incorporated in the overmantle.           

Little altered from its original design, the approach to the house is by way of a winding path down a moderate hill, with views to an attractive dovecote of similar age to the house. Which is a nice way of saying the car park is miles away! The 12th century parish church is next door and a small entry gateway gives onto an outer courtyard, with stables to the left and the house itself to the right. Visitors are shown through some beautiful, and authentically furnished and restored Jacobean and Tudor rooms.

Here, the floors bend and buckle with the wrinkles of aged timber, and the bedrooms are authentically furnished with period pieces. The long gallery on the upper floor occupies the entire length of the house. With a barrel vaulted roof, and superbly executed plasterwork ceiling the room is magnificent. Unfortunately there is also evidence of death watch beetle that has occupied the house for several centuries!

I especially liked the butler's chamber on upper floor gives an excellent view of the roof beams and the skeleton of the house frame. The kitchens were in use until the 1950s, where the blackened grime of centuries remains on the ceiling.  Legend says a former resident declared it was bad luck to clean kitchen ceilings, so it was never touched!

A large section of gardens behind the house form two large croquet lawns – it was here at Chastleton in 1865 that the rules of lawn croquet were first codified.

Rhapsody Creek

 Rhapsody Creek, originally published by Mills & Boon as Hester, is now available as an ebook. The idea for it came on a visit to the South Carolina and Georgia and viewed the ante-bellum mansions with their Spanish moss, exterior kitchens and slave shacks.What if something dreadful were to happen in one of those out houses, I thought. Who would hear your call for help?

With American independence won, her brother George dead, and the shame of bankruptcy threatening her beloved aunt, Hester Mackay accepts Benjamin Blake’s proposal of marriage, despite him being an English gunrunner. But her happiness at the Georgia plantation house is short-lived as Hester learns that her new husband has already killed two wives. Can this be true, and is he now trying to kill her?

Here is a short extract:

Later than evening, after Aunt Kizzy had retired for the night, Benjamin stayed on the porch with Hester, as had become their habit. Hester had noticed, to her amusement, that Aunt Kizzy had taken to retiring earlier and earlier as if she had no wish to intrude upon them. On this particular evening she’d gone to bed almost as soon as supper was over declaring she was exhausted having spent an hour closeted with her man of business. Now, in the softness of the Southern darkness, Benjamin began at last to talk.
   ‘There’s been something on my mind for some time, Hester, that should be said, perhaps before it is too late.’
   Hester’s hands stilled and she set aside her sewing. It was too dark now in any case, but she regretted the loss of the occupation. ‘That sounds dreadfully serious,’ she said with an attempt at a smile, but Benjamin was not smiling. He was not even looking at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere out in the middle distance, or perhaps way back into his life.
   ‘Perhaps it is. Or perhaps I am worrying unduly.’ He drew in a deep breath. `If this hurts you then I apologize in advance, for it is the last thing I intended.’
   ‘I understand.’ Did she? She rather thought not. What was it that troubled him so, that made him look so grim?
   ‘There was once someone in my life. We’d grown up together and so were good friends, at least I thought that was the case. I was used to her being around. Her name was Sarah. But I didn’t think of her as a woman, as my woman, if you take my meaning.’
   ‘I think so.’
   ‘That was not the case with Sarah.’ Benjamin got up from the rocker to stroll restlessly down the garden path and Hester was obliged to follow him. ‘Her fondness for me grew to a level beyond friendship.’ Hester held her breath. What was he trying to tell her? ‘It became almost obsessive. I could go nowhere without Sarah tagging on behind. Whatever I did, she watched me. Wherever I walked, she followed. She tried to pre-empt my every need, handing me things I had never asked for, buying me gifts I did not want. She would even stand outside the door of my home for hour upon hour, waiting for me to come out. It was unnerving.’
   Hester felt herself grow tense. ‘It must have been difficult.’
   Benjamin turned to face her and even in the half-light the grim, almost angry expression upon the planes of his handsome face was only too clear. ‘Never could I allow that to happen again. She should have married Stefan, who loved her, but she was obsessed by me, with catastrophic results. Stefan took it very badly and has borne me a grudge ever since. I could never risk a recurrence of such uncompromising devotion for it very nearly destroyed my life, do you see? A person must be allowed to live his or her own life without let or hindrance, make his own decisions and mistakes, and not be pushed into a corner simply out of pity.’
   She saw only too clearly. He was telling her not to grow too fond, not to fall in love with him. But it was too late. He was telling her that he ran from England to escape this Sarah, and would run from her if she too was foolish enough to try to capture his love. And he was telling her that on no account must she attempt to follow him to England when the time came for him to leave. That was the invisible line she had crossed earlier as they had talked down by the harbour, and he had seen the dawning love for him written in her face. But, much as she might wish it otherwise, whatever damage had been done to him in the past, he was making it abundantly clear that he wanted none of Hester’s help now to mend it. She was trembling so much he must be aware of it. Her palms felt clammy and a pain was beating at her temples. She must not let him see how she felt. Only the residue of her pride could save her now.
   Hester managed a sympathetic smile. ‘Poor girl. If you did not love her in return it must have made her most miserable. That is partly the reason I am constantly trying to disengage myself from Carter Lois, for I have no wish to hurt him, but it is so difficult for he is a very determined gentleman.’ She was gabbling now, attempting to prove herself unaffected so that her true feelings would not be laid bare, exposed to his censure.
   ‘You are right to keep your distance from Carter Lois. Oh, you are shivering, Hester. Are you cold? How thoughtless of me to keep you talking out here simply to get an old worry off my chest.’
   He slipped his coat about her shoulders and the pain of nestling into a garment which still carried the residual warmth and male scent of his body was almost the undoing of her. But she managed to hold herself together as he led her back through the knot of box-edged paths, past the old kitchen where Susie prepared most of the meals safely away from any danger of setting fire to the house, and back up the steps of the piazza. He placed his hands gently upon her shoulders and his touch almost scorched her through the thick cloth of his jacket. ‘Forgive me if I said it all too clumsily. But you are young, and vulnerable to the presence of a newcomer in your home. We are still friends, I hope, Hester, but you must not read into that more than there is, nor hope for more than there can be.’
   He could not have been plainer. Hester snatched the jacket from her shoulders and, thrusting it into his hands, gazed at him unseeing through tear-blurred eyes. ‘You need have no fear on that score. I can do nothing about my youth but my vulnerability, as you call it, is quite another matter. For your information Mr Blake, I am well able to take care of myself and would not dream of inconveniencing or embarrassing you in any way. Goodnight to you.’
   Whereupon, she fled into the house, to her bed, where she poured out all her misery and despair into a balled-up kerchief and a yielding pillow which would tell no tales on the morrow. And at breakfast she was able to serve Benjamin his eggs and biscuits without a tremor.

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Best wishes,
Freda