Jude Knight's Blog, page 67

Happy New Year

Every Saturday at 1pm Eastern US time, the Bluestocking Belles host a one hour discussion on the Belles Brigade Facebook Group. We take it in turns to lead, and I have January, so hosting a conversation about the new year seemed inevitable. The thing is, 2020 sucked in multiple ways for many many people. And 2021 has started in a way that has prompted all sorts of jokes. You’ve heard the one that goes, “They told me to cheer up because things could be worse. So I cheered up, and things got worse.” Or the conversation between 2020 and 2021. 2020: I’m the worst year anyone alive has known. 2021: Hold my drink.

Sure enough, in the week after I set up the event for yesterday and promoted the topic, things got worse, with a tragedy in my family, bad news on the Covid front, and the sad situation that unfolded before our eyes in Washington on Wednesday.

So I decided to take a different approach. Rather than focusing on the year as a whole (the one that’s been or the one that’s started), I asked people to think of one thing last year that gave them joy, and one thing they hope for, that they can remember at this time in January 2022.

I thought I’d share with you my answers, and I’d love to hear yours. Please put them in the comments.

A number of things have given me joy this year, but the one I’m choosing to focus on is finding and buying the townhouse that we intend to have as our home for the remainder of our lives or for as long as we can continue to live independently, whichever comes first. We’re doing a lot of renovation, but it is going to be perfect for us. On the book front, I’m grateful that my plot elves came back to work part way through the year, and the long gap in publishing that resulted from their silence ended on 15 December. I’ve two books finished and coming to a store near year in the first third of the year, two more heading towards their beta read, and several others planned.

In January next year, I want to be looking back at plans come to fruition: a finished house and garden, the completed four books in The Children of the Mountain King series 1, another Golden Redepenning, and three books in the Lion’s Zoo series all ready to publish in 2022, when I get the rights back to House of Thorns.

Your turn.

 

Fact, Historical fiction, Fantasy

As the eighteenth century ended in revolution and war, fashions changed. Woman began wearing the simpler style of women’s clothing, known now as empire line, after the empire of Napoleon Bonaparte whose wife Josephine popularised the fashion.

But in the court of Queen Charlotte, queen of Great Britain, the hoops of her youth still prevailed. Which led to the bizarre fashion pictured above — an empire silhouette for the bodice, with a hoop, petticoat, and overskirt below. As if hoops weren’t enough to handle, the poor debutante of the time also had to handle a train, plus between three and eight ostrich plumes in her hair. Probably not pinned in place by a tiara, since tiaras were only for adults, and the girls being presented to the queen for the first time were generally too young to be regarded as adults. (Old enough to marry, though, since the purpose of their debut was to signal their availability as brides.)

All of which is by way of saying that, in the first episode of Brigerton, I picked up six historical errors before the first titles. The non-court style dress, the lack of ostrich feathers, the presence of the younger children in the audience at court… it goes on and on. By the time Anthony Brigerton dropped his pants, quite unnecessarily, since unbuttoning his fall would have been sufficient, I had quite sensibly given up.

The story Julia Quinn wrote was Fiction. The Shondaland version was Fantasy — a delightful froth with a mashup of fashions, practices, and historical miscellany. I loved it. I recommend it. It’s a delightful romp. And I hope it will lead to a greater interest in the genre I love. But if you’re going to watch it, leave your historical research knowledge at the door.

 

Settings on WIP Wednesday

Once upon a time, authors might devote pages to descriptions of the setting. Even back in the day, did readers peruse every detail? I’m not sure that they did, and I’m certain they wouldn’t today. The trick is to establish setting and background in as few words as possible. Do you have a bit you’d like to share in the comments? Mine is from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, and introduces the reader to the home of my villainess.

In the half light just before dawn, the last of the club’s patrons stumbled out of the front door, those employees who did not reside in their place of work left through the back door, and the building slipped into its usual early morning slumber.

The club comprised two houses thrown into one in a street of four-story terraced houses. Behind, the areas that serviced the public rooms had spread to include the building’s neighbours in the parallel street, but that was not obvious from the front. There, apart from its double width, little set the building apart from its neighbours. Perhaps it was a little tidier; its window-sills and doors newly painted, its bricks scrubbed and firmly set in newly pointed mortar. Only the discreet brass sign beside the door identified it as very different from the family homes and boarding houses that surrounded it.

