Delle Jacobs's Blog, page 4
August 29, 2012
Week #12: THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG!
Thanks to Jacqueline Hopkins for tagging me for 'The Next Big Thing'!
If you have been tagged to participate, you have to answer 10 questions about your WIP (work in progress) and post on your blog. At the bottom of your post, list your five author volunteers who will answer the same 10 questions on their blog the following Wednesday.
Below, are the answers to my WIP, and Soon I'll finish lining up the next five volunteers are listed below with links to their blogs. Head over to theirs next Wednesday, August 29th to read all about their answers.
Come on, you know me. Did you actuallythink I could write a book and not
design a cover for it?1. What is the working title of your book?
I'm actually working on two at once, but I'll pick the one I think I'll finish first: GILDING LILLY.
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
I love reading and writing Regencies, especially those with strong historical appeal and strong character and plot development. I had been thinking of a Cinderella type story in which the heroine learns she doesn't want to be deliciously elegant after all, and I knew her name was Lilly, even though her real name was Camillia, but somehow her family had let that slip away from them. So the title came to the story quite naturally. Since I first worked on the book several years ago, I've seen another story with a similar title, but I still think I had mine first.
3. What genre does your book fall under?
It's a Regency-set historical.
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I always have trouble with this question. I don't think my characters are quite like anyone else. So who would play them? So maybe you can help me with this.
Lilly is a dark-haired, tall woman whose features could be considered "striking", but which look marvelously elegant when she makes up her mind to be attractive.
Gabriel is dark-haired-but maybe I'll put some light sun-streaks in his hair. He has a devilish look to him, yet an angel's twinkle in his eyes. For a viscount, he's a hard-working outdoor man who is trying to rehabilitate his family's nefarious reputation.
Darius is Gabe's very troubled six-year-old nephew who carries on the family's devilish/angelic appearance. And he's the devil himself to live with.
Amy is Lilly's younger half-sister, an exquisite blonde, blue-eyed, petite and charming-the ideal of beauty.
Lord Mabry is Lilly's step-father and only living parental figure, if you could actually use that term for him. He is utterly irresponsible, and leaves the running of everything to Lilly.
There are some normal people in the book too. I'm pretty sure there's one or two somewhere…
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
One sentence? Too bad.
As plain, penurious and blue-stocking as they come, Miss Lilly Fosbrooke has no thought of marriage, until horribly handsome Gabriel, Viscount Sylvaine starts treating her like the most beautiful woman on earth. But her romantic bubble bursts when she learns Gabe is only courting her because her wacky step-father has something Gabe wants badly. So Lilly and her other on-the-shelf friends form the Society of Ape Leaders to avenge their humiliations by the arrogant gay blades of the Ton, and together, they make Lilly over into a diamond no man could resist.
They don't know that gorgeous women have ruined everything for Gabe from the time he was a child. All he ever wanted was a normal life, plain, ordinary, bland as over-cooked flummery. But, beauty or not, Gabe has no idea how much he'll come to crave Lilly's hidden dragon-like fire.
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I don't know. Montlake Romance (Amazon) is my new publisher, and I might use this as my option book. But I've done pretty well for myself as an indie author too, and I really enjoy managing my own career. My Regencies have sold very well, so GILDING LILLY might be better as a self-published book. I've had a cover done for just ages, but I couldn't seem to find the time to get back to finishing the book.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
The first draft is only half done. I stopped writing it when I had to go to other projects, and I didn't like what my attempts to make it into a sequel had done to it. Now I've changed the plot again, and am making it a stand-alone story.
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
There are lots of other Cinderella type stories. This one veers pretty far away from the prototype, but it does have a happy ending even if it's not in a palace. Hero raises carriage horses, though, which is kind of close to having a horse-drawn coach.
9. Who or What inspired you to write this book?
I'm always spinning ideas for new stories, and I think mostly they come from just plain hard work. So I'm not really sure what my first clue was. But putting it into words today, I'd say the basic thought was, "What if you got to be Cinderella, complete with coach, ball and even Prince Charming—then discovered you didn't like who you'd become? I'd have to say, in this story, the same dilemma applies to both the hero and heroine.
10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
There's a bit of suspense too. What first appears to be harmless pranks begins to escalate, and it looks like someone is seeking genuine harm for Lilly. Or is it Gabe? Or-both?
Sorry I haven't firmed up my list of tagged victims for Week #13, but I'm looking at a few authors who are on the fringe of publication and haven't firmed up the way they're going to go. And some longer term authors who are also seeking new avenues for their careers. I'll post them later.
Tag! You're (almost) it!
***
To participate in this blog tour, here's what is expected of you:
Rules
***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress) ***
Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them. It’s that simple.
Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing
1. What is the working title of your book?
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
3. What genre does your book fall under?
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
9. Who or What inspired you to write this book?
10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
August 24, 2012
The MUDLARK Chapter 1
In which a kitten produces mayhem through no fault of her own.
England, March, 1816
When the sun came out from beneath dense clouds, Izzy Daventry threw her shawl over her shoulders and set off from the manor across meadows that were still slick from the last downpour. Within moments, the collection of children commonly known as Izzy's Urchins gathered around her, warbling like the first larks of spring, eager to see what adventure she had prepared for the day.
She had plenty of time before her father arrived from Town. Even though he was expected by supper, Izzy knew her miscreant parent well. At his best, he wouldn't arrive before midnight. And even at that, he would need no more than the mere mention of some Arthurian manuscript unearthed in Wales, and he would be off in that direction, forgetting he had ever meant to come home.
Today, she proclaimed to her followers, was the first day of polliwog season. With the practiced eye of an expert polliwog hunter, Izzy paced along the bank, searching for a quiet pool with the characteristics for the proper breeding of tadpoles. Finding her spot, she set the children to searching the water.
"There's some!" said Tom Watkins, whose eagerness always delighted her. "Oh, Izzy! There's lots of 'em! Look here!"
"Ye're s'posed to call her Miss Daventry, ye nodcock!" Jake Watkins gave his younger brother a shove. "Move over, ye hog, ye're takin' all the room!"
"Jake, mind your manners," Izzy scolded, knowing she had little effect on the boy. Yet when the younger girls came closer, even Jake made room. With a manly huff of authority born of a ten-year-old's greater knowledge and advanced years, Jake pointed out the elusive creatures that paddled about by their tails.
Izzy chuckled quietly to herself as she listened to Jake's explanation of tadpole development, a verbatim account of the one she had given the previous year. She was proud of her urchins, and of all the learning she had squeezed into them between their chores and gleaning. She could never hope to equal the schoolmaster they desperately needed, but she taught what she knew, be it reading or polliwog-watching.
Tommy, in his enthusiasm, leaned closer to the water. Her suspicions aroused, Izzy frowned, then spotted Jake preparing to give Tommy a shove. Izzy grabbed his arm and shook her head at the boy, who looked only slightly chagrined. Jake wasn't a cruel child, only one whose mischief was unending. Nor would he think of the danger the icy water posed to his brother.
Intent upon the tadpoles, Tommy had not noticed. He looked up at Izzy, his blue eyes shining. "Can I have some, Izzy? I mean, Miss Daventry? I could get a jar somewheres."
"No, Tommy, they'll die if you take them away."
"How come they like it in there, Izzy?" asked Judith. "The water's so cold. I wouldna like it."
"That's 'cause ye're a girl," snorted Jake. "And ye're forgetting to call her Miss Daventry."
Izzy noted Jake's manly swagger and the haughty way he demanded respect for her, as if in so doing he acquired some respect for himself. The boy had learned just about everything she knew to teach him, and needed to move on. It was a shame his keen mind would have no opportunities for scholarship, but perhaps she could persuade her father to find him an apprenticeship.
She turned back to Judith. "As they have never been anywhere else, Judith, I doubt they know the difference. And if you put them in warm water right away, they would probably die."
"Honest?"
From upstream, Izzy heard sharp shrieks, and turned toward the commotion. Beside the rocky bank of the roiling stream stood Hank Trumble, who raised something into the air above Daisy Samples, while the little girl jumped helplessly after it. It was nothing uncommon for young boys to tease smaller girls, but wherever Hank Trumble went, he took trouble with him, often more than mere teasing. Frowning, Izzy raised her skirts to step around the muddy bank and marched toward the
squabble.
"Give her back, Hank!" cried the girl. "Hank, don't ye dare! She's mine! Give her back!"
Hank dangled Daisy's yellow kitten tantalizingly close, just beyond her grasp, as Daisy jumped and clawed at her tormenter. As he spotted Izzy and her troop, Hank's face brightened with malicious glee and he flung the kitten into the stream.
With a scream, Daisy dashed toward the water, but Izzy lunged, snatching Daisy by her arm before she jumped in.
"Hold her, Jake." She pushed Daisy to the boy.
"My kitty!" the girl screamed, fighting against Jake's grip.
Izzy couldn't let Daisy go into the water. The fragile child would be swept off her feet instantly.
Tossing a glare at Hank, Izzy kicked off her slippers and stepped into icy water that tugged at her ankles as she groped along the slippery stones. She focused on the yellow kitten, alternately sinking and bobbing as the current swept it closer to Izzy, over the rocks, down into a deep pool, throwing it up again. Exhausted, the little creature hardly struggled, and soon would cease its fight. Izzy lunged against the numbing water. In one stroke, she scooped up the kitten.
Cheers rose from the banks.
Then the kitten remembered its terror. With renewed strength and desperate wails, the squirming mass of thrashing claws hooked its razor talons into her soaked dress and the skin beneath, and climbed her like a tree.
