Meredith Allard's Blog, page 15
January 4, 2021
Favorite Books From 2020
It can be a bit of a stretch to find something positive from 2020, but I did read some great books. In my case, they were all historical novels, but that’s no great surprise.
As I was looking back over my Goodreads list of books I read in 2020, I realized that I didn’t read as much as I usually do. I think it had something to do with the craziness of the year, my inability to concentrate at times, and the blurry vision that plagued me for a few months. Of the books I did read, here are the ones that stood out.
Marilla of Green Gables
Of all the books I read in 2020, this one may well be my favorite. I’ve loved the Anne of Green Gables books for as long as I can remember, and I still reread them occasionally. In 2020, I reread the first two Anne books and watched a couple of TV adaptations since there was something about the quaint world that Anne lives in on Prince Edward Island that appealed to me. Fans also know that there is darkness underlying Anne’s world, and maybe that appealed to me too. Sarah McCoy’s Marilla of Green Gables is Marilla’s story, and I found it captivating. I believed every word of it, that this was Marilla’s life before Anne, and I thought it was the perfect prequel to the Anne stories.
A Breath of Snow and Ashes
I’ve loved Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander books for a few years now. While I can’t say that A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Book 6 in the series) is my favorite of the Outlander novels I’ve read so far, Gabaldon’s books continue to be great escapist reading, which I definitely needed in 2020. I enjoyed reading about life in Colonial America at the outset of the American Revolution, a time I’m fascinated by but haven’t read much about.
The Physician
The Physician is the first book I read by Noah Gordon and I already have Gordon’s The Rabbi downloaded onto my Kindle. The Physician has everything I love about historical fiction–compelling characters I want to follow, a fascinating historical setting–really, it’s a complete world in itself. The story of an 11th-century English orphan traveling to Persia is brought to life in a way that pulled me back in time so that I felt as though I traveled there. There are two other books in this series, and I’m looking forward to reading those as well. I just discovered that there’s a movie version, with Ben Kingsley no less, and I’ll be watching that soon.
The Mirror and the Light
I waited years for this final installment of Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell trilogy and I wasn’t disappointed. While the conclusion itself is not a surprise to anyone familiar with Thomas Cromwell’s story, the way Mantel weaves the pieces together is a masterwork of historical fiction. In fact, I reread the first two books in the trilogy, Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, prior to reading The Mirror and the Light. I’m glad I did because you can see how Mantel connected the dots through all three books.
Hamnet
I started reading Maggie O’Farrell’s novel Christmas week 2020, so technically it counts as a book I read in 2020. I’m only about halfway through as I’m writing this, but I can already tell this is a historical novel on par with The Physician and Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell Trilogy as far as bringing me back in time and immersing me in the era. Hamnet is an imagined look at what Shakespeare’s family’s life might have been like when he was in London, and most importantly it looks at the life and death of Shakespeare’s young son Hamnet, who is believed to be the namesake of one of Shakespeare’s most popular and enigmatic plays, Hamlet.
Part of the way I dealt with the craziness of 2020 was by escaping to the past. Of course, as any student of history knows, the past wasn’t any easier than now no matter how much we wish it to be. Sickness and disease–the plague to be exact–play a role in the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy and Hamnet. The Physician is about a man learning to become a healer. Claire Fraser is a healer in the Outlander books. There is escapism in historical fiction, but there is also reality since people haven’t really changed over time. We continue to worry about those we love and we mourn them when they’re gone. Still, even in the midst of tragedies we find moments of gratitude, even joy if we’re lucky. Historical fiction can be the best of all worlds since we can escape the time we’re in while seeing how things have changed, or not, over time, and enjoy a compelling story in the process.
I’ve never been one to start reading challenges since I never wanted to put pressure on myself about what I read for enjoyment. I do expect to be reading more in 2021. I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to read since I already have more books than I can read in a year downloaded onto my Kindle, but like most book lovers I tend to buy books faster than I can read them. It will be fun seeing which books stand out in 2021.
Whatever you enjoy reading, I hope you find some wonderful books that take you away to wherever you wish to go.
December 21, 2020
An Excerpt: Christmas at Hembry Castle. Happy Holidays!
What a long, strange year it’s been. As Stephen Colbert said, 2020 was the year that took years.
One thing I was grateful for in 2020 was the opportunity to spend time with my beloved Hembry Castle family. It was a great joy, and a great escape, returning to Victorian England and enjoying a lighthearted Christmas with Edward, Daphne, Frederick, and the rest of the Hembry gang.
To celebrate, here’s an excerpt from Christmas at Hembry Castle. Enjoy!
* * * * *
Daphne stood near the white stone hearth warming her hands. She scanned the burgundy Queen Anne furniture, the burgundy and blue rugs, the portraits on the walls. Then she watched the footmen remove the candles from the tree, light them, and nestle them back into the branches. That was always her favorite part of the holiday, the glowing tree. There was something comforting about the greenery, the decorations, and the lights even if she wasn’t feeling particularly merry this Christmas.
Christmas morning was quiet, which Daphne appreciated after a night of hundreds of guests. Daphne and her father shared a simple breakfast, just the two of them since her grandmother took her breakfast in bed. Her father’s face was bright as he described the events from the night before. Daphne hadn’t seen her father so excited about anything in a long while and it made her happy to see it.
“Do you like Mrs. Gibson?” Daphne asked. Frederick said nothing, but his grin revealed everything.
“I’m glad,” Daphne said. “I like her too. Hembry Castle could use some more life around here. Some young children would brighten things up nicely.”
Frederick scoffed. “It’s far too soon for that, young lady. For now, let’s say I’m glad that I’ve had the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with Mrs. Gibson.”
“But what about Mrs. Clayton, Papa? Surely there must be more we can do for her and her children.”
Frederick shoveled another forkful of eggs and bacon into his mouth, washing it down with some tea. “For now, her dearest wish is to return to her mother in Yorkshire so that’s where she shall go. After that, we’ll consider what she needs and take it from there.”
Daphne watched her father take another hearty bite of his meal while her fried potatoes grew cold on her plate.
“What is it, Daphne?”
“I was just wondering about her husband. How could he do such a thing?”
“I wish I knew.”
Mr. Ellis refilled Daphne’s tea cup before she thought to ask. “Do you think he has another woman?”
“I’m afraid he does. But at least I’ve solved one problem at Hembry.”
“There will always be problems at Hembry, Papa. That’s the nature of being the earl.”
“I think I’ve finally come to accept that. I had some important realizations last night. Some important realizations, indeed.” Frederick dabbed at his lips with his napkin while Ellis whisked his empty plate away. “I’ve been fighting being the Earl of Staton since your uncle died. I thought it was a cruel trick that he died when he did, with so much life ahead of him. I thought it was unfair that he left me with this burden. But then I remembered how he died, and I realized that instead of feeling bullied by fate I should be thankful for all of this.” He gestured at the luxurious surroundings of the castle, then kissed Daphne’s hand. “And I am thankful for you, my most darling daughter. I’m thankful for all of it, even if I didn’t understand what any of it meant at first. Last night, seeing how Mrs. Clayton needed me, knowing that I could assist her in some small way, it helped me realize that I do have a place here. I know other problems are on the horizon and the people of Hembry will always need me and I want to be here for them.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say it, Papa. But you’ve come to this conclusion before.”
