Jude Knight's Blog, page 83

Is it news if not much is happening?

I’ve not been doing much writing. Instead, I’ve been doing a heap of reading, quite a few tasks around the place, a modicum of socialising, and thinking. Mountains of thinking.

The thinking is partly about plot and character. Unkept Promises needs more work before it is ready for someone else to edit and proofread. I’m rewriting large chunks of To Wed a Proper Lady to tighten the story and introduce plot elements that will work themselves out over the series (the Duke of Haverford and his slow demise, for one). I keep seeing scenes from the next two books in the Mountain King series. I’ve worked out plot motivations for the next Redepenning book. And I’m about to set down and do a Hero’s Journey for Maximum Force, the contract killer, and his heroine, Serenity Christian.

It’s also partly about my own motivations. Somewhere in all the discussion about how hard it is to be seen in the bazillion book marketplace, with its pirates and its scammers and all the barriers put up by the retailers and social-media companies in their bid for world-domination, I’d lost track of the fact I don’t care.

It isn’t that I don’t want my books to be read. I do. I really, really do, and I humbly thank all of you who have followed me and supported me. But that isn’t why I write.

I write, and I publish what I write, because telling stories is a huge part of what I am, and a story isn’t real until a reader or listener recreates it in their own imagination. To put it in religious terms, this is my vocation. I need to tell the stories that are in my head to tell, and to do so with all the skill and imagination at my command. I need to slave and fret over them till they’re the best they can be. That’s my calling. That needs to be my focus.

I’m not going to ignore marketing, because to do so would be stupid. I’m not going to worry about it, either. My job is to write.

 

Horse and carriage — a glimpse of the past

I particularly love the coach horn, and watch for the ladder to help the ladies up onto the roof.

The villain of the piece on Work in Progress Wednesday

This week’s challenge is to post an excerpt with your villain. I’m looking for his entry onto the stage; as always, just post your piece into the comments.

I’ve been rethinking To Wed a Proper Lady. It had mired in the last third, and I needed to take a step back. I’ve now done a hero’s journey chart for both protagonists, and mapped the overarching plot line for the series, and one of the things I’ve decided is to introduce my series villain early on. He has been lurking in the background of a number of my books, but it is in Children of the Mountain King that he steps up into the key negative protagonist role. He dies somewhere before the fifth book, but the nastiness he foments isn’t all solved till the end of the sixth.

The Duke of Haverford had been at the ball for nearly two hours, which was unusual enough to catch Sophia Belvoir’s attention. He’d been attending more events in polite Society than usual this Season, the first for two of the duchess’s wards, but this was the first time Sophia had known him to stay beyond the first half hour

He was strolling through the crowded reception rooms, stopping from time to time for a brief conversation, then moving on. After a while, a pattern emerged: all the people he stopped were men, peers, and members of the loose political group that voted with Haverford in the House of Lords. What was his Grace of Haverford campaigning for now?

The Earl of Hamner asked Sophia to dance. She was sought as a partner by husbands and confirmed bachelors who wished to dance without giving rise to gossip or expectations. Twice-betrothed, she was clearly not a wallflower. Twice-bereaved, she was nearly, but not quite, a widow. The never-wed sister of a protective earl, she was off-limits for seduction, but at twenty-five she was too old to expect a proposal of marriage. Being outside the expected categories for high-born females was a sort of freedom, she had discovered.

When Hamner returned her to the matrons with whom she’d made her debut, she was the only one not to blush and turn away as Haverford paused in front on them. His attention was on Hamner, another of his acolytes, and not on the ladies, but they fluttered as if a fox had strolled into the dovecote.

Not far from the truth, though if the elderly rakehell was on the hunt tonight, it was for naïve politicians and not the young wives of other men.

Sophia, protected by her virgin status and her relationship with the evil old man’s wife, curtseyed and said, “Good evening, Your Grace.” He cast a wintery eye in her direction. He had no time for women who did not conform to his expectations, and she was surprised even to receive a stiff nod. “Lady Sophia.” She had heard the man had charm; had even seen him executing it. Clearly the elderly spinster sister of the Earl of Hythe did not warrant his further attention. “Hamner, a word, if you please.”

Tea with Jude

 

Her Grace gestures to a seat, and begins to pour a fragrant cup of tea from the teapot she has ready at her elbow. She does not ask how I have it — medium strength, no sugar, no milk or cream. We have been together now for more than six years, and we know one another’s habits.