Heaven and Hell, the sign whispered, engraved into the brass in discrete italics, only an inch tall. To read it at all, even in the light of the lamp that had hung just above it all night, one needed to climb the steps from the street. No one came to the building without a personal referral, but occasionally, first-time visitors needed reassurance that they were in the right place before they were emboldened to knock on the door.

A glimpse through the open door as the porter allowed entry  would leave a passerby with an impression of light and gilt. Members, or those referred by members, were surrounded by opulence as soon as they stepped inside. Opulence and decadence. In Heaven and Hell, nothing was forbidden. Everything was available for a price.

The woman known as La Reine, the ruler of the brothel Heaven that occupied the two upper floors of the main house, retired to her personal sitting room in a penthouse suite above the mean street behind the club. It had been a profitable night, at least upstairs. Supper was laid ready, and when her business partner joined her, she would find out how things went in Hell, the gambling establishment on the lower two floors.

 

Tea with hopes and dreams

Her Grace had never bothered with New Year resolutions. Her father had refused to countenance the practice within his household. Instead, he held to the Christmas Octave, to be commemorated with all due solemnity. Once she married, her husband saw the changing of one year to another as an opportunity for even more excess than usual, and his celebrations had no place for a mere wife.  She spent her Christmas and New Year ensconced in whatever of the ducal estates pleased His Grace, her company comprising the servants and whichever of Haverford’s indigent relatives lived there by his miserly favour.

In time, especially after she had given the duke his heir and a second son as a spare, she built her confidence and her own life. Her Christmas parties had become famous, lasting for three weeks from before Christmas until the Feast of the Epiphany, six days after New Year’s Day. She had never seen anything particularly significant about the first of January. It was, after all, just another day.

For some reason, this year felt different. No. What was she if she could not be honest even if only to herself? This year was different because at long last she knew that her cage would soon open, and she thought — or at least she hoped — that old wrongs might at last be righted.

Sitting in her parlour, she sipped tea as she considered the coming year. The long war was over, the Emperor Napoleon confined to St Helena’s. That was cause for hope, surely? The country faced serious problems: poor harvests, unrest among the working poor,  a huge population of ex-soldiers and sailors released from the forces and thrown onto the streets to cope with the aftermath of injuries both physical and mental. But the war was over. Her eldest ward had wed during the year, and was expecting a happy event. Eleanor had hopes that Matilda’s younger sister, Jessica, might find a match in the coming season.

And as she thought about all that she was thankful for on the wider stage of Great Britain and the more personal canvas of her family and friends, the duchess conceded that she was still avoiding thoughts about the key change that gave a lift to her heart and a smile to her face.

“I feel guilty,” she acknowledged. “I am rejoicing in another person’s pain, and I should not, even if he well deserves it. And yet…”

And yet it was unavoidable. The Duke of Haverford was dying, rotting from the inside, his manifold sins of lust come back to destroy him. In the past eighteen months, his periods of madness had increased in intensity and duration, until he could no longer be released from the careful stewardship of the custodians her son had appointed. The doctors warned that the next spell, or the one after, or the one after that would carry him off. A vein would burst in one of the lesions in his brain, or his damaged heart would fail, or some other physical manifestation of his moral perfidy would carry him off.

“It will be a release for him,” she assured herself, well aware that it was her own release she yearned for. She had been a faithful wife to a faithless and cruel man. Was it any wonder that his demise was an event awaited with anticipation?

Never mind that James was back in England, that they were friends again, that he looked on her with a warmth in his eyes that set her tingling. He had said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say. But deep down, she hoped.

 

Holiday message from Jude

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Broken families on WIP Wednesday

I’m beginning to get my first comments back on the beta draft of To Mend the Broken Hearted, so I thought I’d give you a piece. Val’s sister-in-law and Ruth’s cousin have stolen his little girl as revenge, and Ruth was captured when she went after them. Ruth’s family and Val’s comrades from the army have banded together to get Ruth and Genny back.

This story is about family. Val’s family is broken, but with Ruth’s help, he’ll rebuild what he can. Her family is split in two, with half left behind in the East. Another kind of break. Still, love binds them together.

Do you write about families? Born, made, or cobbled together? Share an excerpt in the comments.

Every strategy had risks, as the duke said when he summed up the discussion that followed. “We don’t have any idea where in the house our ladies are being kept. If we break in, they may be hurt before we can get to them. If we wait until morning, or whenever Wharton chooses to emerge, our ladies may be suffering right now, and we’ll be standing by while it happens.”