“I’ve come to this conclusion a few times since your uncle died, but this time it feels right, as if I’m not just saying the words. This time I feel it in my bones. I don’t know how else to explain it. I see my purpose now. I’ll have to take it day by day, but I believe I can make a go of it, Daphne. I believe everything will be all right.”
“What about the falling harvest prices? What will you do about that?”
“For now we’ve managed without much of a decline in our profits and we’ll be fine this year. As for next year? Well, my darling, we’ll figure it out. For now, let’s leave aside any worries. Today is Christmas, after all. We have guests on their way, and I say let’s enjoy the day.”
“I’m so proud of you, Papa. And I’m glad we’re having some guests to celebrate with us. It will help keep my mind off things.”
“What things, Daphne?” Frederick looked so earnest, and Daphne loved him dearly for it. But she only shook her head. She wouldn’t burden him now, especially not when he looked so pleased. She noticed Mrs. Ellis hovering near the open door.
“Yes, Mrs. Ellis?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Daphne, but you’re wanted in the library.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Come see for yourself, my lady…”
* * * * *
Daphne changed for the intimate Christmas gathering in time to greet her guests. She wore a claret-colored dress with a pleated bodice and a high neck while her gathered overskirts emphasized the bustle at her back, setting her slim figure to great advantage, Edward thought. Her gold hair was swept high into a swirled coiffure with a single long curl dangling over her shoulder, emphasizing her heart-shaped face and amethyst eyes.
“I’m the most fortunate man in the world, Lady Daphne Meriwether.”
“And I’m the most fortunate woman, Mr. Edward Ellis.”
The guests arrived promptly at ten in the morning. First Mrs. Gibson and her two children arrived, a boy of five and a girl of three. Both children took after their mother, dark haired and dark eyed with bright smiles. Daphne saw her father watching Mrs. Gibson, watching the children, trying to see, she guessed, if he could imagine himself living with them and being happy. They were lovely children, Daphne thought, well behaved, polite, and full of good cheer. The children, Robert and Rose, oohed and aahed at the sight of the castle on full holiday display, the green pointed holly leaves with the blossoming red berries, the displays of ivy and rosemary, the tall trees in every room, the dishes of orange peel candies set on the low tables in easy reach of small hands. Then Mrs. Clayton arrived with her five young ones alongside Lucy Escott, a former maid for Daphne’s Uncle Jerrold, and little Josiah, the result of Uncle Jerrold’s, well, you know. With all of their guests present, Daphne and Edward brought the children into the sitting room where a bare tree, short enough for the children to reach, was set up near the window. Daphne and Edward passed around boxes of ornaments, which the children giggled to see. The children sang “Deck the Halls” as they placed the paper-mache trinkets on the branches and created popcorn and candy strings to wrap from top to bottom.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la la la la!
Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la la la la!
Don we now our gay apparel, Fa la la la la la la la!
Troll the ancient Yuletide carol, Fa la la la la la la la!
See the blazing yule before us, Fa la la la la la la la!
Strike the harp and join the chorus, Fa la la la la la la la!
Follow me in merry measure, Fa la la la la la la la!
While I tell of Yuletide treasure, Fa la la la la la la la!
Fast away the old year passes, Fa la la la la la la la!
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses, Fa la la la la la la la!
Sing we joyous all together! Fa la la la la la la la!
Heedless of the wind and weather, Fa la la la la la la la!
After the tree was decorated, Edward lit the candles and set them between the branches. Everyone, including Edward and Daphne, Frederick and Mrs. Gibson, Robert and Rose, Mrs. Clayton and her children, Lucy Escott and Josiah, the Ellises, and the maids and footmen cheered at the sight of the children’s tree. Everyone watched as the footmen hauled in the yule log, set it in the center of the hearth, and lit it. The heavy chunk of wood, smelling of pine and cinnamon, burned bright orange until Frederick sprinkled some liquid over it and the log burned green and smelled of apples.
As the children continued to take pride in their very own tree, the footmen brought in trays of buttery tea biscuits, slices of gingerbread, and pots of steaming tea. Frederick, upon seeing the servants watching from the doorway, invited them to share a holiday treat.
“Today is Christmas,” Frederick said. “Let’s not stand on ceremony today.”
Daphne stood back, watching. This was her gift. She had a family. She had a father she adored, a husband-to-be who she loved more than she ever knew was possible, and now she had grandparents. She had been missing her grandfather a lot lately, but knowing she had the Ellises helped ease the ache. Then Daphne realized. Her grandmother, the Countess of Staton, was not there with them.
Daphne guessed where her grandmother was hiding and made her way to the blue and white sitting room. She knocked on the door, and when she heard a faint response she went inside.
The Countess of Staton was not in her usual throne-like chair beside the fire. Instead, the grand old dame sat near the window watching the snow fall. Crystalline icicles froze on the bare tree branches, hanging between heaven and earth.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Grandma?” Daphne asked.
“Indeed it is, Daphne.”
She seemed lethargic, Lady Staton, odd since she always seemed so formidable. Emboldened by her grandmother’s quiet demeanor, Daphne took her hand.
“Come, Grandma. Everyone is here for Christmas. Won’t you celebrate with us?”
“Yes, the singing was so loud I could hear it without my ear trumpet.”
“Then won’t you come?”
“In a moment, my dear. I was just thinking of your Uncle Richard. He did so love the holidays. It was his favorite time of year. When he was a boy he’d walk through the castle reading A Christmas Carol aloud to anyone who would listen, and then when the holiday came he’d do everything in his power to celebrate just like it said in the book.” The countess slumped forward, and Daphne was afraid her grandmother was ill. Lady Staton’s mourning black made her look even more pale, as if her life force had seeped away.
“I worry, Daphne,” Lady Staton said. “I worry that your grandfather and I were too hard on Richard. We knew he didn’t want to be earl so we felt it was our duty to prepare him properly. But he was so troubled by it all, wasn’t he? Do you think he blamed us?”
“Of course not, Grandma. I have no doubt he understood that you and Grandpa were trying to prepare him for what was coming when he became the earl.”
“I wanted to be above reproach. I didn’t want the wagging tongues of others to interfere in our lives. When he was Earl of Staton he was never here and I thought he was being irresponsible and I was hard on him then too. But he was a grown man, wasn’t he, and I’m sure he hated having his mother meddle in his business.” The Countess of Staton sighed. “If I could only do it again, Daphne, I would do it all so differently.” Lady Staton, who had not removed her hand from Daphne’s, now squeezed tightly. “When you have children, Daphne, let them find their own way. If people talk they talk. That’s what I’ve learned, sitting here on my own since my son died. Maybe what others think is less important than how we treat our own family.”
Daphne squeezed her grandmother’s hand right back. When she saw her grandmother’s eyes fill with tears, she had to fight back her own.
“We all miss Uncle Richard so much, Grandma. But I know he wouldn’t want us sitting around feeling sad. He certainly wouldn’t want you here alone while the rest of us are celebrating Christmas together.”