She has become more than I expected when she first surfaced from the depths of my imagination. My notebook says:

Anthony George Bartholomew Philip Grenford, Duke of Haverford, Marquess of Aldbridge, Baron Chillingham

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Eleanor Frances Sophia Grenford nee Creydon (daughter of Earl of Farnmouth)

Duchess with two sons and unhappy marriage treasures her many goddaughters. Links books through goddaughters. Sons have their own stories.The Duchess also rescued her husband’s by blows and put them into school etc. See David. Could be more stories about these by-blows.

“That was the start,” Eleanor agrees, “but we have gone beyond that, have we not?”

We have. Even from her first appearance, she has demanded her own voice. She is the maternal aunt of the hero of my first novel, and he goes to her when he needs help with the social circumstances of his lovely widow. England is in the middle of the 1807 election, and Eleanor has been canvassing the Kent electorate on behalf of her husband’s candidate.

The sun was setting on Saturday evening, and Rede was beside himself with frustration, before the Duchess of Haverford’s coach was finally seen tooling up the road to the castle.

He was waiting when she entered the front door, and she greeted him with pleasure. “Rede, darling. What a lovely surprise. Have you been waiting for me long?

“Such a circus in Deal. The electors were inclined to listen to the merchants, and the merchants did not favour Haverford’s man. Not at all.

“So I had to visit every shop in the town and buy something. The carriage, I can assure you, is laden. But Haverford believes that it may have done the trick.

“Just as well, dear, for I have enough Christmas presents for every one of my godchildren for the next three years. And some of them are not of the best quality, I can assure you.”

She was talking as she ascended the stairs, giving her cloak to a maid as she passed, her bonnet to a footman, and her reticule to another maid.

“You want something, I expect. Well, you shall tell me all about it at dinner. I left most of the food I purchased at the orphanage in Margate, but I kept a pineapple for dessert. Such fun, my dear, have you tried one?”

“No, dear aunt,” he managed to say, sliding his comment in as she paused to give her gloves to yet another maid. Or it may have been the first maid again.

“Well, today you shall. Join me in the dining room in—shall we say one hour?” And she sailed away towards her apartments, leaving him, as always, feeling as if he had been assaulted by a friendly and affectionate hurricane.

Over dinner, he laid all honestly before her. Well, perhaps not all. The lovely widow, betrayed by George, the three sisters, the little daughter. No need to mention that he’d played fast and loose himself with the lady’s virtue. Just that he needed to rehabilitate her. Just that he wanted to marry her and she had refused.

“She has refused you, Rede?” Her Grace was surprised. “But you are handsome, titled and charming. And rich. What does she object to?”

Rede hadn’t been able to work it out, either. “I know she cares for me, Aunt Eleanor. But she keeps saying no. The first time—to be honest, the first time I made a disaster of it. I told her… I gave her the impression that I only wanted her for a wife because she was too virtuous to be my mistress.”

Her Grace gave a peal of laughter. “Oh Rede, you didn’t.”

“I’m afraid I did. But the second time I assured her that I wanted her for my Countess.”

“And you told her that you loved her,” the Duchess stated.

“No. Not exactly. I told her I wanted to keep her safe. I told her I wanted to protect her.”

“I see. And I suppose you think if you bring her into society, she will consent to marry you?”

“I don’t know, aunt. I only know that she deserves a better life than stuck in a worker’s cottage in the back of nowhere working as a teacher so she can one day give her sister a decent life. If she won’t have me… Well, she has been to see a lawyer about a small inheritance she has coming. I thought perhaps I could make it a bit bigger. Without her knowing.”

“You do love her,” said the Duchess, with great satisfaction.

“Yes, but… Yes.” There were no buts. He loved her. At least he hadn’t told her so. He had no taste for laying his heart on the floor for her to walk on.

“You need to tell her so.” The Duchess echoed and denied his thinking, all in one short sentence. “She is probably afraid that you are marrying her out of a misplaced sense of duty. You are far too responsible, Rede.”

“No, she couldn’t think that. Could she?”

“Who knows? Well, I will do it. I cannot have my niece-in-law having her babies in scandal. I take it there is the possibility of a baby? You would not be feeling so guilty otherwise.”

Rede was without a response for a long moment, finally huffing a laugh. “Aunt Eleanor, a hundred years ago you would have burnt as a witch,” he told her.