Val had been examining the house from where they stood in the cover of the stables. “What if we could get in from the top? Find an empty room in the attics and enter that way? If we could get even a couple of people inside, and they could find our ladies…?”

“It would be a tough climb,” Rutledge mused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the idea.

“I could do it,” Drew offered. “It’s our best chance, Kaka. If we can find our ladies and take out their guard, we can defend them while the rest of you make a full on assault.”

The duke gave a sharp nod, and Drew fell into a quiet conversation with one of his warriors, while the pair of them removed their gloves, their jackets, their boots and their stockings. “Kaka, we’ll ascend between the porch pillars and the side of the house, then walk that bit of pediment, climb up where that wing meets the main house, and make our way to the roof. We should be able to drop down to that bit of roof by the gable there,” he pointed to each feature as he named it. “The window is slightly open, so there may be someone inside. We’ll make a decision on whether to enter or keep looking once we’ve got up there. Once we’re inside, watch for us to signal that we’ve found the ladies.”

The duke nodded again. “And then we’ll attack. We will be ready, my son.”

Val watched in agonised envy as Drew and his companion ascended the house face, taking it in turns to lead, the lower one often offering a foothold for the other, who then would pause to reach back for his partner. I should be doing that. But even when he had both hands, he couldn’t climb the way those two did.

“They are quite mad,” Jamie murmured in his ear. “Back at home, they used to climb rockfaces for fun. Still do. The pair of them are making a list of all the mountains in Wales and Scotland with climbs they consider worth doing.”

Around them, the men dispersed, one group to each face of the house, to choose windows to break through when the signal came. Val stayed, watching the climbers approach the attic window.

They were almost there when the window opened wide, and someone leaned out of it. Val stepped out of the shadow, staring. “Ruth!” It was. She and Drew were embracing through the open window, and then she stepped back out of sight and returned to help Genny climb out of the window into Drew’s waiting arms.

He settled the child on his back, clinging like a monkey, and Ruth followed her out the window. “What is she doing?” Jamie asked. “Ah! I see.” Ruth had taken off her pelisse and her shoes and stockings. She looped her skirt up between her legs and bound it in place by tying her pelisse around her waist by the sleeves. She used her sash to tie Genny to Drew’s back.

Val waited, his heart in his mouth, and Drew led the way down, Ruth following, and his friend bringing up the rear, helping Ruth whenever she had trouble making progress. Never had five minutes moved so slowly, but at last Drew set one foot and then another onto the ground, and Val was there to untie his little girl and take her in his arms.

 

Spotlight on Short Stories

I occasionally hear people say that they don’t like short stories. I love them. I acknowledge that they’re a different art form to a novel, or even a novella. But when life is rushed and there’s little time for reading, there’s nothing like the mini-escape — the micro-holiday — of a shorter form of fiction.

Even novels are only part of a story–they have a beginning and an ending, which real life lacks (even conception and death being but punctuation points in the larger story of a community or a family). In a novel, though, the author has time to draw out the motivations and history of the main participants, maybe to follow several plot lines, to allow characters to develop and change, and to solve complex problems and untwist complicated knots. This gives novels their fascination, and the larger and more complicated the novel, the more some people seem to like it. A series with an overarching plot is a wonderful thing, allowing three, six, ten–even fifteen (in some cases) individual full stops within a larger story that spans the entire series.

Novella–that is, 20,000 to 40,000 words of story–are animals of quite a different description. When writing them, I’ve found it best to limit the cast of characters and reduce the plot lines to one major and maybe one minor. Novellas still allow for a problem to be solved, a character to grow, a relationship to be formed.

Short stories, though, are vignettes–paintings of a moment in time. The past is hinted at; character development is minimal; motivations are brushed on in broad strokes; only the main characters stand out and the rest are reduced to background. The shorter the story, the harder the craft of making a satisfying read. And I do love a challenge.

A well crafted short story may leave you wishing it was longer, but is also satisfying. The end is leaves you free to catch that bus, pick those children up, pack up that lunch and return to your desk, turn off the light and go to sleep. Short stories are fun.

So what do you say? Short, novella, short novel or long novel, series or stand-alone? Or (my answer) “Yes, please,” to all.