Lady Staton nodded. She took up her ear trumpet from the wing chair, slipped the chain over her head, and patted the trumpet so it lay flat again her chest. She took Daphne’s arm and accompanied her granddaughter to the great room where the children skipped and danced around the tree. The Countess of Staton, a stark figure in black against the glow of the green and red holiday, softened as she walked with Daphne.
“Who are these children?” Lady Staton asked.
“Some are from the farms. They’re leaving for Yorkshire in a few days and Papa wanted them to have a nice Christmas before they left. Of course, you remember Lucy and Josiah. And the boy and girl near Papa belong to Mrs. Gibson.”
“Mrs. Gibson? The widow?”
“That’s right. Papa saw her at the farms yesterday and invited her and her children to spend the day with us.”
Lady Staton’s pale eyes brightened. “Well well. Well well. We may have more than one wedding to celebrate soon.” She turned her sharp gaze onto Daphne. “Are you marrying Edward Ellis, then?”
“I am, Grandma. I’m sorry if that’s a disappointment to you, but I love him dearly, and he loves me. There’s no one else in the world for me, so I’m afraid we’re stuck with him.”
Daphne kissed her grandmother’s cheek, and her grandmother, instead of being annoyed by her highly American display of affection, nodded her approval, which meant everything to Daphne. When they saw Frederick huddled in the corner, speaking intently to Mrs. Gibson, granddaughter and grandmother smiled.
Frederick called to everyone to join him in the library where the pantomime was ready to begin, and then he disappeared. The children sat before the large red velvet curtain hanging from a line from the ceiling. Everyone clapped when the curtain was pulled aside to reveal an improvised set for “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Frederick was there, looking rather fine in farmer’s attire—button down shirt, sack coat, denim overalls, and a straw hat, puffing on a cob pipe for good measure. When he called “Jack!” none other than Robert, Mrs. Gibson’s son, came out from behind the curtain, shouting “Yessir!” for all the world to hear. When Edward appeared in a dress, speaking in a squeaking voice, and curtseying so low he could hardly stand again, Daphne screamed with laughter along with the children. There was something about this moment, the silliness of it, the joy of it, that made her heart swell. Seeing her future husband and her father playing together for everyone’s entertainment, watching adorable little Robert forgetting his lines to have Frederick whisper them in his ear, laughing at Edward’s slapstick as he tripped over every flat surface on the makeshift stage, all of it made Daphne grateful for everything that brought her to this moment with everyone she loved and those she would come to love soon enough, she was sure. This is Christmas, Daphne thought. This warmth, this togetherness, this love. This is what it’s all about. And Daphne was grateful for all of it.
As Jack scampered away to climb the beanstalk, Lady Staton leaned close to Daphne.
“I know it’s too late to help Richard, Daphne, but I will be here for you and that boy. I promise.”
“I know, Grandma. Thank you.”
With the pantomime complete and everyone in a jolly mood, Mrs. Ellis passed around peppermint sticks while everyone sang together.
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.
After the singing, Lady Staton sat down to the piano and played an upbeat waltz. Edward bowed to Daphne.
“May I sign my name to your dance card, Lady Daphne?”
“I don’t have a dance card, Mr. Ellis. It’s only family and friends here this fine Christmas day, and besides, I’m no longer in need of dance cards. I’m engaged, didn’t you know? I’ll be married soon.”
“Whoever the man is, he is the most fortunate man ever to walk this earth.” Edward extended his hand. “Lady Daphne, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
Daphne curtsied and took Edward’s arm. He led her to the open space in the center of the great room, and soon they were joined by Frederick and Mrs. Gibson. Daphne noticed her grandmother watching them, Daphne and Edward and Frederick and Mrs. Gibson, looking happier than Daphne had ever seen her.
“Happy Christmas, my love,” Edward said.
“Merry Christmas, Edward.”
“Shall we set a date? I think everyone here would think it was the greatest gift of all if we set a wedding date.”
“April,” Daphne said. “Spring weddings are the most beautiful, after all.”
“April it is. And I cannot wait.”
Edward led Daphne to the refreshment table and handed her a glass of mulled wine. He nodded toward the Earl of Staton and Mrs. Gibson, still waltzing and laughing the entire time.
“Will he marry her, do you think?”
“I hope so,” Daphne said.
December 14, 2020
Mrs. Beeton’s Recipes for a Perfectly Proper Christmas
Most fans of the 19th century are familiar with Mrs. Isabella Beeton, the Martha Stewart of Victorian England. Although I used her recipes and household management tips as resources for both Hembry books, I admit that I didn’t know much about Mrs. Beeton herself until recently.
On her very own website, it says that she married publisher Samuel Orchard Beeton in 1856. After her marriage, Mrs. Beeton wrote numerous articles about cooking and household management for her husband’s publications. In 1861, the articles were compiled into a single book, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Sadly, she died at age 28 shortly after giving birth to her fourth child.
Here are some of Mrs. Beeton’s recipes that appeared in Christmas at Hembry Castle.
Here is Mrs. Beeton’s recipe for Edward’s favorite beef rolls from the BBC Food website:
remains of cold roast or boiled beefsaltpepperminced herbs1 roll of puff pastry
Mince the beef tolerably fine with small amount of its own fat. Add a seasoning of pepper, salt, and chopped herbs.Put the whole into a roll of puff-pastry, and bake for ½ hour, or longer if the roll is bigger.Beef patties may be made of cold meat, by mincing and seasoning beef as directed above, and baking in a rich puff pastry.
And here is her recipe for sage and onion stuffing that makes a grand appearance at Lord Staton’s Christmas celebration:
4 large onions10 sage leaves125g/¼lb of breadcrumbs40g/1½oz buttersalt and pepper to taste1 egg
Peel the onions, put them into boiling water, let them simmer for 5 minutes or rather longer, and just before they are taken out, put in the sage-leaves for a minute or two to take off their rawness.Chop both these very fine, add the bread, seasoning and butter, and work the whole lot together with the yolk of an egg, when the stuffing will be ready for use.It should be rather highly seasoned, and the sage-leaves should be very finely chopped.Many cooks do not parboil the onions in the manner just stated, but merely use them raw. The stuffing then, however is not nearly so mild, and to many tastes, its strong flavour would be very objectionable.When made for goose, a portion of the liver of the bird, simmered for a few minutes and very finely minced, is frequently added to this stuffing; and where economy is studied, the egg and butter may be dispensed with.
And how about the Syllabub Edward and Daphne share over a quiet dinner at Staton House?
570ml/1 pint sherry or white wine½ grated nutmegsugar to taste900ml/1½pt milk
Put the wine into a bowl, with the grated nutmeg and plenty of pounded sugar, and add it to the milk.Clouted cream may be held on the top, with pounded cinnamon or nutmeg and sugar; and a little brandy may be added to the wine before the milk is put in.In some countries, cider is substituted for the wine: when this is used, brandy must always be added. Warm milk may be poured on from a spouted jug or teapot; but it must be held very high.