Eleanor reads the words over my shoulder and laughs. “Silly boy,” she observes. “But it all turned out in the end.”

“And then you helped Becky and Hugh,” I reminded her. A shadow passes over her face. That also turned out in the end, though perhaps not for Eleanor’s son, the Marquis of Aldridge.

By that time, Eleanor Haverford had embedded herself into my Regency world. She appears again and again, always helping, always protecting the defenseless and supporting the cause of true love.

From her wistful look into her cup, I know what she is thinking. I know the question she wants to ask.

“Will it ever be my turn?” The room hums with the unspoken words.

I can’t answer; those stories are not written yet, although I’ve begun them. Things change as I’m writing. I can’t imagine that the one-word answer will reverse, but she will want details, and I need to write the six-novel series, Children of the Mountain King, to find out for certain whether it will ever be Eleanor’s turn.

I hope so. She deserves it.

What a shambles

Did you know that a shambles was originally a meat slaughterhouse and market? I didn’t. It came to be used for scenes of carnage and disorder, and later lost the sense of guts and gore to become a description of a teenager’s bedroom. Except in England, where it survives as a place name — The Shambles in York, for example.

The word ‘cheap’ is another one associated with markets. It comes through old English from a Latin word meaning a small trader or innkeeper. In old English, it came to mean a market, giving us market towns such as Chipping Campden and Chepstow. In the fifteenth century, a good cheap was a good bargain,  which lead to the modern meaning.

As to my own name, the original Old English was cniht, meaning a boy or a youth. It was a term common to the Germanic languages and came to mean young warrior and then military follower before it settled into its current meaning (a rank in the nobility) in around the mid-sixteenth century. My full surname is Knighton, and a ton was a homestead, piece of land, or group of buildings enclosed in some way. Originally, in the Germanic languages, it meant a fortified place, but some of the other languages derived from Proto-Germanic have settled on a meaning of ‘hedge or fence’. So I’ve always suggested that my surname means the young fellow hiding behind the hedge.

The word evolved by the mid twelfth century to mean an inhabited place larger than a village; our modern spelling is ‘town’.

The measure ‘ton’ comes from a French word meaning ‘cask’. It was a measure of weight — the quantity necessary to fill a cask, hence a ‘ton of bricks’.

The Georgian ‘ton’ is a different word altogether. It comes from Old French — ‘ton’ was a musical sound or tone. From the fifteenth century, the word ‘tone’ was used in English to mean a manner of speaking, but in the eighteenth century the French word was borrowed again, this time to mean ‘the prevailing mode or style’. The full phrase was ‘le bon ton’ — those of good manners. Members of the ton came from the aristocracy, the gentry, and royalty.

Isn’t language fun?

The hero’s friends on WIP Wednesday

A person is known by the company they keep. It’s an old saying, and a useful one for writers. Our characters show who they are in the friends they choose, and the way they behave with those friends. This week, I’m looking for excerpts with your hero and one or more friends. Please post it in the comments. Mine is from a story I’m just beginning to put together in my mind; one tentatively called Maximum Force and the Immovable Lady.

Max watched from the shadows as the Earl of Ruthford browsed the shelves in his library, one finger running along the leather spines, occasionally tipping a book out for further examination. So far, all those selected had been returned to their place.

The man looked well; better, in fact, than Max had ever seen him. His casual house attire — ornately-patterned banyan worn over an open-necked shirt, loose pantaloons and indoor slippers — suited him no less well than the regimentals of their joint past. The tall form, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, had not changed, and nor had the dark hair, cropped short enough to discourage but not eliminate the curls.

However, something about the way he carried himself spoke of comfort ; happiness, even. The ready smile, flashed at a book that amused him, carried no overtones of bitterness; no expectation of a dark tomorrow. Max’s old colleague and sometime commander had found a haven here in England; in his ancestral home. Max envied him.

Watching so closely, he caught the moment the earl realised he was not alone: a miniscule pause in the movement of the reaching hand, a slight tension in the shoulders. It was enough warning. When the earl turned and pounced, all in one fluid movement, Max was ready for him, sliding sideways and speaking as he did.

“Good to see you, too, Lion.”

Tea with a friend in need

 

The child was asleep at last. Unconscious, rather. Much as she hated laudanum, the Duchess of Haverford had seen the wisdom of using it this once. It had been nearly a week since the incident, and her poor god-daughter had not dropped off for more than a few exhausted moments at a time.