She clenched the cat against her chest, and fumbled her bare, frozen toes along the precarious bottom, reminding herself she did this for Daisy, who was obviously more deserving than this ungrateful wretch.
Suddenly squeezing out of her grip, the kitten clambered up Izzy's sodden dress to her shoulder, shredding both fabric and skin as it climbed her hair. Grimly, she pinned the yowling kitten to her scalp and plowed her numb feet through the icy water, at last reached the calm shallows. The very second she reached Jake's outstretched arm, she peeled the screeching cat from her bedraggled hair and tossed it to him.
Her ordeal at last at its end, Izzy just stood, shivering, letting the soft mud ooze between her toes. Only one more step to dry land. Trembling, she shifted one foot. She slipped, shrieking, tumbling backwards, and landed on her backside in the mud.
Izzy glanced about her in the furtive hope that no living soul above the age of ten had witnessed her fall, and breathed a sigh of relief on seeing none but the gaggle of children surrounding her. At least children could be bribed into silence.
They, however, were giggling. She suspected it would take more than the usual amount of bribery this time.
"Don't ye know how to wade in a creek, Miss Daventry?"
Izzy looked up to Jake's cheeky grin. "I suppose you think you could have done better, with a wildcat peeling your skin off, Jake Watkins."
"No, ma'am. Not at all." Jake gallantly extended his hand to help her out of the mud.
"Thank you, Jake." Izzy rose from the mud, shivering. "Daisy, wrap the kitten in my shawl. I'd mislike learning it died from the cold after all this effort."
"Shall I help ye home, Miss Daventry?" Jake asked. His smirking mouth was so wide, Izzy thought she could probably drive a hay wain through it.
"I shall deal with that, myself. Please see that Daisy gets home without Hank bothering her."
With a cheerful nod, Jake ran off after Daisy.
Izzy trembled so fiercely, she could hardly walk. Clenching her shuddering jaw so tight it hurt, she plodded, one frozen foot in front of the other, to the top of the hill and Daventry Manor.
The closest door was near the stables. She didn't see anybody around, and hoped that meant no one saw her. With luck, she could reach the steps and be up them before anyone was the wiser. If word got out, she would never live this down.
She gathered her remaining strength and hurried to the terrace door and turned the knob. As she pushed, the door pulled away from her hand. There stood Tibbets, his eyes bulging with more than their customary dismay.
"A small accident, Tibbets," she replied to his stunned silence, and rushed past him before he could recover his composure and suggest she not drip on his finely polished floors.
Tibbets followed after her, wringing his hands. "Miss Daventry, perhaps you should avoid going through the foyer."
Hardly the time to be fastidious, she grumbled to herself, and trudged toward the stairs. "I know I am dripping, Tibbets, and I assure you, I am most sorry for the mess, but I am in a bit of a hurry at the moment."
"But, Miss Daventry, you really should..."
Muttering, Izzy slogged over the freshly polished pink marble toward the grand staircase in the foyer, which was much closer to her chamber than the servant's stairs Tibbets no doubt wished she would use, but she was too cold to care.
Just as she passed her father's study with its door ajar, she began to recognize something unusual in the high pitch of Tibbets' voice. And in her desperate haste to be warm again, she barely realized the significance of that open door as she rounded the corner from the corridor to the grand foyer, and collided, face first, with the handsomest man she had ever seen.
He was also the most shocked gentleman she had ever seen. As he backed away, his horror-stricken eyes tracked over her dripping hair, muddy gown, downward all the way to her wet, bare feet, and widened even further at the brown streaks of mud freshly garnishing the dazzling white breeches of his Coldstream Guards uniform. Jaw agape, he stared at her as if he'd just witnessed the destruction of England and all that was English.
Izzy had never thought of herself as beyond the pale. But now, as she stared down at her fingernails and realized there was indeed mud beneath them, she suspected that she had likely just been labeled as such. She glanced about, seeking support, but her father, for once caught without words, only stared. So did both of the men in his company.
She decided to make the best of it. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to a very proper angle. "Good afternoon, Papa, so nice to see you and your guests. You'll excuse me?"
With a wobbly smile, she turned and walked away with dubious grace, belatedly recalling the probable condition of her clothing when viewed from a posterior angle.
"You'll straighten yourself for supper, girl!"
Papa's voice carried to her as she took to the stairs, one absurdly elegant step at a time, until she was certain she was beyond their sight. Then she fled down the corridor to the safety of her chamber.
***
"Devil take it, what was that?" The words were out before Tristan could stop them. Although the girl was already up the stairs and gone, the image stuck in his mind of soaked, mud-streaked muslin clinging indecently, revealing just about every asset the girl had. Particularly the upper ones.
"Not sure," said his father, whose own gaping jaw seemed to be just recovering. "Been using her for trout bait, Daventry?"
For the first time since Tristan had met Daventry in London the day before, the man was struck dumb. That fact, coupled with the word 'Papa' from the creature's own lips, likely meant Tristan had just been given his first view of Daventry's only child. And knowing what he now knew of Daventry, he couldn't imagine why he'd always pictured the girl as a lady.
"A minor mishap, no doubt," Daventry said at last. "Girl's a bit prone to them."
"I'd say. She is a bit damp," Trowbridge admitted.
"Damp?" Tristan said, frowning at the brown streaks on his uniform. "Undress whites do have an uncanny affinity for mud, but I never expected a mud puddle to sprout legs and personally hunt me down."
"Now Tris, no call to be so particular. Ain't as if you never saw mud, what with the Peninsula and all."
"That was the Peninsula, and we lived in mud there. This is supposed to be England, where one may expect some form of gentility." Bloody Hell. He had spent four hours in a coach with his drunken father and equally drunken Daventry, both men two sheets to the wind and ready to hoist the third hours before they reached Daventry's country seat. And now, here was Daventry's incomparable hoyden of a daughter, trouble if ever he had seen it, when all he wanted was peace. This visit was turning into a nightmare. It was almost enough to send him back to Waterloo.
He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the sudden rush of bloody images. No, never that. Never again.
Tristan hadn't wanted to come at all, but he'd had no choice, for Daventry had been his father's lifelong closest friend. Even after Daventry had left India to assume his deceased brother's title, the two had continued their crusty debates over Camelot and King Arthur by mail, month after month, year after year. Those letters had been the highlights of his father's life.
He should have known Daventry would be as exasperating as his own father. How else could they be such fast friends? Like his father, completely irresponsible. Although somebody ran this manor with obvious efficiency, it certainly wasn't Daventry. Nor had the man shown the slightest sensitivity to his daughter, who had clearly suffered a mishap and must be frozen to the bone.
Perhaps Daventry simply knew the girl well enough not to give encouragement to her hoydenish ways.
No, he was probably right the first time. The man didn't have the sense to notice. Tristan shuddered, but he gritted his teeth, determined to be polite.
At least, it was to be a short visit, surely short enough that he could manage to conceal his problem from this strange family. Nothing had happened for some time, and for all he knew, perhaps wouldn't again. And if his own father had not been sufficiently sober to notice something was wrong with his son, he could hope Daventry and his daughter were no more observant. With any luck, he'd soon be safely back in his own London town house, and none the wiser. A solution had to come about sometime.
***
Izzy burst through her chamber door and slammed it behind her, gasping as if she had been chased by a bear. Marie, pausing in her puttering about, lifted her eyebrows, shook her head, called for a hot bath and began stripping the ruined dress from Izzy's body. As Marie appraised the garment that she held by her fingertips at as great a distance as she could manage, Izzy felt chagrined in a way her father could never provoke.
"A pity," said Marie, and tossed the sodden rag into a corner of the dressing chamber.
Izzy wrapped a woolen blanket about her and huddled in the yellow chintz wing chair by the fire grate, waiting the eternity it took for the halftub to be filled. Then she slipped into the gloriously warm water.
"'Tis a handsome young man his lordship's brought home," said Marie, patiently working the tangles from Izzy's wet hair while Izzy soaked.
"I didn't notice," she answered, knowing Marie would see through the lie. "I didn't take the time for introductions."
"Made a cake of yourself, did you?" Marie yanked the tangled strand, emphasizing her point.
There was no fooling Marie. "It matters little, as I'm already promised to Mr. Landerholme."
"He's a mite better prize than that Mr. Landerholme, I'm thinking."
Izzy frowned at Marie's usual lack of enthusiasm for her choice. "Mr. Landerholme is the second son of an earl, you know."
"Might as well be the twentieth."
Izzy held her tongue. She and Donald had been promised to each other since they were children, and she would happily accept him even if he had no chance of inheriting the title.
"Whatever were you about this time, miss?"
There was no point in ignoring her maid's questions, for Marie would learn anyway. So she explained about the polliwog expedition and Hank Trumble's cruel stunt.
Marie shook her head again, no doubt weary of reminding Izzy that proper ladies did not go hunting for tadpoles. "The cat left you some awful marks, it did. We'll have a time finding a dress to hide them. Mayhap, the robin's egg blue."
Izzy grimaced as she studied the evenly spaced rakings the kitten had made in its desperate climb up her body.
"Could've been dangerous, miss. The stream's awful high."
"Oh, nothing would have happened to me, Marie. The water is not all that deep, except in a few holes, and I know where those are." Where the trout are, she thought privately, but this was no time to mention that other favorite improper activity. Marie looked with special disfavor on Izzy's fishing, particularly when she noodled with her fingers instead of using a pole.
Marie huffed. "That Hank Trumble's as worthless as his father. Your father should get rid of the both of them."