And last, but definitely not least, here is Mrs. Beeton’s recipe for the mince “Pies!” that nearly causes the death of Hembry’s cook, Mrs. Graham.
Short crust, rich short crust, flaky, rough puff or puff pastry, using 6 oz. flour, etc.10–12 oz. mincemeatcastor or icing sugar
Roll the pastry out to about ⅛ in. thickness. Cut half of it into rounds of about 2½ in. diameter and reserve these for lids. (Use a plain cutter for flaky, rough puff or puff pastry.) Cut the remaining pastry into rounds of about 3 in. diameter and line some patty tins. Place some mincemeat in the tins, brush the edge of the pastry with water and place a lid on top of each. Press the edges well together; if a plain cutter has been used knock up the edges. Brush the tops with water and sprinkle with sugar. Make a hole or 2 small cuts in the top of each. Bake in a hot oven (450°–425° F., Gas 8–7) depending on the type of pastry, for 25–30 min. Dredge tops with castor sugar.
These are simple recipes, so if you’re in the mood for some authentic Victorian flavors at your Christmas table, you might give them a try.
December 10, 2020
Christmas at Hembry Castle is a BN Bestseller
Just eight days after its release, Christmas at Hembry Castle is a Barnes and Noble bestseller, landing at #3 on the Historical Fiction 19th Century list between News of the World by Paulette Jiles and Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict. My book is next to Tom Hanks’ face. What else could a girl want for the holidays? You can see for yourself below.
Christmas at Hembry Castle also had a BN sales rank of 412 overall at the time of this writing. Maybe you’d like to see that too.
Christmas at Hembry Castle had been hovering in the 400,000 range on BN. Then yesterday morning it was 716 overall and then a few hours later it dropped to 416. I’m a little stunned, to be honest. As I said in this post, I wasn’t even sure that I would be able to finish the novella in time to release it this year. I’m sure glad I did.
What is it about Christmas at Hembry Castle that is catching on? Well, it’s a Christmas story at Christmas time, and this year more than ever I think we could all use a little holiday cheer. Of course, the novella was written in the tradition of A Christmas Carol, meddling ghost included, and who doesn’t love A Christmas Carol?
Something has been in the air for me lately, something good, I’m glad to say. Over this past week I’ve received several messages from fans, and for a writer, hearing from fans is more precious than gold. Readers remind me why I continue to write after all these years. Then Christmas at Hembry Castle was noticed in a few places, and then the friendly Nook folks at BN saw it and bought it. The gorgeous cover from Jenny Q has been a great help, I’m sure, because it’s so eye-catching. Amazing. I hope Edward and Daphne’s Christmas story continues to grow in popularity for the rest of the holiday season.
For those of you who bought the book, I hope you’re enjoying it. That’s why I wrote it, after all. That, and to give us all a lighthearted break from the year that was 2020.
December 7, 2020
Victorian Christmas Traditions (and a giveaway!)
Thanks to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, many of us have a specific vision when we refer to the perfect Christmas. In fact, most of our Christmas traditions originated or were revived during the Victorian era.
Queen Victoria’s German-born husband, Prince Albert, brought many of his childhood Christmas traditions with him to England, including the Christmas tree. According to the BBC’s Christmas website, in 1848, the Illustrated London News published a drawing of the royal family’s Christmas tree; after that, every English home had a tree decorated with candles, sweets, fruit, homemade decorations, and small gifts. Prior to the popularization of Christmas trees, in 1843, the first Christmas card was designed featuring an illustration of people seated around a dinner table, ready for a feast, of course. The cards cost one shilling apiece, too expensive for most Victorians, so children, including the Queen’s children, were encouraged to make their own cards.
Even traditions like hanging mistletoe became popular during the Victorian era. In a time when rules of etiquette were so important, and when there were only certain ways men and women could interact socially, stealing a kiss under the mistletoe was considered entirely proper. Christmas crackers also became popular during this time, though instead of featuring the paper crowns and trinkets we find today, during the Victorian era the crackers were filled with bon-bons, sweets of sugar-coated almonds. The use of holly and ivy to celebrate midwinter stems as far back as the time of the Anglo-Saxons, and the practice was revived during the Victorian era.
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Christmas caroling gained in popularity, and most of the Christmas carols we know today were sung during the Victorian era. According to Christmas Traditions in the Victorian Era, the Victorians loved music and often played instruments and sang at home for entertainment. During the Victorian era they revived Medieval carols and created new ones. The lyrics for one of the most famous Christmas carols of all time, “Silent Night,” was written in German and first performed in Austria in 1818. Other popular carols from the time included “O Christmas Tree,” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and “Deck the Halls.”
A Christmas Carol was published on December 19, 1843. That one short story (it’s only 30,000 words) has given us our idealized image of what Christmas could be. Christmas, according to Dickens, was a time for family and a festive meal—recall the Cratchits’ meager fare, yet they still had a lovely celebration because they were together as a family. Christmas was a time for games and dances and smoking bishop. Perhaps most importantly, Christmas was a time for charity, when those with means should be generous towards those without.
Dickens himself loved the holiday, and according to one of his sons, Christmas was “a great time, a really jovial time, and my father was always at his best, a splendid host, bright and jolly as a boy and throwing his heart and soul into everything that was going on…And then the dance! There was no stopping him!” (Allingham, P.V., Dickens the man who invented Christmas).
I had great fun exploring some of these beloved Victorian Christmas traditions while writing Christmas at Hembry Castle. Even more, I loved putting my own spin on A Christmas Carol, one of my favorite Dickens tales. To celebrate the release of my Christmas tale, I’m giving away five paperback copies of Christmas at Hembry Castle. All you need to do is fill out the simple form below.
Submit a form.
December 1, 2020
Christmas at Hembry Castle is now available
Today is the release day for Christmas at Hembry Castle. Hurrah! The lighthearted Victorian Christmas tale, with shades of A Christmas Carol and Downton Abbey, is now available in ebook and paperback formats at major online retailers.
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned this year is that if you are determined to do something then you are likely to get it done. That was my experience with Christmas at Hembry Castle.
Toward the end of 2019, as I was deciding what my artistic goals were for 2020, I decided that Autumn 2020 would be the perfect time to release the newest Hembry Castle story, which I had already decided would be a Christmas tale in homage to A Christmas Carol. The publication date for Christmas at Hembry Castle was set for October 25, 2020. In addition to writing Christmas at Hembry Castle, I was going to revise and edit my first nonfiction book about, what else, writing historical fiction. Also, 2020 has been the 20th anniversary of The Copperfield Review, a literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction. I had so many ways I wanted to celebrate that extraordinary milestone. I had my entire writing and editing year for 2020 scheduled. And then.
We all know what 2020 has been. Suffice it to say, I found great joy in watching John Oliver blow 2020 to bits on his HBO show Last Week Tonight. Like other creative people, I spent the first months of the pandemic staring at the wall. I wrote nothing. I did as little as possible. Finally, around May, I realized that this is what life is going to be right now and I made the decision to get back in the swing of things, at least as far as writing goes. Copperfield was still on the backburner, but I wrote the first draft of Christmas at Hembry Castle during the summer, which was something at least.