***

This Christmas, I have a novella and a short story in the Belles’ 2020 Christmas collection Holiday Escapes, published in November and comprising four novellas and two short stories. I’ve also just published eleven short stories in Chasing the Tale. I hope you enjoy them.

Bad family on WIP Wednesday

Someone in a review recently wrote that my characters have terrible families. I’d protest that some of them have lovely families. My James and his children–not his father and brother, though. The Redepennings, except for Rede’s sister. Candle Avery and his mother (but not his father). Okay, so the cap does fit, somewhat.

Of all toxic relationships, a toxic family relationship is one of the worst, and therefore gives huge scope for an author.

Does your work in progress have a jealous, selfish, mean, or plain nasty relative? Please share in the comments.

Here’s my hero from To Reclaim the Long-Lost Lover, with his father and stepmother.

“Go on, Libby,” he encouraged her. “What terrible flaw have you noticed that I must needs amend to be acceptable to a suitable lady?”

“Well…” she chewed on her lower lip, examining him with anxious eyes. “You have not been much in Society, Nate,” she offered, eventually.

Nate was trying to work out what she was driving at when his father spoke from the door to what he misleadingly called his study—a room in which he drank brandy and slept in front of the fire. “She’s right, for once. You are too free and easy, Bencham. You’ve no idea how to go on in the Beau Monde. And you don’t have the right connections. No friends from school or that sort of thing.”

No, because his father had tutored him at home, reneged on the promise to send him to Oxford in order to keep him as an unpaid secretary, and then connived with the Duke of Winshire to have him abducted and impressed onto a naval ship.

“I was at school with some of Society’s important hostesses, Westford,” Libby said, her soft voice meek and apologetic. “If we were to go to London with Lord Bencham…”

Lord Westford interrupted her with a rude snort. “I see your game,” he told his wife, scowling. “You think to jaunt up to Town, do you? And spend my money on fripperies, I suppose.” He began to shake his head, and Nate spoke quickly, before the old tyrant denied Libby what she clearly saw as a treat. Once he’d spoken, he’d not renege. Nate had hoped to escape his father’s presence, but he could hardly deny that Libby’s case was worse than his. She was stuck with the man until death did them part.

Nate smiled broadly. “What an excellent idea, Libby. Using your connections, I should soon have invitations to places I can meet my future bride, and I’m sure you can counsel me on my manners and dress, too.” Westford was purpling. Time to apply a little flattery. No, a lot of flattery—applying it with a shovel rather than a trowel would be no more that the earl considered his due. Nor would he note the barb Nate buried in the compliment.

“My lord, I know you will agree, for you have mentioned her ladyship’s useful connections to me before. What great foresight you showed in choosing a bride who could be of such assistance to your heir, especially since I was unable to complete my own education as a gentleman.”

The earl’s scowl deepened. For a moment, Nate thought he had misjudged Westford’s acuity, so he was relieved rather than annoyed when the earl grumbled, “You’d be married already, and likely have given me a grandson by now, if you’d paid more attention to your duties and less to making up to that girl. Instead, here you are, barely more than a savage, and now I have to go to the expense of a London Season for a woman who can’t even give me sons. You are a great disappointment to me, Bencham. Beyond a doubt I need to go to London to make sure you don’t marry to disoblige me.”

He turned his glower on Libby. “Lady Westford, you shall need to dress to reflect credit on me. You shall have a strict budget, and I shall expect an accounting.”

 

Happy Birthday, Chasing the Tale

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Spotlight on Chasing the Tale

My Christmas release this year is another in my lunch-time reads series. This time, I’ve packaged eleven never-before-published short stories into a 230 page book, for your reading pleasure. Stories of various lengths–nine regency, one Victorian New Zealand and one medieval Scotland. All with a happy ever after.

So in the busy rush of Christmas, when you feel like a respite but don’t have time for a novel, step into my story world for the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. Only 99c in US dollars on release day (the price will go up to $2.99 soon–but I’m busy, so not sure when, exactly).

This is just a delightful little collection of eleven short stories. When you don’t have a lot of time, you can pick out one of these and easily read it in an hour or two. Wonderful stories that will bring a smile to your face. So grab the hot chocolate and your favorite chair and you’re all set! [early reviewer]

Read here for more about Chasing the Tale, and for buy links. Release day is tomorrow, but it’s already available for download from my ‘Buy from Jude Knight’ link and from Smashwords.