Kay Springsteen's Blog, page 5

A Visit by Regency Romance Author Vivian Roycroft

Today we have a special treat! My good friend, Regency Romance author, Vivian Roycroft has stopped by to tell us about needlework in the English Regency Period.

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Flowing white muslin, pristine and unadorned, falling from an Empire waist gathered beneath the bustline with a simple ribbon… between roughly 1795 and 1800, the fashion ideal for a young French lady was to dress as a Grecian statue come to life. At first, this meant donning her nightgown for daywear, and young ladies all over France sacrificed their elders’ finery in support of the new government’s republican ideals, which were supposed to hearken back to ancient Greece’s democracy.

But as English ladies across the Channel pointed out, those unadorned white gowns were rather… boring. They all looked the same, they didn’t always flatter a woman’s figure, and their coverage during English winters gave pneumonia a new nickname: the “muslin disease.” Besides, English ladies weren’t supporting the French Revolution, just wearing an elegant gown. Practical beneath their fashion sense, the ladies of England donned flesh-toned knit pantaloons to keep their legs warm, and searched for ways to make the height of fashion more of an individual statement.

Those ladies expert with a needle turned to embroidery; those who weren’t found a seamstress. All of them pored over hand-drawn patterns, both the old ones they’d inherited from their mothers and elder sisters, and those currently available at the linen draper’s shop. Because the muslin fabric was nearly sheer, the designs didn’t have to be transferred to the gown. Instead, the pattern sheet was pinned to the fabric, supported by an embroidery hoop, and the seamstress worked the design atop the pattern.

Soon English society was blooming with embroidery. At first it was limited to necklines, hems, sleeve bands, and shawls, and the work was kept light, at least in sympathy with the ancient Greek statue concept. Much of this early Regency trim followed Grecian patterns, as well, the sort of interlocking geometrics you might see carved into the cornices of old neo-classical buildings.

But in 1804, images reached England of the Egyptian and Etruscan gifts Napoleon had brought back from the Nile campaign to France for his wife, Empress Joséphine, a noted fashion leader. Overnight, the Grecian look vanished and Egypt was hot. Still geometric in design, the new needlework sported fan spreads, greater detailing, and slightly larger designs, as well as tassels on shawl corners.

By 1808, most ladies had tired of Oriental-flavored designs. But they didn’t tire of embroidery, and finework became even more detailed. Floral swags became popular along the hems of ball gowns, with ribbon roses on sleeves and necklines, and delicate patterns stitched across the entire skirt. Whitework embroidery saw a revival, detailed and raised designs worked with incredibly tiny stitches in white thread on white muslin caps, bodices, and petticoats, the latter designed to peep delightfully from beneath one’s gown during a skirt-flaring dance.

Tambour also enjoyed renewed popularity. Done with a teensy crochet-type hook and embroidery

Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons contributor Carolus.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Carolus_-Private_Collection_-_tule.jpg

hoop, with fine thread worked into the weave of loose fabric or netting in a sort of chain stitch on the fabric’s surface, this type of embroidery became so well known that, when crochet first appeared in 1820, it was known at first as “tambour-in-the-air.”

In 1973, a set of well-used embroidery patterns from the 1780s was donated to the Victoria and Albert Museum. Clearly they’re the work of a professional pattern-drawer and gifted artist, and just the thought of stitching one of those beautiful, detailed designs onto thin muslin gives me the quakes. Here’s a link if you’d like to see more.

 

 

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Lady Clara hunts for the man she loves amidst Napoleon’s war. But with cannons blazing, the cost could be more than her life.

Lady Clara Huckabee stows away by accident. But she’s not sorry to sail aboard HMS Topaze, leaving England behind. It’s a chance to search for her charming French suitor from the Amiens peace, the man she’s determined to marry despite the war and her dominating uncle’s disapproval. All she has to do is convince the Topaze’s handsome captain to see things her way, and everything will be perfect.