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I had to make a decision. Do I finish Christmas at Hembry Castle this year and publish it by Christmas 2020, or do I hold onto it for a whole year and not release it until 2021? I was sorely tempted to wait until next year. Not only was I so far behind on my writing schedule, but I had started to have trouble with my eyes and my vision had become blurry, like crazy blurry, like two cameras out of focus blurry. On the positive side, I was writing in the world of Hembry Castle, a place I love, and I was writing about characters I adore, which made the writing process not only easier but far more enjoyable.
Something in me said I should put the Christmas novella out this year, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I could. I’ve always considered myself a slow writer, which in itself is not a bad thing. Then I had two eye surgeries two weeks apart in November. I feel like those old-timey lyrics from my childhood, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone…” Determined is as determined does, and despite everything, I finished Christmas at Hembry Castle, all edited and pretty-like, by the end of November, which is later than I hoped but better late than never. The novella is written as a stand-alone, so readers who have not read When It Rained at Hembry Castle can follow along just fine while fans of Edward, Daphne, and Frederick will enjoy seeing what happened after the curtains closed on When it Rained at Hembry Castle.
Whether you’re a devoted fan of the upstairs/downstairs folks at Hembry Castle or you’re looking for a lighthearted Victorian holiday celebration, I hope you enjoy Christmas at Hembry Castle. It was a true joy for me to write, and I hope it is a true joy for you to read.
The ebook version of Christmas at Hembry Castle is currently on sale for .99 cents and the paperback is $6.99. The ebook version of When It Rained at Hembry Castle is also on sale for .99 cents for anyone who would like to read that one as well.
Enjoy!
Booksellers
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November 23, 2020
What Are You Thankful For?
Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!
I know Thanksgiving will look different this year, but now more than ever it’s important to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe. I had to cancel plans with family as I’m sure others have, but just because Thanksgiving is different doesn’t mean we can’t still be thankful.
What am I thankful for this year? My eyesight. For a few months, I was struggling with blurry vision. I mean crazy blurry. Now that my vision is clearing up I’m not sure how I was functioning, yet somehow I pushed through. I’m still healing, but after two eye surgeries in November, I’m well on the way to clear sight again. For that, I am definitely thankful.
What are you thankful for? It seems like more of a stretch to answer that question this year, but I hope you can find at least one thing you’re thankful for despite the craziness of 2020.
Since we’re spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, we’ll be cooking our meal and enjoying ready-made desserts from Trader Joe’s. If you’re interested in the one recipe my family cannot do without on Thanksgiving, here it is:
Green Bean Casserole
1 can (10 1/2 ounces) cream of mushroom soup1/2 cup milk1 teaspoon soy sauce1 dash black pepper4 cups cooked cut green beans1 1/3 cups fried onions
You can see the complete recipe here.
To celebrate Thanksgiving, I thought I’d reshare the holiday celebration with my favorite paranormal family, The Wentworths. Here is Chapter 7 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse. Enjoy!
* * * * *
In November Halloween was gone, ghosts and ghouls replaced by stoic Native Americans holding pies and smiling, buckle-hatted turkeys unaware of their fate. And pumpkins. The trees were bare now, the burst of temporary color gone, leaving their sugar and crimson behind, the leaves raked away. The branches, now naked and spindly, shivered in the poking, colder air. Storm after storm wet Salem, riding out to the ocean on the crashing waves of the bay. Heavier coats were found, scarves and mittens pulled from their summer hideaways, and people walked closer together, huddled in preparation for the real cold to come. It was calmer in Salem after the summer tourists and the Halloween partiers cleared away, and the locals stretched their legs and walked the quiet streets in peace.
Sarah paced the wooden gabled house two steps at a time, rearranging the autumn harvest centerpiece on the table near the hearth, straightening the Happy Thanksgiving banner on the wall. She paced again, now three steps at a time, down to the end of the great room and back, dusting the bookshelves again and back, checking the baking cookies in the stainless steel oven and back. When she heard the squeak of the front door, she sighed with relief. She ran to James and pressed herself into his arms.
“She’s not here yet,” Sarah said.
“I told you I’d be back in time.”
She pushed herself away and paced again.
“Maybe I should have put out some Pilgrims,” she said. “What if she notices there aren’t any Pilgrims? Everyone has Pilgrim decorations at Thanksgiving time. What if she thinks we’re not good Americans? What if she thinks we won’t know what to do with a child because kids love Pilgrims at Thanksgiving time?”
“First of all, those Thanksgiving harvest plays the kids do aren’t factually correct. If she wants to know why we don’t have Pilgrims in our house, I’ll explain it to her.” He pulled Sarah back into his arms and kissed her forehead. “We are Pilgrims.”
“We didn’t come over on the Mayflower.”
“No, but we were here when Massachusetts was a colony. We’ll bring down our old clothes from the attic and show her.”
“That’s not funny.”
Sarah walked back to the oven, checked the cookies with a spatula, decided they were brown enough, and pulled them out, placing them onto an autumn orange cake platter with green and yellow leaves.
“Cookies?” James asked.
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
“They smell sweet.”
“That’s why people love them.” She pulled one apart, then licked the melted chocolate dribbling down her fingers. “Do you want to try one?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“You can’t eat at all?”
“Honey, I haven’t eaten solid food in over three hundred years.”
“That’s too bad. Life isn’t worth living without chocolate chip cookies.”
“I think I’m doing all right.”
The cauldron in the hearth caught Sarah’s eye. It looked like it should bubble, bubble, toil and trouble while the three witches in Macbeth cast spells and foretold the future, hysterical with evil visions and dastardly deeds. She looked inside, checking to see if the heavy black pot could be unlatched and removed, shaking her head when the seventeenth century fastenings held strong.
“I never should have left this,” she said. “I should have had it taken out during the remodeling. She’s going to think it’s a child hazard, and it is.” She jumped at the hollow knock at the door that echoed like a loud No! No! No!
James stroked Sarah’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Relax.”
He opened the door, and the social worker walked in, stiff and stoic, underpaid and overworked, an unsmiling woman in an ill-fitting purple jacket with linebacker shoulder pads and a purple flowered skirt. She looked, Sarah thought, like a summer plum. She was slump-shouldered and long-faced, like this was the fiftieth home she had visited that day and it was always the same, smiling faces, fresh-baked cookies, guarantees they would take care of the child whether they would or they wouldn’t.
The plum-looking woman entered the great room without saying hello. She didn’t acknowledge James or Sarah. “You have a lot of books,” she said finally, writing in the spiral notebook in her hand.
“My wife and I both like to read,” James said.
Sarah stepped aside as the woman nodded at the flat-screen television and shook her head at the three hundred year-old desk, scratching more notes. James looked over her shoulder, trying to see what she wrote, but Sarah shook her head at him. She didn’t want the woman to notice anything odd about James, though his curiosity was human enough. The plum-looking woman stopped in front of the cauldron.
“Are you witches?” she asked.
“No,” James said, “but our best friends are.” When the social worker didn’t smile, James stepped away. “The cauldron came with the house,” he said. “We thought it gave the place character so we kept it.”
“How old is the house?”