The child’s mother hovered over the invalid’s bed, her face haggard. “Will she ever recover from this, Eleanor?” she asked. “Or have I lost my little girl, as well as…” She bit her upper lip, as if to keep it from spilling out the truth of the rest of her bereavement. Even between the two of them, who knew what had happened, the words should not be spoken. If the girl was to be saved, no one could ever know what she had suffered.

“We will help her,” Eleanor promised. “We will be her strength until she finds her own, dear one. We will not let her blame herself or fall into despair.”

A knock at the door had her friend stepping swiftly into the curtained alcove that hid the window. Eleanor waited a moment until she was concealed, then lifted her voice. “Enter!”

It was a maid with the tea. Eleanor bade her set down the tray and leave them, and sat to prepare a cup of tea the way her friend liked it. The lady emerged from her hiding place. “I could kill my husband. The things he said to her, Eleanor.” She took a sip of her tea and sighed.

“Men always blame women for their own failings,” Eleanor reminded her. But how could that insensitive cad think an innocent seventeen year old, walking peacefully in her own garden with a trusted family member, deserved to be so brutally and intimately assaulted? Doubtless, he sought to excuse sins of his own.

“Thank you for keeping her here. Does Haverford…?” The lady shook her head, as if in answer to her own question.

Eleanor put down her own cup to lean forward and take her friend’s hands. “No. He has no interest in what I do, my dear, which is as well in this case. Only the maid who cleans this room and my cousin Miriam know she is here, and no one knows who she is.” Eleanor had sent the faithful cousin to sleep as soon as the invalid had succumbed to the laudanum.

“Miriam has been wonderful.” Her friend’s tears welled up and overflowed, and the lady gave a huff of a bitter laugh. “I cannot even nurse my own daughter, for fear my husband will find out where she is and punish her for the crime of…” she trailed off again, once more avoiding the boggy quagmire concealed in their every conversation.

“Miriam understands,” Eleanor explained, which was as much as she would reveal of the circumstances from which Eleanor had rescued the distant relative who now cared for the injured girl.

The friend put her cup down, and stood. “I must go. I cannot be away too long, or they will become suspicious.”

“You have transport?”

“An unmarked carriage. An anonymous driver. My sister arranged it. I daresay the driver thinks I am here for an assignation.” Her smile was a feeble attempt, but Eleanor admired the courage behind the weak joke.

“The maid will be outside. Let her show you to your carriage, dearest, and tell her to return to me when she is done. Do not worry about the child. I will sit with her until Miriam awakens.”

The mother managed another weak smile, kissed the sleeping girl’s forehead, and hugged Eleanor before lowering her thick mourning veil over her face. Her identity concealed, she stepped into the hall. Eleanor took Miriam’s seat next to the bed, where she could watch over her charge. Whatever would become of the poor girl? Eleanor had once had hopes of a match between her friend’s daughter and Aldridge… But now? Even if the incident could remain concealed; even if Aldridge ever settled down enough to consider marriage; even if the dear child recovered enough to allow a man within touching distance… Those were just the start of the obstacles to such a connection.

Eleanor took a deep breath. Whatever was she doing thinking about her own wistful dreams when this poor darling’s life had been turned into a nightmare?  As the child began to toss and whimper, she leaned forward to murmur soothingly. “You are safe, my darling. You are safe. No one can hurt you here.”

 

 

Getting dressed in 1815 and Mary Shelley’s invention of Frankenstein

Another ‘getting dressed’ video — this one goes on to give the story of Mary Shelley’s invention of Frankenstein.

Dancing and other moves in WIP Wednesday

The chair of the panel I was on last week writes television scripts. “These people all write full books,” he told the audience in his introduction. “I just write a few words and somebody else makes the pictures happen.” In a novel, we need to describe the action in a way that lets the reader see it. They make the pictures happen, but we provide the raw material in our words. This week, I’m inviting you to post excerpts that describe activities — fighting, riding, dancing or whatever else your characters are involved in. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, and describes a dance.

At last, it was time for their dance; a country dance in the long form, which was fortunate, for they would have time for conversation in the privacy formed by the music and the concentration of the other dancers. First, though, James could take his turn with her in the patterns of the dance, his hand holding his hers, his gaze fixed on her fathomless brown eyes. A pattern of two couples followed, a swapping of partners, and then back to circle with Sophia before they separated once more, each to their own row.