For all that Marie had a sharp tongue and was about as respectful as a puppy that had outgrown its mother, she was a caring person. Izzy tried to remember that. "Unlikely, as long as Papa finds Trumble useful in the stables," she replied. "And he does quite well with Rapscallion."
Sitting before her dressing table, Izzy watched in her usual amazement as the expert flicks of Marie's wrist coaxed a delicate fringe of dark curls in just the perfect places to turn her into some approximation of a lady. Izzy would have been satisfied merely to tie her hair back at her neck, allowing the curls to flow down her back. But proper ladies did not leave their hair loose, and she had a strong desire to amend the impression she had previously given her father's guests. The modest neckline of the robin's egg blue dress, however, did not quite cover the tiny scratches, and all Izzy's tugging could not complete the job.
"A fichu, or a shawl, perhaps," Marie suggested.
Izzy sighed. "No." There would be no explaining that she was only occasionally a reckless hoyden, who this time had the best of justification for her actions. She would, therefore, not explain herself at all.
Marie drew her lips tight, looking patient. "Very well, miss. Try not to make a cake of yourself again."
Izzy quelled a sudden desire to bury herself beneath the covers on her bed. But she breathed in slowly, reminded herself that she was to be an elegant lady tonight, and walked with regal grace down the corridor to the grand staircase that led down to the manor's foyer.
At the sound of slippers on the smooth marble steps, Tristan glanced up, then away. Almost as fast as the recoil of a cannon, his head snapped back again. Devil take it! Could that be the same creature that had dripped her way through here barely an hour before?
The Creature descended in fluid motion, her hand trailing along the brass rail, a pile of dark curls framing her delicate face. Too slender for his taste, yet he couldn't stop staring at the assets he had previously noticed, which were further enhanced by her simply cut blue gown, a gown the exact color of her eyes. He had never seen eyes quite that color before.
Those mesmerizing eyes met his with an overt appraisal that set him back as much as her stunning transformation. Brassy chit. Uncontrolled heat rose in his cheeks as her gaze raked over him. With all the dignity he could muster, Tristan bent over her extended hand, debating just how much deference such a creature was to be given. Lady, hoyden, baron's daughter? He hesitated in mid-bow, perhaps a shade sooner than was proper.
Izzy bit her lip, feeling like she was dying inside. Doubtless the gentleman recalled at the last second the mud that had previously been lodged beneath her nails. It was to his credit that he did not altogether fling away her hand, but merely flared his nostrils and dropped it rather precipitously.
She winced at the introductions. She should have known. Viscount Trowbridge, her father's life-long friend, balding, red-faced, and round as a ball. And son, Captain Tristan Trowbridge. Tall as his father was round, with dark hair and a devastatingly handsome face with features that ought to be chiseled into Carrara marble.
Just her luck. Not just any old viscount. Good Old Trowbridge, her father always called him, who had been her papa's boon companion in his India days, equally as obsessed with King Arthur and Camelot. Papa had talked so incessantly about the man over the years that Izzy felt she should have recognized him on sight.
She'd done it this time. Effuse apologies would only make things worse. She just mumbled her gratitude at finally meeting the man after all these years.
"Now, there's a gel for you," said the viscount, chuckling. "Cleans up nicely, Daventry. Pretty thing, ain't she, Tris?"
Izzy flinched. She had envisioned a bit more gentility from a viscount, but then, what else would she expect of a friend of her father's? After all, neither of the two men had ever expected to be anything more than soldiers.
The younger man's cheeks reddened again and he gave a grudging nod, while his father prattled on. She accepted the older man's arm to lead her into dinner, and sat across from the younger Trowbridge, who glared fiercely whenever she caught his eye. Her transformation had obviously not impressed him.
"Thought we'd go up into the Dales, check out the Pendragon Castle," said the viscount as he inspected his already empty wine glass. The footman promptly noted its lack and filled it.
"No, no, no," Daventry said. "Waste of time. We've been there, ain't that so, Izzy, my dove?"
Izzy opened her mouth, but closed it as Papa continued.
"Lots of caves thereabouts, though," said Papa. "Tales of Arthur's Hill everywhere. Seems every dale has its hidden hill with the king and his knights slumbering away."
"That many tales, there's got to be something."
Papa gave a dismissing shake of his head. "Ain't nothing but a grand pile of rocks, no older than the Angevins."
Trowbridge frowned and upended his goblet. "A shame."
"Didn't expect much from something so obvious," said Papa, and drained his own. "No telling when some fool took it into his head it was Arthur's. But the fishing's good, thereabouts. Izzy's idea, that. Made the trip worthwhile, after all."
The captain's eyelids lifted. "Fishing. More commonly a man's activity, is it not? Or has England changed in my absence?"
It was the delicate suggestion of a sneer in his voice that raised her ire. Her lips stretched thinly over her teeth, but Izzy said nothing. Watching the wicked glint that was forming in his eyes, she suspected she knew the content of his next question, and that he was debating whether or not to give it voice. Had she been fishing this afternoon?
The urge seized her to explain not only the manly art of fishing, but the exact process of noodling- precisely how to dangle one's fingers into the water so as to resemble tasty worms. But no. Let him draw his own conclusions.
Now they were discussing Glastonbury Tor. She had been there, too. Papa insisted it must be King Arthur's burial site, but Trowbridge wouldn't hear of it. And just how Offa's Dike got into the discussion, she wasn't sure. This could go on all night. Izzy knew perfectly well the whole argument was outrageous, but that didn't bother the two old sots a bit, as glass after glass of wine slid down their gullets and fueled their debate.
The young captain quietly studied the dregs of wine he swirled within his goblet, sipping only occasionally. A strange mixture of horror and boredom lurked in his dark eyes. They had a common dilemma. Perhaps she should give him another chance.
"You are with the Coldstream Guards, Captain?"
His gaze shot up from the goblet as if she had stomped on his toe. "Yes." Nothing more.
The elder Trowbridge, eyes suddenly keen despite his wine, grinned and thrust out his chest. "Fought at Waterloo," he announced. "Peninsula, too."
"Indeed?" she responded. At least the older fellow would talk. "I understood the duke of Wellington had very few Peninsula veterans with him in Belgium."
"There were exceptions," the captain man grumbled.
Ah. He could talk. "I see. You recall the battle, then?"
He met her question with a silent scowl.
"Was at Hougoumont," the viscount interjected, and chortled proudly. "Got himself cut up a bit."
The captain glared with fury at his father.
"I am sorry," she said, feeling a sudden stab of empathy, both for the wounds and the father's blatant broadcasting. "I understand the casualties were very high at Hougoumont."
"They were higher at La Haye Sainte," the man replied tersely. His jaw had a hard set to it.
Indeed, she thought, as the soldiers at La Haye Sainte had almost been annihilated. "Yes, of course. I did not mean--"
"It is hardly a fit subject for the table, Miss Daventry."
Izzy stared, speechless. He was scolding her for the topic? She had not raised it. She had merely made a polite inquiry about his career.
"Tris, there's no call to be abrupt," his father scolded, unexpectedly alert.
Izzy gritted her teeth and forced a smile. "It is quite all right, my lord, it is not at all the thing. But I do hope you are enjoying your return home, Captain."
He looked as if it was the most inane remark he had ever heard. Izzy opted for silence. He was certainly not the most congenial man she had ever met.
She returned to the quiet observation of the viscount who was of such importance to her father, having developed a preference for that man over his son. Izzy focused on the droning debate and ignored the silent, imperious toad who sat across from her.
Something was wrong here. Something just a shade too typical of her father. She would have bet all the horses in the stable her father and Good Old Trowbridge were up to something.
Captain Trowbridge stole a wary glance at Izzy, then quickly looked away to re-engage with his fork. Did he, too, suspect something was in the air?
Beyond the window, the last light of day faded as Izzy watched the parade of courses and picked delicately at her plate. While their two offspring sat like hostages, the two older men launched into full-fledged drinking, grew louder, words slurring, and slowly slipped back into the distant past.
"'Member when your boy was born," said Daventry, punctuating his slurred words with a throaty chuckle.
"Oh that was a day, wa'n't it?" responded the viscount, just as jolly. "'Member when this little one come into the world, too," he added, and threw a hazy look in Izzy's direction. "We used to talk about marryin' 'em off t'each other, too. 'Member that, Daventry?"
"Was a grand scheme, too, wa'n't it? I say, Trowbridge, there's a thought! Could still do it, couldn' we? M'girl's old enough. So's the boy."
Izzy gaped at the captain across the table, who stared back in open dismay. She'd best do something, fast. "Papa, perhaps you've had a bit too much--"
But Papa continued, oblivious to his daughter. "Be a good match, wouldn' it, Trowbridge? Just imagine, my little girl a viscountess. Got a good portion, y' know. Had an aunt left her a size-sizea--lots o' money, too."
Good Old Trowbridge nodded slowly, with a grand and somewhat exaggerated attempt at a meditative scowl. "'S'true." He continued the overblown nodding of his head. "Suit well, I'd think. Make a grand pair. Let's do it."
"Suit well! You cannot be serious, father!" shouted the younger Trowbridge.
"'S'all right, boy. You'll come around," said the viscount, his words sliding together like they were greased. "'S'for the best, y'know. Time you settled down. Yes, tha's the trick, Daventry! Jus' what m' boy needs. Let's do it!"
Izzy's eyes grew huge. Her jaw gaped open so far she could not force it shut.
Across from her, Captain Trowbridge had precisely the opposite problem, for his jaw clenched so tightly that if he'd had a spoon in his mouth, he would have bitten off the bowl.