“It’s from the seventeenth century,” Sarah answered.
“How long have you lived here?”
Sarah and James looked at each other.
“Two years,” James said. “We both work at the university.”
The plum-looking woman nodded. “If you’re approved you’ll have to have that thing,” she gestured with her pen at the cauldron, “removed. It’s a safety hazard.”
“Of course,” Sarah said.
“Does this place need an inspection? Sometimes these older houses have bad wiring, or improper plumbing.”
“The house is up to code,” James said. “We made sure of that when we had the place remodeled.”
“When was this remodeling?”
“They finished during the summer. I have the paperwork here.”
He handed the social worker the forms that said the house met the qualifications of a twenty-first century inspection. She glanced over the paperwork and nodded, writing more notes. She looked around the kitchen, the bedroom, the smaller room in the back. She scowled at the wood ladder that led up to the attic.
“Can that be removed?” she asked.
“We can take it out if it’s a problem,” James said.
She nodded, scowling more at the cauldron as she walked back into the kitchen.
“Would you like something to drink?” Sarah asked.
“Thank you. Water would be fine.”
“We have some cold water in the fridge,” Sarah said.
“No need to trouble yourselves. I’ll get it.”
Before Sarah could protest, the social worker opened the refrigerator and eyed the groceries before pulling out the water pitcher. Sarah dropped into a chair, unable to hide the horror on her face. What if the social worker saw James’ bags of blood? But James nodded, pointing to his temple, an I’ve got this look in his eyes. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, poured water for the plum-looking woman, then joined Sarah at the table, smiling the whole time.
“What do you do at the college?” the social worker asked.
“I’m a professor, and my wife is a librarian.”
“What do you teach?”
“English literature.”
She sipped her water as she glanced over the application in her manila folder. “I think you’re my son’s English professor. Levon Jackson. Do you know him?”
“Very well,” James said. “He took two of my classes last year, and he’s in my Shakespeare seminar this term. He’s a bright young man, and a very good writer.”
Mrs. Jackson clapped her hands, her mother’s love everywhere on her round cheeks. No longer the plum-looking woman, now she was Levon’s mother.
“You should hear how he raves about you, Doctor Wentworth. Every day he comes home saying Doctor Wentworth said this or Doctor Wentworth said that.”
“It’s a pleasure teaching a student who wants to learn,” James said.
Mrs. Jackson’s round-cheeked smile lit the room. “You’ve done a world of good for my boy, Doctor Wentworth. I was so worried about him after that back injury meant he couldn’t be considered for the NHL draft. Going pro is all he’s talked about since he put on his first pair of skates. When that was no longer possible for him, he floundered. He didn’t have plans for anything else, and now he wants to be a professor like you. I’m pleased to meet you, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Please, call me James. It’s my pleasure.”
As Mrs. Jackson looked over the paperwork, James winked at Sarah.
“I don’t see any problems here, Doctor Wentworth. Everything seems to be in order. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have the rest of the paperwork approved by my supervisor.” Mrs. Jackson looked at Sarah. “Mrs. Wentworth, you have a lovely house with a lot of history here. Any child would be lucky to have such a home.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said.
James escorted Mrs. Jackson to her car, said good night, and waved as she drove away. Back inside, James walked to Sarah, put his arms around her, and pulled her close. She felt the invisible fairy-like thread drawing them together again, only now it was looser, stretching out, over there to where someone else waited, someone they didn’t know yet but someone who was loved unconditionally.
Just because, Sarah thought. Whoever you are. We love you just because.
She pointed her chin up, and James kissed her. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling.
“Was that your idea to move the blood bags?” she asked.
“I thought she might look in the refrigerator,” he said. “To see how clean we are.”
“That’s why you’re brilliant, Doctor Wentworth.”
“I know,” he said.
They know. It is just as the trader man said. They are going soon, going West, the direction of Death, they say.
Going…
Going…
Gone.
They go about the night the best they can. The boys play ‘a ne jo di’ (stickball) in the moonlight, which they play with hickory sticks and deer-hair balls. They are families, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers. They laugh and cry. They grow angry and show kindness. One mother kneels near her crying son who has tripped running. Another watches her husband show their son a trick with the hickory stick. As I watch them I am reminded of Shylock’s words, begging for his humanity:
Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed…
I try to catch the eye of my neighbor, but he is busy with the medicine man while the women and children disappear into their homes. He is old, the medicine man, his face well creviced, his jowls low, though his silver hair is thick and he has the manner of someone who understands much. He nods at me, and I nod in return, thankful because he is the first Cherokee to acknowledge me. The tribal leaders have gathered and I am not supposed to be here, I think, but the medicine man does not seem concerned. I sit on the ground and watch as they begin the Stomp Dance. There are shell shakers wearing leg rattles made of turtle shells filled with pebbles, and the rattles provide a heartbeat-like rhythm as they dance around the red-blazing fire singing a language I do not understand.
The medicine man stands. He stares at me over the heads of the seated men. “Listen,” he says. “We are praying to you, our Creator, Unetanv, the Great Spirit. Who are we without our lakes and valleys? Our rivers and forests? The copious rain and the good soil?
“Chief John Ross fought our removal in the United States Congress, in the United States Supreme Court. Don’t the liberties of the American Declaration of Independence apply to us as well, he argued? We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. But no one in the government would hear him.”
The men nod as they stare at the orange flames, at the crackling cinders, at the ground beneath them, at the half-hidden moon, or at whatever phantom images their blank visions show them. The medicine man watches me, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I sense his words are meant for me.
“Listen. This is the creation story of our people. In the beginning, there was no land. Only water and sky. All living things dwelled above the sky. In this time, all beings lived and talked in common. Then the sky vault became crowded with people and animals. To find more room, Dayuni’si, the water beetle, flew down to see what was there. It dove to the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud that grew and grew until the earth was born. This was so long ago even the oldest medicine man cannot remember. Even I cannot remember, and I am the oldest of them all. Then the earth dried and people were created. A brother and a sister. And we have grown from there.
“They have wanted our land from the moment they arrived. They have the right of discovery over the land, they say. But how do they discover what is already here? We were already here. Did we only begin to exist when they arrived?” The medicine man looks at me as though he knows I was here all those many years before. “They have taken our land as though it was theirs all along. For years they have chipped away at it, pocketing this piece here, stealing that piece there. After they decimated our people with their diseases they wanted more. Now they want it all. But we know the land was meant for us. For all of us. Many of our people converted to their religion. Were not Adam and Eve expelled from their Paradise because they were not content? Here we are content. We know the wind is our brother. The trees are our sisters.
“Great Creator, hear our cry. We want to be invisible so we can fly away like the birds and then the soldiers will not find us as they have already found others. We do not want to lose our ancestors. They are everywhere here. Where the soldiers want to take us, they are not there. This is what I have said to you.”
He sits, his head slumping under the weight of his knowledge. Everyone is silent, the singing crickets the only sound in the forest night. Then, the medicine man lifts his face and nods at me. He sees I understand.
November 12, 2020
A New Book Announcement!