A French frigate has evaded the Royal Navy blockade of Brest. Captain Alexander Fleming sails the smaller, elderly frigate Topaze in pursuit, but what he’s supposed to do with a silly stowaway debutante for seven thousand miles wasn’t covered in his orders. In the doldrums, during a South Atlantic storm, and with French t’gallants spiking the horizon, his first responsibility is always to his ship, his crew, his assignment… not his growing attachment for the woman doubling as his captain’s clerk. Perfect; just perfect.

Before disaster strikes, before the cannons open fire, will Lady Clara and Fleming learn that the perfection they longed for isn’t the one they really want?

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About the Author

 Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she’s not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. Along with an e-reader stuffed with Jane Austen and Patrick O’Brian, a yarn stash, and a turtle sundae at Culver’s.

You can find Vivian and her writing compadre, J.L. Salter, at their shared blog, http://www.TakeTwoOnRomance.Weebly.com, or follow her on Twitter as @VivianRoycroft. And start looking for the second book in the series Love in Napoleon’s War in autumn of 2013!

Find A Different Sort of Perfect wherever e-books are sold, including:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Kobo

Apple

In the Beginning, They Were Writers – Ruth Hartman

Words and Pictures

by Ruth Hartman

In elementary school, my love of writing seemed to form right along with my love of drawing pictures. Usually, I drew cats. But one day, tired of the same old thing, I grabbed a magazine my dad had tossed on the floor beside his recliner. I drew the picture, freehand, while looking at the cover. It was of a man, slouched in a church pew, with his shoes off. His eyes were half-closed, trying to stay awake while he listened to the service.

The caption referred to the “apathetic and bored church member”. I wrote down the words just as I saw them on the page, and positioned them above the drawing of the man. I studied the words and knew all of them but one.

“Daddy,” I asked. “What does a…pa…the…tic mean?”

He looked away from his newspaper and frowned. “What?” He leaned over to where I sat on the floor with my pencil, paper and the magazine. “Did you draw that?”

“Yes.”

“You traced it from the picture?”

“No. I just drew it. No tracing.”

“Hmmm. That’s really good.” He glanced down at the paper again. “Apathetic means you don’t really care. You’re not really interested.”

I studied the word and nodded. “Oh, okay.” But inside, my mind sprung to life. I’d just written a word I didn’t know, had found out its meaning, and now I knew that the next time I wrote it or read it, I’d remember what it meant! How exciting! I’d always loved to read, but writing that word and discovering something new brought that love to life.

After that, even though I was shy, I participated in our class’s spelling bees and did well. I loved to write stories for school and just for the fun of it. And I was that weird kid in high school who cheered when we had to do term papers.

Nothing has changed. The other day when my nephew, who’s in college, moaned because he had to take a literature class, I volunteered (jokingly) to write all of his papers for him.

My first experience with writing a book was in 2008. I’d gone through a very rough four years of living with debilitating OCD. I could hardly leave my house. When I started to feel better, I wrote down what I’d gone through. The finished product was the now re-released “Life in Mental Chains”. It wasn’t necessarily my plan to keep writing books, but one day while cleaning a patient’s teeth at the dental office where I work, I wondered what would happen if a hygienist fell in love with her patient. “Flossophy of Grace” was the result.

Ten books later, I’m still writing and loving it! My newest venture is Regency Romances. “Time for a Duke” was released in November 2012.

Guess I should thank that apathetic man in the church pew. He might have been bored, but his picture prepared my mind for a lifetime of the joy of writing.

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Thank you for stopping by, Ruth! Readers may find Ruth on Amazon and Barnes & Noble!

In the Beginning,They Were Writers – Elaine Cantrell

To start off this series on writers during their early years, please welcome multi-published author, Elaine Cantrell.