Go to Chapter 2: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/murlark-chapter-2.html
England, March, 1816
When the sun came out from beneath dense clouds, Izzy Daventry threw her shawl over her shoulders and set off from the manor across meadows that were still slick from the last downpour. Within moments, the collection of children commonly known as Izzy's Urchins gathered around her, warbling like the first larks of spring, eager to see what adventure she had prepared for the day.
She had plenty of time before her father arrived from Town. Even though he was expected by supper, Izzy knew her miscreant parent well. At his best, he wouldn't arrive before midnight. And even at that, he would need no more than the mere mention of some Arthurian manuscript unearthed in Wales, and he would be off in that direction, forgetting he had ever meant to come home.
Today, she proclaimed to her followers, was the first day of polliwog season. With the practiced eye of an expert polliwog hunter, Izzy paced along the bank, searching for a quiet pool with the characteristics for the proper breeding of tadpoles. Finding her spot, she set the children to searching the water.
"There's some!" said Tom Watkins, whose eagerness always delighted her. "Oh, Izzy! There's lots of 'em! Look here!"
"Ye're s'posed to call her Miss Daventry, ye nodcock!" Jake Watkins gave his younger brother a shove. "Move over, ye hog, ye're takin' all the room!"
"Jake, mind your manners," Izzy scolded, knowing she had little effect on the boy. Yet when the younger girls came closer, even Jake made room. With a manly huff of authority born of a ten-year-old's greater knowledge and advanced years, Jake pointed out the elusive creatures that paddled about by their tails.
Izzy chuckled quietly to herself as she listened to Jake's explanation of tadpole development, a verbatim account of the one she had given the previous year. She was proud of her urchins, and of all the learning she had squeezed into them between their chores and gleaning. She could never hope to equal the schoolmaster they desperately needed, but she taught what she knew, be it reading or polliwog-watching.
Tommy, in his enthusiasm, leaned closer to the water. Her suspicions aroused, Izzy frowned, then spotted Jake preparing to give Tommy a shove. Izzy grabbed his arm and shook her head at the boy, who looked only slightly chagrined. Jake wasn't a cruel child, only one whose mischief was unending. Nor would he think of the danger the icy water posed to his brother.
Intent upon the tadpoles, Tommy had not noticed. He looked up at Izzy, his blue eyes shining. "Can I have some, Izzy? I mean, Miss Daventry? I could get a jar somewheres."
"No, Tommy, they'll die if you take them away."
"How come they like it in there, Izzy?" asked Judith. "The water's so cold. I wouldna like it."
"That's 'cause ye're a girl," snorted Jake. "And ye're forgetting to call her Miss Daventry."
Izzy noted Jake's manly swagger and the haughty way he demanded respect for her, as if in so doing he acquired some respect for himself. The boy had learned just about everything she knew to teach him, and needed to move on. It was a shame his keen mind would have no opportunities for scholarship, but perhaps she could persuade her father to find him an apprenticeship.
She turned back to Judith. "As they have never been anywhere else, Judith, I doubt they know the difference. And if you put them in warm water right away, they would probably die."
"Honest?"
From upstream, Izzy heard sharp shrieks, and turned toward the commotion. Beside the rocky bank of the roiling stream stood Hank Trumble, who raised something into the air above Daisy Samples, while the little girl jumped helplessly after it. It was nothing uncommon for young boys to tease smaller girls, but wherever Hank Trumble went, he took trouble with him, often more than mere teasing. Frowning, Izzy raised her skirts to step around the muddy bank and marched toward the
squabble."Give her back, Hank!" cried the girl. "Hank, don't ye dare! She's mine! Give her back!"
Hank dangled Daisy's yellow kitten tantalizingly close, just beyond her grasp, as Daisy jumped and clawed at her tormenter. As he spotted Izzy and her troop, Hank's face brightened with malicious glee and he flung the kitten into the stream.
With a scream, Daisy dashed toward the water, but Izzy lunged, snatching Daisy by her arm before she jumped in.
"Hold her, Jake." She pushed Daisy to the boy.
"My kitty!" the girl screamed, fighting against Jake's grip.
Izzy couldn't let Daisy go into the water. The fragile child would be swept off her feet instantly.
Tossing a glare at Hank, Izzy kicked off her slippers and stepped into icy water that tugged at her ankles as she groped along the slippery stones. She focused on the yellow kitten, alternately sinking and bobbing as the current swept it closer to Izzy, over the rocks, down into a deep pool, throwing it up again. Exhausted, the little creature hardly struggled, and soon would cease its fight. Izzy lunged against the numbing water. In one stroke, she scooped up the kitten.
Cheers rose from the banks.
Then the kitten remembered its terror. With renewed strength and desperate wails, the squirming mass of thrashing claws hooked its razor talons into her soaked dress and the skin beneath, and climbed her like a tree.
She clenched the cat against her chest, and fumbled her bare, frozen toes along the precarious bottom, reminding herself she did this for Daisy, who was obviously more deserving than this ungrateful wretch.
Suddenly squeezing out of her grip, the kitten clambered up Izzy's sodden dress to her shoulder, shredding both fabric and skin as it climbed her hair. Grimly, she pinned the yowling kitten to her scalp and plowed her numb feet through the icy water, at last reached the calm shallows. The very second she reached Jake's outstretched arm, she peeled the screeching cat from her bedraggled hair and tossed it to him.
Her ordeal at last at its end, Izzy just stood, shivering, letting the soft mud ooze between her toes. Only one more step to dry land. Trembling, she shifted one foot. She slipped, shrieking, tumbling backwards, and landed on her backside in the mud.
Izzy glanced about her in the furtive hope that no living soul above the age of ten had witnessed her fall, and breathed a sigh of relief on seeing none but the gaggle of children surrounding her. At least children could be bribed into silence.
They, however, were giggling. She suspected it would take more than the usual amount of bribery this time.
"Don't ye know how to wade in a creek, Miss Daventry?"
Izzy looked up to Jake's cheeky grin. "I suppose you think you could have done better, with a wildcat peeling your skin off, Jake Watkins."
"No, ma'am. Not at all." Jake gallantly extended his hand to help her out of the mud.
"Thank you, Jake." Izzy rose from the mud, shivering. "Daisy, wrap the kitten in my shawl. I'd mislike learning it died from the cold after all this effort."
"Shall I help ye home, Miss Daventry?" Jake asked. His smirking mouth was so wide, Izzy thought she could probably drive a hay wain through it.
"I shall deal with that, myself. Please see that Daisy gets home without Hank bothering her."
With a cheerful nod, Jake ran off after Daisy.
Izzy trembled so fiercely, she could hardly walk. Clenching her shuddering jaw so tight it hurt, she plodded, one frozen foot in front of the other, to the top of the hill and Daventry Manor.
The closest door was near the stables. She didn't see anybody around, and hoped that meant no one saw her. With luck, she could reach the steps and be up them before anyone was the wiser. If word got out, she would never live this down.
She gathered her remaining strength and hurried to the terrace door and turned the knob. As she pushed, the door pulled away from her hand. There stood Tibbets, his eyes bulging with more than their customary dismay.
"A small accident, Tibbets," she replied to his stunned silence, and rushed past him before he could recover his composure and suggest she not drip on his finely polished floors.
Tibbets followed after her, wringing his hands. "Miss Daventry, perhaps you should avoid going through the foyer."
Hardly the time to be fastidious, she grumbled to herself, and trudged toward the stairs. "I know I am dripping, Tibbets, and I assure you, I am most sorry for the mess, but I am in a bit of a hurry at the moment."
"But, Miss Daventry, you really should..."
Muttering, Izzy slogged over the freshly polished pink marble toward the grand staircase in the foyer, which was much closer to her chamber than the servant's stairs Tibbets no doubt wished she would use, but she was too cold to care.
Just as she passed her father's study with its door ajar, she began to recognize something unusual in the high pitch of Tibbets' voice. And in her desperate haste to be warm again, she barely realized the significance of that open door as she rounded the corner from the corridor to the grand foyer, and collided, face first, with the handsomest man she had ever seen.
He was also the most shocked gentleman she had ever seen. As he backed away, his horror-stricken eyes tracked over her dripping hair, muddy gown, downward all the way to her wet, bare feet, and widened even further at the brown streaks of mud freshly garnishing the dazzling white breeches of his Coldstream Guards uniform. Jaw agape, he stared at her as if he'd just witnessed the destruction of England and all that was English.
Izzy had never thought of herself as beyond the pale. But now, as she stared down at her fingernails and realized there was indeed mud beneath them, she suspected that she had likely just been labeled as such. She glanced about, seeking support, but her father, for once caught without words, only stared. So did both of the men in his company.
She decided to make the best of it. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to a very proper angle. "Good afternoon, Papa, so nice to see you and your guests. You'll excuse me?"
With a wobbly smile, she turned and walked away with dubious grace, belatedly recalling the probable condition of her clothing when viewed from a posterior angle.
"You'll straighten yourself for supper, girl!"
Papa's voice carried to her as she took to the stairs, one absurdly elegant step at a time, until she was certain she was beyond their sight. Then she fled down the corridor to the safety of her chamber.
***
"Devil take it, what was that?" The words were out before Tristan could stop them. Although the girl was already up the stairs and gone, the image stuck in his mind of soaked, mud-streaked muslin clinging indecently, revealing just about every asset the girl had. Particularly the upper ones.
"Not sure," said his father, whose own gaping jaw seemed to be just recovering. "Been using her for trout bait, Daventry?"