Honestly, I wondered if I was even going to be able to make this announcement this year because of everything that has been going on. But never fear, a new story featuring Edward, Daphne, Frederick, and the other beloved characters from Hembry Castle is coming this Christmas.
Christmas at Hembry Castle is a light-hearted romp through the holidays in Victorian England. The novella (it’s 32,000 words) will be available in ebook and paperback formats on all major online retailers beginning Tuesday, December 1, 2020.
[image error]Here’s the gorgeous cover by the amazing Jenny Q.
Those of you who loved the first book in the Hembry Castle series won’t be surprised by the Downton Abbey and Charles Dickens influences. Of course, I had to put my own spin on A Christmas Carol, so there is a ghost hovering about Hembry in the shadows of the night. There will be one more Hembry Castle novel after this one, so this isn’t the end of Edward and Daphne’s story. I’ve had a few questions about whether or not you need to read the first Hembry book in order to understand the story. I don’t think you need to read When It Rained at Hembry Castle in order to follow Christmas at Hembry Castle since the novella was written as a stand-alone story.
As always, I’m happy to offer my readers free copies of Christmas at Hembry Castle in exchange for honest reviews. You can find me through the Contact form (you can find the link above) or you can email me at meredithallardauthor@gmail.com. Don’t forget to let me know which ebook format you’d prefer—mobi, epub, or pdf.
I’m also releasing my first nonfiction book in February—Painting the Past: A Guide for Writing Historical Fiction. You’re so surprised right now, I know. I wasn’t sure how I would like writing nonfiction, but it turns out I enjoyed the process and I’m already working on ideas for my next nonfiction book, which will focus more on the creative aspects of writing. I’ll have more to say about Painting the Past soon.
One thing about sticking close to home these past few months is that it forced me to be honest with myself about what I really want for the rest of my life. Some things are still up in the air, but one thing I realized, the one thing I cannot live without, is writing. As a result, I’m putting even more energy into my writing than before. I’m looking forward to seeing where that takes me. I’ll have more to say about that too.
For now, I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with Edward and Daphne this holiday season. You are hereby cordially invited to spend Christmas at Hembry Castle. Victorian England is waiting for you.
October 18, 2020
The Loving Husband Series is on Tour!
Today is the first day of the Loving Husband Series Virtual Book Tour. An extra special thanks to Silver Dagger Book Tours for putting together an amazing tour and making sure we were celebrating our favorite vampire, James Wentworth, during the Halloween season!
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Here are websites for the tour stops so you can follow along. We’re giving away a $50 Amazon gift card, so enter the giveaway at each tour stop for a chance to win. Hope to see you there!
Oct 18
Kickoff at Silver Dagger Book Tours
Oct 19
Oct 20
Oct 21
Oct 22
Oct 23
Oct 24
Oct 25
Oct 26
Always Love Me Some Books Blog
Oct 27
Oct 28
Interesting Authors | Eclectic Readers!
Oct 29
Books all things paranormal and romance
Oct 30
Oct 31
Nov 1
Word Processor, Romance, Cats, Kids and Creed
Nov 2
Momma Says: To Read or Not to Read
Nov 3
Nov 4
Musings From An Addicted Reader
Nov 5
Nov 6
#BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee
Nov 7
Nov 8
4covert2overt ☼ A Place In The Spotlight ☼
Nov 9
Nov 10
Nov 11
IndiePowerd by No Sweat Graphics
Nov 12
Nov 13
Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin’
Nov 14
Nov 15
Nov 16
Nov 17
Nov 18
October 12, 2020
A Vampire Teaching Vampire Literature?
Yes, that’s exactly what happens in Chapter 11 of Her Loving Husband’s Curse. James Wentworth, my favorite vampire, also happens to be a professor of literature. I know, but it works. He was talked into teaching a vampire literature class and here’s the scene where he teaches the class for the first time.
I referred to this scene in my last post so I decided to share it with everyone. To this day this scene was one of my all-time favorites to write, and it goes well with the Halloween season.
Also, the entire Loving Husband Series is going on tour starting on Saturday, 10/17. Be sure to join me at each of the stops!
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* * * * *
James nodded at the students as he entered the room, recognizing a few familiar faces from previous terms. He pulled out his class roster and put his book bag in the bottom drawer of the instructor’s desk. In a matter of moments every seat in the room was taken. Too bad, he thought. He was hoping most of them would drop and they’d have to cancel the class.
“Hey, Doctor Wentworth. Your favorite student is here!”
Levon Jackson rushed into the room, nearly tripping over a classmate in his haste.
“Are you taking this class?” James asked. “Last year you had to cover your ears whenever anyone said the word vampire.”
“I need the units so I can graduate in the spring. Besides, it’s make-believe, right? And I can suffer through any class of yours, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Thanks a lot,” James said.
Levon sat in his usual seat, front row center, and he nodded to familiar classmates. “My mom says hi,” he said to James. “She said to tell you not to forget her appointment next Tuesday night. She needs to check up on you, make sure you’re all right.” Levon grinned. “She likes you, you know, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“I like her too,” said James. “And I suppose you’re all right as well.”
James looked at the clock on the wall. Class time. Two more students rushed in, shivering and stomping winter wet from their boots. They smiled at James as they took the last seats in the back row. All eyes in the classroom turned to him, and suddenly James felt like he had a flashing neon-pink arrow pointing at his head, freak show style: “Step right up, step right up ladies and gentlemen, to see for yourselves one of the garish creatures of the night. See the angry vampire monster-man who wants to drink your blood!” But the students didn’t hear any carnival barkers. They watched him, waiting for class to start, and he smiled at the fresh young faces staring back at him while he called roll. Everyone who signed up for the class was there. Damn. That never happened. There was even one student who hadn’t signed up, sitting in his usual spot in the back closest to the door. James checked his roster again, and he was right, Timothy’s name wasn’t there. James could tell by the way Timothy glanced around that he was listening to every conversation in the room. Levon and Timothy together in a vampire literature class. This should be interesting, James thought.
There was one student who stood out in particular, a young man named Brent Wilson, about twenty years old with dyed jet-black hair, black eyeliner, and black clothing. He wasn’t painted white, though he seemed pasty for a human, like he stayed out of the sun. James wondered briefly if Brent was one of his kind, but he looked, listened, and knew, no, the boy is human. He may want to be one of us, but he isn’t. James wanted to take the boy aside and tell him the truth. This life might seem exciting, but there are so many problems. Stay human, James wanted to tell him. Stay human the way I wish I could have stayed human.
James passed out the class syllabus, then began with a simple question: “What do you know about vampires?”
He looked at Levon, expecting the well-built, athletic-looking young man to slap his large hands over his ears the way he had before.
Levon smiled. “Not a thing, Doctor Wentworth.”
“I guessed as much. Anyone else?”
A blond-haired girl sitting by the window raised her hand.
“Yes?” James said.
“They sparkle.”
James sighed. “Anyone else?”
A burgundy-haired girl raised her hand. “They come out at night. They drink your blood.”
“Yes, those are common beliefs. What else?”
“They turn into bats.”
James looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes into class. This was going to be a long term.
“Some people believe vampires turn into bats,” he said. He looked at a young man to his right. “Yes?”