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My writing career began around age four or five. I told my dad that I wanted to write a story about Woody Woodpecker, one of my favorite cartoon characters. He took a piece of notebook paper and hand-wrote the story in pencil. It must have been a work of art; he laughed hysterically as he wrote it. Daddy kept that story until the day he died. After his death when my stepmother cleaned out a cedar chest where he kept his treasures, she found the story and gave it to me. I can even remember the day I dictated it to him! Trust me; that memory is an unexpected treasure from the past that warmed my heart for days afterward.

I wrote nothing from that long ago day until the year 2002. At that time my son inspired me to try my hand at writing when he wrote a novel himself. I had always wanted to write a book, but I had no idea I could do it.  The light dawned when my son told me that he always made up stories in his head to amuse himself, so he thought he might as well write them down.  Well!  I had always done the same thing.  I took it as a sign that I should try to write a novel.

I sat down and stared for a long time at that blank computer screen.  I could think of so many ways to begin!  Finally, I realized that I had a delete key.  If my first effort was no good, I’d just start over.  Words flew from my fingers to the keyboard.  I could barely stop writing.  How exhilarating.  Who knew writing would grab you and refuse to let you go?

After I finished my first story, I wrote a second book which I submitted to a small press called Oak Tree Press. Oak Tree sponsors a yearly contest whose prize is publication of your novel. To my great and utter surprise, I won.  My book A New Leaf was published in 2004.

Since that time I’ve become addicted to writing, and in the process I’ve had ten more books published and am working on another.  Why do I do it? It isn’t for the money; very few authors ever get rich off their writing. It isn’t for fame and recognition because I’m not on the New York

Times bestseller list. No, I write because I can’t help myself.

My characters reveal themselves to me and demand that I tell their story for them. They get under my skin and nag me until I seat myself at my computer and let them express themselves. I’m totally consumed by their problems and triumphs, and until I give them resolution I can’t get them off my mind. I’ve even been known to take my computer on vacation so I won’t lose an entire day of writing. Often, after a book is finished I have a hard time letting my characters go.  They’ve become a part of my family. If you’d like to get to know me a little better, you can find me at the following locations:

Blog  http://www.elainepcantrell.blogspot.com

Website http://www.elainecantrell.com

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/elainepcantrell

Twitter http://www.twitter.com/elainecantrell

Kay, thanks so much for letting me bend the ears of your friends and fans.  I’d love to host you on my blog anytime.

Light a Candle in your Heart

Sadness prevails only when we allow it to take up residence in our lives – when it becomes the focus of our minds and hearts.

Anger leads only when we give up the reins of our life, when we become people who REACT by lashing out instead of  ACTING by reaching out a hand in love.

Fear runs our lives only when we give it permission to whisper its poison into our ears and then pay those whispers the utmost attention.

But hope – HOPE is that undying song that emerges from the darkest reaches of our sad, angry, and scared imaginings to blossom into happiness when we water and fertilize that part of us which WANTS desperately to believe that goodness can still be found in the world.

Sometimes,  hope needs a candle to help see its way clear of our darkest hours. I pray everyone will join me in lighting the candle of hope in our hearts, that we will reach out our arms in loving embrace of those who have suffered unimaginable loss through violence.

In caring memory of all those who lost their lives in Sandy Hook Elementary School.

A Regency Christmas from Astraea Press

Do you love Christmas? Love Regency romance? You’ve come to the right place!

Step back in time – two centuries…200 years. Eleven Astraea Press authors want to take you on a journey to Christmas in Regency England…1812.

My contribution to this journey, The Toymaker, was inspired by a doll from my own collection – a doll I had long ago named Jenny.

Peg wooden dolls originated in Germany and the Netherlands around 1810, but because of their affordability and the ease with which they were crafted, they quickly became popular throughout Europe and were brought to America in the early to mid-nineteenth century. Originally hand-carved in pine, poplar, or maple, they were crafted by families of German and Dutch toymakers, and they varied in height from 2 to 12 inches, generally resembling wooden clothespins with peg joints. These dolls were known by an assortment of names, including peg wooden dolls, penny woodens and wooden poppets. Because of their affordability, young girls often developed extensive collections. The dolls were sold without clothing and the children would use scraps of fabric to sew dresses for them.