For the first time since Tristan had met Daventry in London the day before, the man was struck dumb. That fact, coupled with the word 'Papa' from the creature's own lips, likely meant Tristan had just been given his first view of Daventry's only child. And knowing what he now knew of Daventry, he couldn't imagine why he'd always pictured the girl as a lady.
"A minor mishap, no doubt," Daventry said at last. "Girl's a bit prone to them."
"I'd say. She is a bit damp," Trowbridge admitted.
"Damp?" Tristan said, frowning at the brown streaks on his uniform. "Undress whites do have an uncanny affinity for mud, but I never expected a mud puddle to sprout legs and personally hunt me down."
"Now Tris, no call to be so particular. Ain't as if you never saw mud, what with the Peninsula and all."
"That was the Peninsula, and we lived in mud there. This is supposed to be England, where one may expect some form of gentility." Bloody Hell. He had spent four hours in a coach with his drunken father and equally drunken Daventry, both men two sheets to the wind and ready to hoist the third hours before they reached Daventry's country seat. And now, here was Daventry's incomparable hoyden of a daughter, trouble if ever he had seen it, when all he wanted was peace. This visit was turning into a nightmare. It was almost enough to send him back to Waterloo.
He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the sudden rush of bloody images. No, never that. Never again.
Tristan hadn't wanted to come at all, but he'd had no choice, for Daventry had been his father's lifelong closest friend. Even after Daventry had left India to assume his deceased brother's title, the two had continued their crusty debates over Camelot and King Arthur by mail, month after month, year after year. Those letters had been the highlights of his father's life.
He should have known Daventry would be as exasperating as his own father. How else could they be such fast friends? Like his father, completely irresponsible. Although somebody ran this manor with obvious efficiency, it certainly wasn't Daventry. Nor had the man shown the slightest sensitivity to his daughter, who had clearly suffered a mishap and must be frozen to the bone.
Perhaps Daventry simply knew the girl well enough not to give encouragement to her hoydenish ways.
No, he was probably right the first time. The man didn't have the sense to notice. Tristan shuddered, but he gritted his teeth, determined to be polite.
At least, it was to be a short visit, surely short enough that he could manage to conceal his problem from this strange family. Nothing had happened for some time, and for all he knew, perhaps wouldn't again. And if his own father had not been sufficiently sober to notice something was wrong with his son, he could hope Daventry and his daughter were no more observant. With any luck, he'd soon be safely back in his own London town house, and none the wiser. A solution had to come about sometime.
***
Izzy burst through her chamber door and slammed it behind her, gasping as if she had been chased by a bear. Marie, pausing in her puttering about, lifted her eyebrows, shook her head, called for a hot bath and began stripping the ruined dress from Izzy's body. As Marie appraised the garment that she held by her fingertips at as great a distance as she could manage, Izzy felt chagrined in a way her father could never provoke.
"A pity," said Marie, and tossed the sodden rag into a corner of the dressing chamber.
Izzy wrapped a woolen blanket about her and huddled in the yellow chintz wing chair by the fire grate, waiting the eternity it took for the halftub to be filled. Then she slipped into the gloriously warm water.
"'Tis a handsome young man his lordship's brought home," said Marie, patiently working the tangles from Izzy's wet hair while Izzy soaked.
"I didn't notice," she answered, knowing Marie would see through the lie. "I didn't take the time for introductions."
"Made a cake of yourself, did you?" Marie yanked the tangled strand, emphasizing her point.
There was no fooling Marie. "It matters little, as I'm already promised to Mr. Landerholme."
"He's a mite better prize than that Mr. Landerholme, I'm thinking."
Izzy frowned at Marie's usual lack of enthusiasm for her choice. "Mr. Landerholme is the second son of an earl, you know."
"Might as well be the twentieth."
Izzy held her tongue. She and Donald had been promised to each other since they were children, and she would happily accept him even if he had no chance of inheriting the title.
"Whatever were you about this time, miss?"
There was no point in ignoring her maid's questions, for Marie would learn anyway. So she explained about the polliwog expedition and Hank Trumble's cruel stunt.
Marie shook her head again, no doubt weary of reminding Izzy that proper ladies did not go hunting for tadpoles. "The cat left you some awful marks, it did. We'll have a time finding a dress to hide them. Mayhap, the robin's egg blue."
Izzy grimaced as she studied the evenly spaced rakings the kitten had made in its desperate climb up her body.
"Could've been dangerous, miss. The stream's awful high."
"Oh, nothing would have happened to me, Marie. The water is not all that deep, except in a few holes, and I know where those are." Where the trout are, she thought privately, but this was no time to mention that other favorite improper activity. Marie looked with special disfavor on Izzy's fishing, particularly when she noodled with her fingers instead of using a pole.
Marie huffed. "That Hank Trumble's as worthless as his father. Your father should get rid of the both of them."
For all that Marie had a sharp tongue and was about as respectful as a puppy that had outgrown its mother, she was a caring person. Izzy tried to remember that. "Unlikely, as long as Papa finds Trumble useful in the stables," she replied. "And he does quite well with Rapscallion."
Sitting before her dressing table, Izzy watched in her usual amazement as the expert flicks of Marie's wrist coaxed a delicate fringe of dark curls in just the perfect places to turn her into some approximation of a lady. Izzy would have been satisfied merely to tie her hair back at her neck, allowing the curls to flow down her back. But proper ladies did not leave their hair loose, and she had a strong desire to amend the impression she had previously given her father's guests. The modest neckline of the robin's egg blue dress, however, did not quite cover the tiny scratches, and all Izzy's tugging could not complete the job.
"A fichu, or a shawl, perhaps," Marie suggested.
Izzy sighed. "No." There would be no explaining that she was only occasionally a reckless hoyden, who this time had the best of justification for her actions. She would, therefore, not explain herself at all.
Marie drew her lips tight, looking patient. "Very well, miss. Try not to make a cake of yourself again."
Izzy quelled a sudden desire to bury herself beneath the covers on her bed. But she breathed in slowly, reminded herself that she was to be an elegant lady tonight, and walked with regal grace down the corridor to the grand staircase that led down to the manor's foyer.
At the sound of slippers on the smooth marble steps, Tristan glanced up, then away. Almost as fast as the recoil of a cannon, his head snapped back again. Devil take it! Could that be the same creature that had dripped her way through here barely an hour before?
The Creature descended in fluid motion, her hand trailing along the brass rail, a pile of dark curls framing her delicate face. Too slender for his taste, yet he couldn't stop staring at the assets he had previously noticed, which were further enhanced by her simply cut blue gown, a gown the exact color of her eyes. He had never seen eyes quite that color before.
Those mesmerizing eyes met his with an overt appraisal that set him back as much as her stunning transformation. Brassy chit. Uncontrolled heat rose in his cheeks as her gaze raked over him. With all the dignity he could muster, Tristan bent over her extended hand, debating just how much deference such a creature was to be given. Lady, hoyden, baron's daughter? He hesitated in mid-bow, perhaps a shade sooner than was proper.
Izzy bit her lip, feeling like she was dying inside. Doubtless the gentleman recalled at the last second the mud that had previously been lodged beneath her nails. It was to his credit that he did not altogether fling away her hand, but merely flared his nostrils and dropped it rather precipitously.
She winced at the introductions. She should have known. Viscount Trowbridge, her father's life-long friend, balding, red-faced, and round as a ball. And son, Captain Tristan Trowbridge. Tall as his father was round, with dark hair and a devastatingly handsome face with features that ought to be chiseled into Carrara marble.
Just her luck. Not just any old viscount. Good Old Trowbridge, her father always called him, who had been her papa's boon companion in his India days, equally as obsessed with King Arthur and Camelot. Papa had talked so incessantly about the man over the years that Izzy felt she should have recognized him on sight.
She'd done it this time. Effuse apologies would only make things worse. She just mumbled her gratitude at finally meeting the man after all these years.
"Now, there's a gel for you," said the viscount, chuckling. "Cleans up nicely, Daventry. Pretty thing, ain't she, Tris?"
Izzy flinched. She had envisioned a bit more gentility from a viscount, but then, what else would she expect of a friend of her father's? After all, neither of the two men had ever expected to be anything more than soldiers.
The younger man's cheeks reddened again and he gave a grudging nod, while his father prattled on. She accepted the older man's arm to lead her into dinner, and sat across from the younger Trowbridge, who glared fiercely whenever she caught his eye. Her transformation had obviously not impressed him.
"Thought we'd go up into the Dales, check out the Pendragon Castle," said the viscount as he inspected his already empty wine glass. The footman promptly noted its lack and filled it.
"No, no, no," Daventry said. "Waste of time. We've been there, ain't that so, Izzy, my dove?"
Izzy opened her mouth, but closed it as Papa continued.
"Lots of caves thereabouts, though," said Papa. "Tales of Arthur's Hill everywhere. Seems every dale has its hidden hill with the king and his knights slumbering away."
"That many tales, there's got to be something."
Papa gave a dismissing shake of his head. "Ain't nothing but a grand pile of rocks, no older than the Angevins."
Trowbridge frowned and upended his goblet. "A shame."
"Didn't expect much from something so obvious," said Papa, and drained his own. "No telling when some fool took it into his head it was Arthur's. But the fishing's good, thereabouts. Izzy's idea, that. Made the trip worthwhile, after all."
The captain's eyelids lifted. "Fishing. More commonly a man's activity, is it not? Or has England changed in my absence?"
It was the delicate suggestion of a sneer in his voice that raised her ire. Her lips stretched thinly over her teeth, but Izzy said nothing. Watching the wicked glint that was forming in his eyes, she suspected she knew the content of his next question, and that he was debating whether or not to give it voice. Had she been fishing this afternoon?