The couple leading the line wove in and out of the dancers before promenading back up the middle of the rows, and setting off the patterns again: each couple meeting and circling, two couples, swapped partners, and back to Sophia again before the lead couple danced away down to the other end of the rows and the next couple began the sequence over again.

In their turn, he and Sophia would find themselves odd pair out at the end of the rows, and would stand aside for several minutes. Meanwhile, James enjoyed Sophia’s grace, the fleeting touches of her hand, even the sway of her body against his when they linked elbows in passing. Under the blazing candlelight, he could not tell whether the flecks in her pupils were green or gold, but her hair certainly glinted gold as the well anchored curls in her coiffure bounced with the vigour of the dance.

At last, came their turn to lead the line, and then to circle around to the back, there to stand and rest for a few minutes. James kept his eyes on the other dancers, rather than allowing them to feast on her as he would prefer.

Tea with Matilda and Jessica

Her Grace of Haverford was wondering why she had thought an afternoon at home with Matilda and Jessica to be a good idea. Her foster-daughters — as she thought of them, though by Haverford’s decree she referred to them as foster-nieces — had not taken kindly to Haverford’s edict that they no longer socialised or even spoke to their dearest friends, the Winderfield twins, and now Matilda was furious because Aldridge had run off yet another suitor.

“Lord Almsley is a baron, Aunt Eleanor.” Matilda in a temper was a glorious sight, colour high, perfect form bristling wit indignation. “Does Aldridge intend us all to be old maids? If he is not glowering at our shoulders scaring all the good gentlemen away, he’s hustling us inside off the terrace when we take a breath of fresh air, and now he has beaten poor Lord Almsley just for asking to wed me.”

“Or Jessica’s,” Eleanor commented. The man had hoped to connect himself to the Haverford family and pay his debts with the dowry Aldridge had settled on each of his half-sisters. According to Aldridge, the idiot preferred Matilda’s exotic beauty, but was prepared to take Jessica if Matilda was already spoken for. “I haven’t punched someone outside of the practice ring in years, Mama,” Aldridge had told her, “but I made an exception for the obnoxious scum who so disrespected my sisters.”

Eleanor’s comment stopped Matilda’s pacing. “Jessica?” She shook her head, setting her dark ringlets swinging. “What does Jessica have to do with it? He was courting me!”

Jessica opened her mouth and then closed it. Eleanor raised an interrogative eyebrow, waiting for her to comment. Matilda looked from Eleanor to Jessica and back. “He was. He was courting me,: she insisted.

“He was,” Eleanor confirmed. “Everyone saw it. However, unless I miss my guess, he was also secretly courting your sister.”

Matilda narrowed her eyes. “Jess?” Jess’s blush confirmed her guilt to both observers. “Jess! How could you! Aunt Eleanor, it isn’t fair!” Matilda insisted.

“Do you want a man who regards you as interchangeable with your sister?” Eleanor asked.

Matilda sat down with a flounce. “I want a husband and a home of my own. If Aldridge has his way, I shall molder into an old maid in the Haverford residences, staying out of the duke’s way and never having children to love.”

Eleanor sat, too, and waved Jessica into a chair. Aldridge had been unwilling to explain to Matilda exactly why he had turned Almsley away, but the girl deserved to know. “Matilda, Almsley’s willingness to take either of you is not the only reason Aldridge punched him. He had already decided to refuse the young man because of his gambling addiction and other personal habits, but when it was Almsley’s answer when Aldridge asked if he would be giving up his mistress that was the final straw.”

Matilda paled but said nothing. “Almsley has a mistress?” Jessica asked.

“One with whom he spends most of his time, and on whom he has lavished much of his personal wealth.” She had their full attention now. She had always thought the practice of keeping girls ignorant was a foolish one, but some truths were hard to hear. “Girls, Almsley told Aldridge that he would not be in need of an heiress were it not for his mistress, who is expensive but well worth it. He further suggested that, given the circumstances of your birth, you could not expect a better match, and would therefore be happy with his title and any pin money that Aldridge insisted on writing into the settlements. He assured Aldridge he would treat you with respect in public, and otherwise wouldn’t bother you.”

“The cur!” Jessica exclaimed, taking her sister’s hand.

“I hope Aldridge made him bleed,” Matilda agreed. “Oh, Aunt Eleanor, will we ever find anyone to marry?”

The girls are half-sisters, born six months apart, the natural daughters of the Duke of Haverford, taken into Eleanor’s nursery as babies. Watch for them in various of my books.