Jenny’s doll in The Toymaker was inspired by a peg wooden doll in my own doll collection. Years ago, when I was expecting my first child, I came across a simple wooden doll at a flea market outside of Detroit, Michigan. The vendor had discovered an entire crate of these antique dolls in her grandmother’s attic, and had dressed them all up. It was estimated at the time I made the purchase (for $2) that my doll was probably nearly 200 years old. I wondered then if she had been part of a young girl’s collection or if she had ended up in a scrap pile only to be salvaged for me to find her almost two centuries later. I’ll never know the history of my English peg wooden doll, so I wrote this story for all the might-have-beens.

I’m giving away two kindle or nook versions of The Toymaker (or may substitute any of my titles if you already have this one). All you have to do for a chance to win is first,  share my blog hop link on facebook (tag me on facebook  Kay Springsteen Tate) and then leave a comment here telling me about your favorite Christmas tradition.

Here’s a taste of what Mrs. Peabody thought of my hero and heroine’s antics at Lord and Lady Kringle’s grand ball…

To read more, continue on your Regency Christmas journey with a stop at Sherry Gloag’s blog!

Sweet Saturday Sample/Contemporary-Military

From work in progress: The 13 of Hearts:

Lin pulled her cramped little car up to the curb at the school and shut off the engine so it wouldn’t overheat. She knew Nate would probably be embarrassed that she was picking him up. He hated his friends to see the ancient beat up car that was all she could afford, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t told anyone they lived in a motel. That wasn’t a bad thing anyway, since it was safer that way. But she and RJ had been out for the afternoon anyway and she’d thought to save Nate the long walk back to the Tidewater.

The passenger side of the car opened and Nate surprised her by dropping into the seat. She hadn’t even heard the bell, but sure enough, middle school kids were crossing the front of the school, getting on one of the buses or walking toward the road that would lead them to their homes.

Lin smiled at her oldest. “Hi, did you have a good day?”

Nate shrugged. “I guess. Can we leave now?”

Choking back a tight sensation in her throat, Lin turned the key in the ignition. The car coughed to life and she pulled into the traffic lane, trying to ignore the stab in her heart when Nate slumped into his seat. Tears burned the backs of her eyelids but she blinked them back. Her children deserved so much better.

…………….Check out more of my Heart Stories on Amazon and Barnes and Noble……………..

 

 

Watch for a Christmas Regency blog hop beginning Monday – 11 Authors, one genre, one holiday, many prizes!

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Sweet Saturday Sample – New Regency in Progress

Well hello! If you’re reading this, you must have survived the holiday and the frenzy in the stores! This week, try a taste of Something Like a Lady, Regency in progress with Kim Bowman.

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Annabella held the rosebud to her face and sniffed. The sweet perfume filled her nostrils until she found herself giddy with taking so many deep breaths. Her stomach rumbled and she splayed her fingers across her abdomen until the grinding pain of her hunger passed. Of all her discomforts, she decided the hunger was the worst. But at least she had no horrid rules to follow. None of her mother’s harping and pushing about marriage.

No one to talk to. She sighed.

But now that she had the attention of a maid willing to help her, most of her discomforts were about to vanish. No more horrid lemons, food prepared by the competent kitchen staff. Would Abby serve her meals? Or would that cause her to be missed from other duties? Oh, what did it matter? She was about to be delivered a meal, the first true meal since she’d packed Juliet off to London. What a brilliant stroke of good fortune that the maid had been sent to clean the cottage. Annabella hadn’t known anyone bothered with the decrepit building any more. Apparently it was still cleaned every so often after all.