The urge seized her to explain not only the manly art of fishing, but the exact process of noodling- precisely how to dangle one's fingers into the water so as to resemble tasty worms. But no. Let him draw his own conclusions.
Now they were discussing Glastonbury Tor. She had been there, too. Papa insisted it must be King Arthur's burial site, but Trowbridge wouldn't hear of it. And just how Offa's Dike got into the discussion, she wasn't sure. This could go on all night. Izzy knew perfectly well the whole argument was outrageous, but that didn't bother the two old sots a bit, as glass after glass of wine slid down their gullets and fueled their debate.
The young captain quietly studied the dregs of wine he swirled within his goblet, sipping only occasionally. A strange mixture of horror and boredom lurked in his dark eyes. They had a common dilemma. Perhaps she should give him another chance.
"You are with the Coldstream Guards, Captain?"
His gaze shot up from the goblet as if she had stomped on his toe. "Yes." Nothing more.
The elder Trowbridge, eyes suddenly keen despite his wine, grinned and thrust out his chest. "Fought at Waterloo," he announced. "Peninsula, too."
"Indeed?" she responded. At least the older fellow would talk. "I understood the duke of Wellington had very few Peninsula veterans with him in Belgium."
"There were exceptions," the captain man grumbled.
Ah. He could talk. "I see. You recall the battle, then?"
He met her question with a silent scowl.
"Was at Hougoumont," the viscount interjected, and chortled proudly. "Got himself cut up a bit."
The captain glared with fury at his father.
"I am sorry," she said, feeling a sudden stab of empathy, both for the wounds and the father's blatant broadcasting. "I understand the casualties were very high at Hougoumont."
"They were higher at La Haye Sainte," the man replied tersely. His jaw had a hard set to it.
Indeed, she thought, as the soldiers at La Haye Sainte had almost been annihilated. "Yes, of course. I did not mean--"
"It is hardly a fit subject for the table, Miss Daventry."
Izzy stared, speechless. He was scolding her for the topic? She had not raised it. She had merely made a polite inquiry about his career.
"Tris, there's no call to be abrupt," his father scolded, unexpectedly alert.
Izzy gritted her teeth and forced a smile. "It is quite all right, my lord, it is not at all the thing. But I do hope you are enjoying your return home, Captain."
He looked as if it was the most inane remark he had ever heard. Izzy opted for silence. He was certainly not the most congenial man she had ever met.
She returned to the quiet observation of the viscount who was of such importance to her father, having developed a preference for that man over his son. Izzy focused on the droning debate and ignored the silent, imperious toad who sat across from her.
Something was wrong here. Something just a shade too typical of her father. She would have bet all the horses in the stable her father and Good Old Trowbridge were up to something.
Captain Trowbridge stole a wary glance at Izzy, then quickly looked away to re-engage with his fork. Did he, too, suspect something was in the air?
Beyond the window, the last light of day faded as Izzy watched the parade of courses and picked delicately at her plate. While their two offspring sat like hostages, the two older men launched into full-fledged drinking, grew louder, words slurring, and slowly slipped back into the distant past.
"'Member when your boy was born," said Daventry, punctuating his slurred words with a throaty chuckle.
"Oh that was a day, wa'n't it?" responded the viscount, just as jolly. "'Member when this little one come into the world, too," he added, and threw a hazy look in Izzy's direction. "We used to talk about marryin' 'em off t'each other, too. 'Member that, Daventry?"
"Was a grand scheme, too, wa'n't it? I say, Trowbridge, there's a thought! Could still do it, couldn' we? M'girl's old enough. So's the boy."
Izzy gaped at the captain across the table, who stared back in open dismay. She'd best do something, fast. "Papa, perhaps you've had a bit too much--"
But Papa continued, oblivious to his daughter. "Be a good match, wouldn' it, Trowbridge? Just imagine, my little girl a viscountess. Got a good portion, y' know. Had an aunt left her a size-sizea--lots o' money, too."
Good Old Trowbridge nodded slowly, with a grand and somewhat exaggerated attempt at a meditative scowl. "'S'true." He continued the overblown nodding of his head. "Suit well, I'd think. Make a grand pair. Let's do it."
"Suit well! You cannot be serious, father!" shouted the younger Trowbridge.
"'S'all right, boy. You'll come around," said the viscount, his words sliding together like they were greased. "'S'for the best, y'know. Time you settled down. Yes, tha's the trick, Daventry! Jus' what m' boy needs. Let's do it!"
Izzy's eyes grew huge. Her jaw gaped open so far she could not force it shut.
Across from her, Captain Trowbridge had precisely the opposite problem, for his jaw clenched so tightly that if he'd had a spoon in his mouth, he would have bitten off the bowl.
Go to Chapter 2: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/murlark-chapter-2.html
August 4, 2012
New Covers! Releases Coming UP!
Now that I've returned from the RWA conference, I can relax a little, but I still have a ridiculously busy schedule for the next few months. My book covers for my three Montlake releases have been approved so I can show them to you now.I am so thrilled that Montlake allowed me to design them myself! Edits and everything else is done so they're in production now. I just checked the Amazon site and discovered the price for the print books is only $7.77, unlike the unaffordable $13-15 most publishers have had to charge. I'm attributing that to their ability to directly access CreateSpace, rather than go through an outside printer like most small to medium publishers must do.
FAERIE releases October 9, 2012 and FIRE DANCE and LOKI'S DAUGHTERS both release September 11,2012. Some people wondered if I might be worried about that date. No. It's a time to talk, to explore difficult subjects. And I think those two books, especially LOKI'S DAUGHTERS, speak to the many hard issues that have always set one group of people against another.
I've got lots of fun and amazing stories to tell you from the RWA conference, so as soon as I finish the synopses I promised my editor, I'll share. Lots to say about changes in self-publishing and e-publishing. And the questions so many people asked me: If I love self-publishing so much, why have I chosen to sign with Montlake? And now that I've been working with them through the development and production of three books, what do I think of them? NEXT WEEK! That will be my first topic!
March 16, 2012
LADY WICKED NOMINEE for BEST BOOK!
LADY WICKED is The Romance Reviews nominee for Best Historical Romance of 2011! The competition is extreme, which makes it even more exciting!But for an author, there is little that can top having one of her best loved, hardest fought stories be appreciated as a best book.
I'd love it if you'd click on the picture and give my beloved book a vite. And thanks many many times!
March 7, 2012
Who Am I? How Do I Know?
Last fall I signed up to participate in Ancestry.com's DNA project. I figured I would be in for a surprise or two. My family has not been very good at keeping a record of our history. As near as I can tell, I'm about as much a mongrel as a person can get (my kids, even more so). But the kind of surprises that showed up with the results I got last night really threw me for a loop.
WHAT DID IT SHOW:
64% Scandanavian (Norway, Sweden, Denmark)
15% Finnish/Volga/Ural (What looks to me to be a broad Russian Steppe area, following the extremely long Volga River)
14% Southern European (Spain, Portugal, Italy, Mediterranean)
7% Central European (France, Germany, Austria)
The surprise is the middle two. I knew of nothing in my family tree that could account for either of those. And at the same time, what happened to my 75% British heritage? No sign of it at all?
What I didn't understand is just what DNA tests could and couldn't do. For one thing, I'm female, which means I don't inherit the Y-DNA from my father. I do inherit mtDNA or mitochondrial DNA from my mother. If I want to know my patrilineal line, the best I could do would be to get one of my brothers to have the Y test run.
I didn't quite comprehend that the mtDNA doesn't mean lost genetic inheritance. It doesn't, in fact,have anything to do with all the non-sex-linked characteristics that have been passed down to me. It serves as a sort of genetic map that could be traced through my mother and her mother, and the entire matrilineal line back to one original woman who lived perhaps 200,000 years ago. Although my brothers received this same piece of DNA, they can't pass it on to their descendants. Likewise, since I do not have a Y chromosome, I didn't get a copy of the Y-DNA at all, although I obviously did get lots of genetic material from my father.
So from each generation, only the mtDNA of one ancestor, through the females only, is passed down. Not father's mother. Only mother's mother. And this line shows essentially where the genetic mutations occurred over a very long period of time.
And as it happens, this maternal line is probably the least known of all my ancestry.
Nadele Mitchell (Jacobs) > Nelda Norton (Mitchell) > Pearl Hatton (Norton) > Mary Matilda Stafford (Hatton) > Nancy Garraway (Stafford) > Elizabeth Moody (Garraway) > Jane Grindstaff (Moody) > possibly Mary Catherine Smith (Grindstaff), born Rowan Co. N. Carolina, but nothing else on her parentage.
And there the trail ends, at 7 or 8 generations. I can see a path from the Carolinas to Georgia, which in that time did include Alabama and Mississippi. When territory opened up in Mississippi, and later Alabama, several branches of the family moved west. But there's nothing that shows me where this line of women originated before the Carolinas in the 18th century. Did Mary Catherine Smith's ancestry reach the Americas through the Spanish in Florida? Could they have been Viking descendants in Russia? And, most oddly for folk in the American South: Were they not English or Celtic/Anglo-Saxon at all?
A very strange and completely unexpected puzzle!
WHAT DID IT SHOW:
64% Scandanavian (Norway, Sweden, Denmark)
15% Finnish/Volga/Ural (What looks to me to be a broad Russian Steppe area, following the extremely long Volga River)
14% Southern European (Spain, Portugal, Italy, Mediterranean)
7% Central European (France, Germany, Austria)
The surprise is the middle two. I knew of nothing in my family tree that could account for either of those. And at the same time, what happened to my 75% British heritage? No sign of it at all?