“They’re dead, but they come back to life at night.”
James nodded. “That’s another common belief. Does anyone know when the first vampire story was told?”
“The movie with that Russian guy,” said a bearded young man. “The one wearing the black cape with that weird accent you can hardly understand.”
“His name was Bela Lugosi, and he was Hungarian. The movie version of Dracula you’re referring to was made in 1931, but vampire stories were told thousands of years before that. The earliest vampire stories go back as far as 4000 B.C.E. to the Sumers in Ancient Mesopotamia.” The students began scribbling in their spiral notebooks or typing into their laptops. “The Sumers spoke of a vampire known as the Ekimmu, which they believed was created when someone died a violent death or wasn’t buried properly. The Ekimmu were believed to be rotting corpses roaming the earth searching for victims to torment. In early Hebrew tales, Lilith was depicted as a winged demon. She is believed by some to be the first wife of Adam, and since she considered herself his equal—heaven forbid a woman should consider herself a man’s equal—she was banished to the demon world. Some say the mark of Cain is the mark of the vampire. Eastern Europe was, and is, a hotbed for vampire legends. Stories of the undead have been told all over the world, and every culture has their own version. Some are merely ghost stories, but others grew from a need to explain misunderstood anomalies before science could explain them.”
“Like what?” Levon asked.
“Like porphyria, a hemoglobin issue that causes extreme sensitivity to sunlight. Another is catalepsy, a suspension of animation where the person appears dead but then appears to come to life again. In 1730s Serbia, murders of people and farm animals were attributed to the undead. A number of corpses were exhumed and found to be rosy-cheeked with fresh blood in their mouths.”
“That creepy dude with the accent comes from there.”
James looked at the bearded boy. “He comes from the area,” he said.
“Who has a funny vampire story?” Levon asked.
“The Greeks. Andilaveris isn’t a scary vampire, only an annoying one. At night he roamed into villages and dined off the villagers’ food and smashed their plates and glasses. One night he stood on the roof of a church and urinated on anyone passing below.” The class laughed. “He had to stay in his grave on Fridays, so one Friday a priest, a sexton, and a few others opened his tomb, captured him, and sent his body to a deserted island, Daskaleio, where he was trapped and never bothered anyone again.”
Levon nodded. “I like that one, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Me too,” James said.
“What about the Native Americans?” asked a dark-haired young woman. “They have vampire legends too. What about the Kalona Ayeliski?”
James nodded, keeping it casual. There was nothing odd about the question. This was simply more information he could impart to his curious students.
“For the Cherokee, the Kalona Ayeliski, or Raven Mocker, is a powerful evil spirit, so powerful other spirits and witches fear it. The Raven Mocker tortures and torments a dying person to hasten their death. After the person’s death, the Raven Mocker consumes the heart to bolster its own life force. Raven Mockers add a year to their lives for every year their victim would have lived.”
“Don’t they appear as old men or women?” the dark-haired girl asked.
“They can.”
“Why are they called Raven Mockers?” the bearded boy asked.
“The Cherokee believe that when the Raven Mockers hunt they make a sound like a raven’s cry. People feared the sound because it meant someone would die soon. Only the medicine men could see them, and the medicine men would stand guard over the dying to prevent the Raven Mockers from stealing their hearts.” James shook his head, forgetful of the forty young people sitting there. “They didn’t know,” he said. “They didn’t understand.”
A student near the back coughed and James came back to himself. He scanned the faces of his students and realized he had a captivated audience. Even Timothy dropped his pen to listen. In all his years of teaching, James had never seen anything like it. He had taught Shakespeare, Dickens, the Romantic Poets, the Harlem Renaissance. He had taught contemporary American masters like Morrison, Oliver, and Walker. But here, in this vampire literature class, he had his students’ attention unlike ever before. They were so engrossed in the discussion that most of them stopped taking notes or typing. They watched him the way Grace watched him when he told her bedtime stories—wide-eyed and mesmerized.
“So now we have some background information about early vampires legends,” he said. “What else do you already know about vampires?”
“They’re real.”
James turned to the student who had spoken, the pale-skinned boy in black. Other students laughed. Some rolled their eyes. A few muttered obscenities under their breath.
“Freak,” a blond-haired boy said.
“Vampires are real,” Brent said. He stared into James’ eyes. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Wentworth?”
James looked at the floor, at the clock on the wall, around the room at the other students. He smiled. Did Brent know? He sighed, a big display sigh because at that moment, with all eyes on him, the word vampire in the air, hanging over him like that neon arrow he imagined, he needed the students to see his chest move.
“Who believes vampires are real?” Levon asked. “Besides that fool with the blog and that idiot over there.”
James looked at Brent. The black-haired boy was firm, his arms crossed in front of him, his eyes disappointed and small.
Suddenly, from the side of the class, James heard, “Hey, Doctor Wentworth, you’re pale and you only teach night classes. Maybe you’re a vampire.”
“Right,” Levon said. “Doctor Wentworth’s a vampire. Next you’re going to tell me his wife is a werewolf.”
“Actually, she’s a ghost,” James said.
Levon laughed. “But you still haven’t said how vampires get to be vampires in the first place. Where do vampires come from?”
The bearded boy faced Levon. “You see, first the mommy vampire and the daddy vampire meet and fall in love, and then they…”
“I’m serious,” said Levon. “What makes a vampire, Doctor Wentworth?”
“They’re cursed,” James said. “It’s the only explanation.”
“Can a vampire ever break the curse?”
“I’m not familiar with any way to break the curse.”
James sat on the edge of the instructor’s desk while he gathered his thoughts. These young people, so curious, so vigorous, so alive, had no idea what it meant to be cursed. If they knew his truth would they come to his class then? Would they run away screaming in the halls? He settled his worries and continued his lecture about early vampire legends, with no further interruptions from Brent, while the students took notes and asked questions.
“James?”
Sarah stood near the door, a sleeping Grace in her arms. “Class was over twenty minutes ago. We were waiting for you in the library.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” James said. “I lost track of time.”
“We all did,” said Levon. “You’re a good storyteller, Doctor Wentworth. Especially that Raven Mocker stuff.”
“Thanks, Levon. All right everyone. Your assignment is to research an early vampire legend, not the same ones we talked about here tonight, and bring in some information about the legend to share. I’ll see everyone next time.”
The students said good night and filed away. At first, James thought they were tip-toeing around him, though he knew it was his paranoia brought on by Hempel’s blog and Brent’s questions. Timothy was gone. A few students peeked at Grace as she slept in Sarah’s arms. One blond-haired girl smiled at James. “She’s cute, Doctor Wentworth. She looks just like you.”
“Thank you,” James said.
Levon said good night to James and Sarah and smiled at Grace before he left. When the room was empty and only Sarah and Grace remained, James put his arms around them, holding them close while he kissed the top of his daughter’s silk-like curls. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind.
“How did it go?” Sarah asked.
“It’s a vampire literature class. How do you think it went?”
“Was it that bad?”
“I’ll survive.”
“It looked like a full class.”
James kissed Sarah’s forehead. “It was,” he said. “It was.”
* * * * *
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