She glanced up the narrow track. When would Abby return with her food? And some of her own clothing? To eat again and not have to fight the mice for the last crumb of stale bread, surely that would be as close to heaven as she was likely to get before she died.

She lifted the rose again and inhaled deeply. Nearby, a bird sang. Annabella tried to imitate its call but she’d never learned to whistle—no matter how many times Juliet had tried to teach her. So she started humming. The bird trilled a reply and Annabella opened her mouth and sang an upward scale of “ah-ah-ah’s.”

She launched into one of the hymns they often sang in church and began to dance around the yard, but stopped short. That seemed too irreverent. With a sigh, she hummed a bit from a Beethoven piece. Her feet picked their way over the rocks as she hopped and kicked.

Soon she would have food…and her own dresses. She closed her eyes and twirled, imagining the handsomest prince as her dancing partner. Juliet might think it a child’s tale to dream of true love, but Annabella didn’t think that at—

Strong arms caught her in mid-spin and a hand settled at her waist. Annabella’s eyes flew open. She opened her mouth to scream but the dashing stranger grinned and whirled her around then released her.

Annabella stumbled and then scrambled backward, intent on putting distance between her and the stranger.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, placing her hands on her hips. And why must her heart race so?

The stranger had the daring to laugh outright. He aimed a courtly bow in her direction. “I beg your pardon. I saw a lady dancing and in need of a partner and thought to oblige  with my services.”

………………………….. Like Regencies?

Available now, only 99 cents each: .

HAPPY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY READING!

Find all my books on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

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Sweet Saturday Before Thanksgiving!

I’ve been very fortunate my entire life to have the love of my family. Though it has changed over the years – grown and reduced and grown again – I am grateful to always find myself surrounded by family I love, knowing that they also love me. What about you all? What are you most thankful for?

I was going to delight you with a bit more of my contemporary work in progress, but since my full length Regency romance The Toymaker  was JUST RELEASED, I thought I’d give just one more little snipped! Only 99 cents!     Amazon  <><><><> Barnes & Noble

Ivy stared at Phillip’s stricken face. Of course, she could prevaricate, or perhaps delay answering so as to spare him, but she could tell from the haunted expression in his eyes that he already knew.

“Yes,” she said simply, following his gaze.

Even from across the room, Jenny’s happiness was a beacon of light. She held her wooden horse out, and Harriet Williams stroked the back, a sweet smile etched into her wrinkled face.

“I was coming to tell you an extra child had been sent from Meadowview — they hadn’t expected Jenny to be well enough, but at the last minute the nurse decided she should come along.” Ivy shrugged. In the shadow of Phillip calling her magical, the truth was rather dull. “I simply feared you would run out of gifts.”

A weak smile teased his lips upward. “This is the last time I’ll be caught short, that much I can promise. Thank you for your rescue in my moment of need.”

Ivy looked down to hide her smile. He’d likely bring scores extra to every future occasion.

“It seemed the least I could do, considering your daring rescues of me of late.” Oh, how she wished she had daring of her own… to reach out and take Phillip by the hand, to acknowledge her affection for him in front of her guests. She started to raise her hand, hesitated, moved it again. Just lift it a bit more.

“What will become of her? Of them?” The sadness woven through his words tugged at Ivy’s heart.

Oh, how she longed to lie again, but this was one truth she couldn’t deny. “Howard might do well. A family needing a strong son might take him in. Their brother… If a childless couple seeks a baby, he might do well.”

“And — Jenny?”

Ivy turned to meet his gaze, to be certain he understood her answer. “She’s very small and fragile. Miss Hortense tells me she’s frequently taken with a fever.” Why did her voice have to shake so? She swallowed but couldn’t force the breath into her lungs. “Without a great deal of charity, she won’t last the winter.”

<><><><>Thank you for dropping by! If you celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you have a wonderful holiday! Remember the homeless, the ill, people affected by recent disasters, and our military and keep them in your hearts!<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Return to Sweet Saturday Samples

A Veteran’s Sweet Saturday Sample!