What I didn't understand is just what DNA tests could and couldn't do. For one thing, I'm female, which means I don't inherit the Y-DNA from my father. I do inherit mtDNA or mitochondrial DNA from my mother. If I want to know my patrilineal line, the best I could do would be to get one of my brothers to have the Y test run.
I didn't quite comprehend that the mtDNA doesn't mean lost genetic inheritance. It doesn't, in fact,have anything to do with all the non-sex-linked characteristics that have been passed down to me. It serves as a sort of genetic map that could be traced through my mother and her mother, and the entire matrilineal line back to one original woman who lived perhaps 200,000 years ago. Although my brothers received this same piece of DNA, they can't pass it on to their descendants. Likewise, since I do not have a Y chromosome, I didn't get a copy of the Y-DNA at all, although I obviously did get lots of genetic material from my father.
So from each generation, only the mtDNA of one ancestor, through the females only, is passed down. Not father's mother. Only mother's mother. And this line shows essentially where the genetic mutations occurred over a very long period of time.
And as it happens, this maternal line is probably the least known of all my ancestry.
Nadele Mitchell (Jacobs) > Nelda Norton (Mitchell) > Pearl Hatton (Norton) > Mary Matilda Stafford (Hatton) > Nancy Garraway (Stafford) > Elizabeth Moody (Garraway) > Jane Grindstaff (Moody) > possibly Mary Catherine Smith (Grindstaff), born Rowan Co. N. Carolina, but nothing else on her parentage.
And there the trail ends, at 7 or 8 generations. I can see a path from the Carolinas to Georgia, which in that time did include Alabama and Mississippi. When territory opened up in Mississippi, and later Alabama, several branches of the family moved west. But there's nothing that shows me where this line of women originated before the Carolinas in the 18th century. Did Mary Catherine Smith's ancestry reach the Americas through the Spanish in Florida? Could they have been Viking descendants in Russia? And, most oddly for folk in the American South: Were they not English or Celtic/Anglo-Saxon at all?
A very strange and completely unexpected puzzle!
February 14, 2012
BIG NEW CONTRACT!
Great news! I've just signed a 3-book contract with Montlake Romances! First, they're picking up my new book, FAERIE, a medieval romance that is in the same line as my highly successful medieval, FIRE DANCE. But they're also acquiring both FIRE DANCE and LOKI'S DAUGHTERS, which I've self-published after having their rights reverted to me. Those two will be re-packaged and released tentatively in August, and FAERIE is tentatively scheduled for September. Tight deadlines!
Montlake is new. And different. They're the new Romance publishing house set up by Amazon, and they're causing a bit of a stir. I've had my eye on them since I first heard about them. And like a lot of Amazon's new endeavors, at first I asked why in the world they'd want to go in that direction. My first big question is, why, at a time when traditional publishing is having such a hard time staying afloat, and ebooks have become so profitable and successful, would anyone consider starting up a new publishing house in the traditional vein?
But it doesn't really take much objective observation to reach the conclusion that the idea is well thought out and backed by lots of data. And some of the things I'm seeing are efficiency, data-driven decision-making, strong promotion, and strong author involvement with excellent backing. When I saw how they mean to do business, I quickly reached the conclusion that this is the way I think publishing should be.So I'm posting the covers I've been using for these books, which I admit still don't quite satisfy me. I love Montlake's covers so far, so I'm dying to see what they will do. And, as much as I can without violating confidential agreements, I'll share this different path in publishing with you as I go along.
I never have been very good at treading the main path, have I? Well, maybe I could have been richer, but I've done all right. And I couldn't have been happier. I wouldn't have been happy at all, in fact, if I'd had to write the stories that didn't feel right to me. I'm happy reading other authors' stories, and yes, I do love the traditional types of romances. But they aren't the stories I need to be telling.
February 3, 2012
My Mom's Secret Life
Well--- there went another month. Sadly, the cold that appeared on New Years Day transformed itself into a bronchial infection, and then took the remainder of the month to fight off. Amoxicillin was very effective, as was Prednisone. Unfortunately for me, Prednisone is not allowed on an ongoing basis because of its other effects, but it's the one thing that really works for me. I'm just like my mom in a lot of ways, and Prednisone could so transform my life, but I'm never allowed to take enough to do the job. And for very good reason.
My mom, the sweetest little old lady you could imagine, was also a severe asthmatic, and nearly died many times in her life. So somewhere around age 55 to 60, she turned to crime. Instead of one doctor, she had three, and none of them knew about the others. She would go to communities as far as 30 miles away, wearing her Sweet Little Old Lady mask, and each would give her the Prednisone in her trusty inhaler that kept her breathing. She was a Prednisone junkie.
True, that was back in the days before computers and shared, carefully policed pharmaceutical records, but I think if she'd had to, she would have found ways to defeat even today's systems. I never saw a doctor back then who could turn her down. The side effects were visible, though, mostly in her skin, which became so brittle it would break instead of bruise, and the dark marks would be visible for a long time. I argued with her many times that the steroids would shorten her life, and were already causing problems, but she had one overwhelming retort.
"I'd rather live a short, productive life than a long, miserable one as a total invalid."
And the reality was, without her own therapeutic regimen, I am certain she would actually have died much younger. I saw her come close too many times. There were far fewer emergency trips to the hospital in her latter years. And she continued to push herself to accomplish as much as she could, even though sometimes she could hardly walk.
Eventually she became too crippled by her disease to take care of herself, and that was when the doctors discovered her subterfuge. They cut her medicines back to a "reasonable dose". My husband had an inhaler then. She talked him out of it, saying she couldn't find hers, so he went and got another one. But not too long after that, she began having episodes when she would just plain stopped breathing. And finally, before she turned 76, she stopped breathing and the doctors couldn't re-start her. She died.
She'd always thought it so strange that she had out-lived her four healthier siblings. Maybe she had something there.
My mom, the sweetest little old lady you could imagine, was also a severe asthmatic, and nearly died many times in her life. So somewhere around age 55 to 60, she turned to crime. Instead of one doctor, she had three, and none of them knew about the others. She would go to communities as far as 30 miles away, wearing her Sweet Little Old Lady mask, and each would give her the Prednisone in her trusty inhaler that kept her breathing. She was a Prednisone junkie.
True, that was back in the days before computers and shared, carefully policed pharmaceutical records, but I think if she'd had to, she would have found ways to defeat even today's systems. I never saw a doctor back then who could turn her down. The side effects were visible, though, mostly in her skin, which became so brittle it would break instead of bruise, and the dark marks would be visible for a long time. I argued with her many times that the steroids would shorten her life, and were already causing problems, but she had one overwhelming retort.
"I'd rather live a short, productive life than a long, miserable one as a total invalid."
And the reality was, without her own therapeutic regimen, I am certain she would actually have died much younger. I saw her come close too many times. There were far fewer emergency trips to the hospital in her latter years. And she continued to push herself to accomplish as much as she could, even though sometimes she could hardly walk.
Eventually she became too crippled by her disease to take care of herself, and that was when the doctors discovered her subterfuge. They cut her medicines back to a "reasonable dose". My husband had an inhaler then. She talked him out of it, saying she couldn't find hers, so he went and got another one. But not too long after that, she began having episodes when she would just plain stopped breathing. And finally, before she turned 76, she stopped breathing and the doctors couldn't re-start her. She died.
She'd always thought it so strange that she had out-lived her four healthier siblings. Maybe she had something there.
December 29, 2011
HEAVENLY HELL- Where All Serious Writers Go
Pearly Gates after Daily PolishingWelcome to the New Year. Well, for you, maybe. I'm writing this several days before New Years' Eve, knowing I'll have returned from a trip north to see family just in time to miss all the celebration. While the rest of you are out there whooping it up, I'll be at home pounding the keyboard. But if you think I'm whining, you're mistaken.
You can tell this is a serious writerby his pride in the three words he got
onto the paper. Can't see them?
Oh, he must have used White-Out.I think the last time we ventured out on the wild year end spree was 1989 when we got as far as Plaid Pantry before the drunk drivers scared us off the road. Following the national tradition doesn't appeal to me. It would mean actually dressing up and going out, and then eating too much and drinking things I don't even want to remember in the morning. Not that I don't like to dress up. I do it at least twice a year, and actually, I clean up pretty good. But there's just nothing like hanging around the house in my faded muu muu, fuzzy comfy sox and new Christmas robe that so far doesn't even have a bacon fat dribble on it while the guys are safely downstairs in front of the TV. I'll have a glass of wine, maybe, and some shrimp cocktail that still has frost lingering on the tails. I'm perfectly capable of getting fat without leaving the house.
The truth is, I'd just as soon stay home and write, curled up in said faded muu muu on my bed with my laptop, as do anything else in the world. I will spend the day working on the ending of my January release, BELOVED STRANGER, briefly hobbling on stiff legs down the stairs for supper, then return to my awkward Yoga-like position on my bed to work some more on it. No doubt I'll find a rough spot on the last scene, but I'll simply do what always works: a whirlpool bath. Sure enough, in five minutes I'll have all the missing parts outlined in my little notepad, and I'll lean back to enjoy the soothing flow of the bubbly water. For maybe a minute. I'll spend the last 25 minutes before the timer shuts off planning my next story. (No, I'm not providing any pictures of me in any of the above circumstances. Don't ask.)