In honor of Veteran’s Day tomorrow, a little something from my work in progress, The 13 of Hearts:

Rabbit slid the key into the padlock and turned it, then freed the hardened steel loop from the latch and pushed the pale blue door to his storage unit upward. He hadn’t been there in more than two years, and he had no idea where he’d stacked the box containing his family photos, but he sure hoped it was somewhere near the front of the locker. A line of dead insects about an inch wide marked the perimeter and Rabbit stepped over them, then turned around and used his foot to brush them off the low step to the ground beneath.

“Freakin’ stink bugs.”

The crunch of gravel beneath tires startled Rabbit and he fumbled the lock in his hand, cursing when it slipped from his fingers and bounced off his foot. He hadn’t realized anyone else was visiting the storage facility—not that he had any kind of exclusivity clause, but he’d thought he was alone save for the pimply faced kid in the office. The mid-sized silver sedan raised a cloud of dust as it passed from the north side of the parking lot. Tension squeezed his chest and Rabbit held his breath. Hugging the doorway, he stepped further outside and flicked his glance to the direction the car had come from. No other vehicles else approached. He whipped his head to the left, scanning along the gray block walls that made up his row in the storage facility as he did. No movement.

As he eased out a breath, the vise of anxiety loosened its grip around his chest. Okay, no more surprises.

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Sweet Saturday Sample/Regency Christmas

Hope you’re enjoying November so far. Not much longer until Christmas!

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She couldn’t have said what she expected to find in the toy room — a version of her childhood nursery perhaps, or maybe a windowless storage room, shelves loaded with toys.

As soon as Phillip pushed open the door, Ivy knew she was about to enter an enchanted realm. Red and blue and green points of light frolicked across a plank floor as though they were alive. It took only a quick glance to find the source of the colorful delights. A row of stained glass windows collected sunlight from outside and splashed it into the room.

“It’s magic,” she whispered, awestruck.

Toys quite forgotten, Ivy slipped her hand from Phillip’s arm and stepped into the dancing lights. She did a slow pirouette, watching them change around her as she did. Then she walked slowly toward the three peaked gothic-style windows. How old were the panes? The glass had run and thickened in places but the brilliant color remained strong.

The center window, the largest, showed the Holy Virgin holding the Christ child against her chest. Her cheek rested on his forehead, her eyes were closed, her face a study in pure peaceful bliss. Behind her, with one hand on her shoulder, Joseph, the earthly father of the Savior. She swallowed back the emotion choking her throat. The detail in the scene entranced her.

Above, fitted in the point of the window, a trio of angels watched over the family, while heavenly light spilled from around them to fall onto the stable below. The window to the left showed a procession of shepherds walking in from the fields, some with sheep on their shoulders, others with sheep at their feet. The window on the right showed three men of obvious means on a mission.

“The magi,” whispered Ivy. Again, the detail in the picture made up of bits and pieces of colored glass stole her breath.

“Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar,” murmured Phillip, moving to stand next to her. Ivy had nearly forgotten he was in the room.

Her gaze drifted to the wall. Some of the stone had been chiseled away and shaped, likely to fit the stained glass panes in place — quite recently, too. The builder’s mortar set around the windows was freshly set, with no stains or signs of chipping.

“These are old, but they didn’t start out here.” She placed one hand on the stone wall beneath the center window, enjoying the coolness beneath her palm. “Who did this? Who set them into the wall?”

Ivy turned to regard the tall man next to her. For once she didn’t catch him studying her. Instead, he contemplated the light cavorting across the floor. What was giving it the appearance of moving like that?

“These were a gift, a… legacy from the craftsman who taught me. I brought them with me when I came here.” He lifted his gaze and pinned her with it.

“And… the Duke of Greenbriar allowed this?”

Phillip’s lips twitched and then pulled up into a warm smile. “He said not one word to me on the matter.”

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