Demon Deadline's WorkplaceI know what you're thinking. Couldn't I just enjoy the whirlpool bath without turning it into some sort of workaholic marathon? Are you kidding? What kind of fun would that be? I'm a writer. I write. People who don't write, don't. And they don't understand those who do.Ever hear about the writer who died and walked up to the Pearly Gates, only to discover the Gates were temporarily closed for their daily polishing? While he waited around for things to open up, St. Peter offered the author a tour of Hell because, he said, authors get to choose whether they go to Heaven or Hell.
Demon Deadline in action.Down in Hell, all the writers were squatting before desks made from rocks, pounding on ancient typewriters, while behind them some joker whose name was Demon Deadline (I kid you not) cracked a whip and yelled, "Write, you fools! Write!"
As soon as the gates were polished, St. Pete and the author returned to Heaven, and St Peter showed the author around the Heavenly Authors' Chamber, located on a remote cloud, perched precariously at the very edge of Heaven. All the writers were sitting before rock desks pounding on ancient typewriters. And darned if that guy Deadline wasn't right behind them, cracking his whip and yelling, "Write, you fools! Write!"
"I don't get it," said the author. "What's the difference?"
St. Peter beamed proudly and said, "Our Heavenly Authors get to be published in the Heavenly Times."Real authors understand that. Of course any author who had a choice would clearly choose Heaven over Hell, but lacking that choice, he'd choose Hell over an ordinary life without writing. Writers know all about Hell anyway. Hell is a When as well as a Where. It''s when you spent the entire night working out a fabulous scene in your mind until you know every single detail. Then you sit down at your computer the next day and discover you do indeed have every little detail in your mind. Everything, that is, except the words to describe it.
Jimmy and my favorite heroineAnd Hell is when someone drags you off to a party to loosen up and have fun for a change, just when you're champing at the bit to write that delicious love scene. (And yes, that's champing at the bit, not chomping. All Regency authors know horses do not chomp their bits because Regency authors love their research even as much as they do writing.)
Heaven is when your hero is Johnny Depp, Gerard Butler and Jimmy Thomas combined in just the right proportions, and you have no trouble at all picturing him or telling anyone all about him. Hell is when you're a hundred pages into the book and still can't get a mental picture of Hero, even though he ought to be the sexiest, most kissable guy you've ever written.
This ordinary world is very neatly divided into two kinds of people: Those who write, and those who know all writers are crazy. The second group would find no pleasure in running around all day in comfy sox and muu muus (or pajamas or sweats), but tying one on at a New Year's party is something they find worthy of a year-long wait. They consider computers to be work tools and whirlpool baths a source for luxurious "aaaahhhhs". Writers, on the other hand, derive incredible pleasure (or pain) from their computers. But whirlpool tubs, being the source of some of their greatest ideas, are clearly work tools.
So those of you who are not writers will not understand my New Years' Eve wish. It is only for authors, who will have no trouble understanding. Here it is, my special wish for you, for now and all the years to come:
MAY YOU WRITE FOREVER.
And for the rest of you, who we love so much:
Buy our books! Live a Happily Ever After!
Love and hugs to all!Delle
December 28, 2011
Glass Eye Studio Winner!
Running behind again--as you know I sometimes do--
The WINNER of the $35 gift Certificate to The Glass Eye Studio is Diana Duncan! Diana, I'm being demonic. I'm waiting for you to find it so I can hear you scream...
I'm still collecting entries for the final drawing on New Years Day for:
A gift certificate for the tooled Leather e-reader cover- or $87 toward any other item in the Oberon Designs catalog.
One $10 gift certificate each to three winners to the winners' choice of Amazon, Glass Eye or Oberon Designs.
There are so many choices at Glass Eye and Oberon Designs that I can't even decide which ones for myself, so I wouldn't want to pick for you. The e-reader covers come in sizes and shapes to fit all Kindles and Nooks, and might fit other readers too, but I'd be very careful about that if you're the winner. Check your measurements carefully and then contact them directly to be sure. If not, there are many other beautiful products available.
The usual things will get you extra chances in the drawing.
Buy a 99 cent book on Amazon- (particularly HIS MAJESTY, THE PRINCE OF TOADS since it is climbing the charts right now).
Or give a copy to a friend if you've already bought one.
Comment on Face Book.
Comment on my blog.
Reply on Twitter.
Share or re-tweet promo posts.
Write your own promo posts for me.
Each one will get you one more chance at the final prizes. Go on- help my TOAD reach the Big Time!
The WINNER of the $35 gift Certificate to The Glass Eye Studio is Diana Duncan! Diana, I'm being demonic. I'm waiting for you to find it so I can hear you scream...
I'm still collecting entries for the final drawing on New Years Day for:
A gift certificate for the tooled Leather e-reader cover- or $87 toward any other item in the Oberon Designs catalog.
One $10 gift certificate each to three winners to the winners' choice of Amazon, Glass Eye or Oberon Designs.
There are so many choices at Glass Eye and Oberon Designs that I can't even decide which ones for myself, so I wouldn't want to pick for you. The e-reader covers come in sizes and shapes to fit all Kindles and Nooks, and might fit other readers too, but I'd be very careful about that if you're the winner. Check your measurements carefully and then contact them directly to be sure. If not, there are many other beautiful products available.
The usual things will get you extra chances in the drawing.
Buy a 99 cent book on Amazon- (particularly HIS MAJESTY, THE PRINCE OF TOADS since it is climbing the charts right now).
Or give a copy to a friend if you've already bought one.
Comment on Face Book.
Comment on my blog.
Reply on Twitter.
Share or re-tweet promo posts.
Write your own promo posts for me.
Each one will get you one more chance at the final prizes. Go on- help my TOAD reach the Big Time!
December 23, 2011
WHERE DID THE STORY COME FROM?
NEW COVER DESIGN!First, before we get to our topic for today, because this it the book that always makes me think of those lightbulb creative moments:FREE on Kindle Dec. 23rd and 24th ONLY: HIS MAJESTY, THE PRINCE OF TOADS
Downlload this free book, or buy another, and get a new chance at my drawing for the hand-tooled leather e-reader cover or handblown glass ornament. Or comment on my blog, re-tweet my tweets, comment on Face Book. Each one gets you one more opportunity. Be sure and let me know, though, so I don't accidentally miss you!
Now on with the show:
I'm convinced everyone has story ideas. But maybe they don't recognize them. And of course, a story idea doesn't come with a complete story- most of the time, anyway. It's a germ of an idea. Something that is a little, or a lot, different from the everyday thoughts that run through our heads.
Most authors will tell you they don't get story ideas from their dreams. I do, but only occasionally. SIREN popped into my head in a dream, and it wasn't just a concept. It was probably the first half of the story. And while I do remember my dreams, usually I don't get more than fragments. FAERIE, which will come out sometime, I promise, was a fragment, with the heroine's inner conflict but not too much else.
LOKI'S DAUGHTERS came about on a dreary Sunday afternoon when my daughter, son, and I were sitting around the table, watching the kids play. My daughter and I complained that we'd never found any Viking romances that didn't have that supposed "romantic rape" scene. We detest those. So the three of us got spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and composing a Viking plot where the Vikings were the good guys. I think it was probably more romantic comedy at the time, and in fact it sounded almost like a stage musical.
LADY WICKED came from a young male social work colleague, sweet thought he was, who absolutely refused to believe that barely a hundred years ago, in some places such as England, wives were considered the husband's chattel, and could not even make a will without their husband's permission.
FIRE DANCE was probably mostly the result of years of working with abuse survivors and learning so much from them in terms of human triumph and survival. I had to write a heroine who represented the amazing courage I had seen so often.
But HIS MAJESTY, THE PRINCE OF TOADS probably had the most unusual beginning:
Back in the ancient past of my writing career, a good friend and Regency-writing colleague named Shirley Karr sent me a joke about a very modern princess and her encounter with an egotistical amphibian. You've probably seen it. It made the rounds of all e-groups lists the way jokes fly around the world on YouTube and Face Book today. I thought it was funny, but I thought it needed a more historical feel, so I re-framed it in a historical setting and sent it back to her:
Once upon a time, a beautiful, intelligent princess lived in a lovely kingdom by the sea. One day as she strolled in her garden alongside her favorite fountain, a frog leaped to the fountain wall beside her, startling her. "Good morning," said the frog as he strutted along the wall (no mean feat, considering the shape of his legs). "I have come to rescue you." The princess studied the frog quizzically, for she had never seen a talking, strutting frog before, and certainly could not imagine why she might need rescuing. "I am not a really frog, you see, but an enchanted prince. One kiss from you and I shall return to my former glorious state, whereupon I shall save you from spinsterhood and carry you off to my castle where you can cook my meals, do my laundry, and bear me dozens of sons who will all be as handsome as I am." That evening the princess sat down to supper at her table, set with the finest china and Waterford crystal, and smiled as she speared her Frog Legs Forestiére with her golden fork.
Of course, no heroine of mine would ever fry and skewer a hero, not to mention a frog. But it could happen metaphorically.. And you can tell by the epithet given him, "His Majesty, the Prince of Toads", that he is in dire need of a real lesson in loving. And there's nothing like a good romance to give it to him. And so the process began of finding said hero, and then, just the right heroine to deliver such a come-uppance. And, as is usual for me, I had to pay attention, for Lucas and Sophie did not have an ordinary story. It was truly their story, not mine!
Writers, the next time you find yourself struggling for a new story concept, the place to look is your own experiences. You don't have to stick with the details you experienced. How could you go to the core concept and expand to make a unique story?
And readers, if you wanted to write a story, what event in your life might trigger a story with a new twist?
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