Jude Knight's Blog, page 86

Dressing a gentleman

In many ways, men’s evening dress in the Regency was a throw-back to day and evening wear a generation earlier, with 18th century evening clothes more ornate than those worn during the day, but similar in terms of the actual items of apparel. So as you watch the following video, think of your favourite Regency hero or villain getting ready for a formal ball or an evening at Almacks.

The following is about dressing a regency cavalry officer. Thank you, priorattire. You’ll need to click through to YouTube to view it.

Blurbs on WIP Wednesday

Who loves writing blurbs? Not me. Encapsulate the essence of an 80,000 word story in ten lines? It’s hard, isn’t it.

Today, I’m asking you share a blurb for a work-in-progress or one that you’re rewriting. Let’s help one another to refine our pieces.

Mine is from Unkept Promises, which is nearly on its way to beta readers.

When Mia Redepenning sails to Cape Town to nurse her husband’s dying mistress and adopt his children, she hopes to negotiate a comfortable marriage at the same time. Falling in love with the man is not on her to-do list.

Jules Redepenning has been a naval officer at war for twenty years, and away from England for most of that. He rarely thinks of the child bride he left after their wedding seven long years ago—after all, he married her merely to protect her. He certainly doesn’t expect to find his wife in his Cape Town home, a woman grown and a lovely one, too.

They must part ways, each with their own duties, before they can do more than glimpse a possible future together. At home in England, Mia must fight an enemy for the safety of Jules’s children. Imprisoned in France, Jules must battle for his self-respect and his life.

Will they win their way back to one another and their dreams?

Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have some one for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”

This is a new scene I’ve written for To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel form of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, which appeared in Holly and Hopeful Hearts. Holly and Hopeful Hearts was the story of the duchess’s house party. Buy it and the eight great stories it contains at most online retailers.

Weeping for those we have lost

Today, my country is in mourning. I was going to just post the wonderful cartoon by New Zealand cartoonist Shaun Yeo, but then I listened to this wonderful video version of our national anthem and decided to add that, too.

The first verse is sung twice, in Maori and then in English. Watch for the words “Men of every creed and race gather here”. [Yes, I know, but it was written in the 19th century]

I remembered writing about our anthem years ago on another blog, so I went to look up the post, and here it is. Still relevant today, I think. Guard us from envy and hate. Good words.

I’ve often thought how peaceable our national anthem is – so many other anthems are military in origin and martial in flavour. But yesterday for the first time these words struck me: ‘from dissension, envy, hate and corruption guard our state’. How many other countries pray for freedom from corruption every time they sing their national anthem?

I looked it up this evening – there are websites that have collected over 400 national anthems from all over the world. It was intriguing.

Only a small percentage are prayers/hymns; most of those ask God to save or bless the country/the monarch, many ask Him for victory over enemies… “Send her victorious,” “God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.” The national anthem of the Isle of Man celebrates the gifts of God, and in particular the seas that keep the Isle of Man safe.

The Japanese national anthem is a tanka: a five line, 31 syllable poem: “May the reign of the Emperor continue for a thousand, nay, eight thousand generations and for the eternity that it takes for small pebbles to grow into a great rock and become covered with moss.”

Some of the words of national anthems have been left behind by time. Perhaps the US Americans don’t sing anymore the verse that includes the words: “Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.” Australia has officially dropped the verses that refer to Mother Britain. Stirring though the music is – the words of Flower of Scotland don’t seem to me particularly encouraging: “when will we see your like again?” Ireland’s national anthem also recalls past battles: “In Erin’s cause, come woe or weal, ‘Mid cannons’ roar and rifles peal.”

As far as my researches reveal, a prayer for protection from corruption is unique among national anthems. Not a bad thing among nations, though! (Posted as Joyful Papist, April 2010)

Cholera would have been a neat plot device

Some years ago, I read The Ghost Map, the story of John Snow’s careful plotting of the Cholera Outbreak of 1854, which led to the discovery that cholera is a waterbourne disease. The book I’ve just started was going to use cholera as a plot device. My hero is a recluse. My heroine is asked to bring his female dependents to him to escape a cholera epidemic at their school, but by the time she arrives at the house she realises that they’ve bought the disease with them. Sadly, the book is set in 1812, and a bit of research showed that the first outbreak in England didn’t start until 1831. In the video clip below, they talk about the 1832 outbreak, in which 55,000 people died, most of them poor and hungry.

 

I guess I’ll have to save cholera for another time. Meanwhile, there’s always typhus or smallpox. Or measles, come to that. Measles might work well!

First seven sentences in WIP Wednesday

The journey begins with the first step.

I’ve typed THE END in Unkept Promises. I’ve also written the first paragaphs in To Mend the Broken Recluse, so I’m thinking about ends and beginnings. This week, how about putting seven sentences in the comments. You choose what they begin: the book, a chapter, a new scene.

Here’s mine.

The crows rose in a flock over the tower on the borders of Ashbury land, a cacophany on wings. Val straightened and peered in that direction, shading his eyes to see if he could tell what had spooked them. It was unlikely to be a traveller on the lane that branched towards the manor from  the road that passed the tower. After three years of repulsing visitors, the only people he ever saw were his tenant farmers and the few servants he had retained to keep the crumbling monstrosity he lived in marginally fit for human habitation.

He bent back to the plough, but called the team to a halt again when a bird shot up from almost under their hooves. Sure enough, a lapwing nest lay right in the path of the plough. Val carefully steered around it. He knew his concern for the pretty things set his tenants laughing behind his back, but they didn’t take up much room, and they’d soon hatch their chicks and be off to better cover

Okay. That’s eight sentences, but I won’t count if you don’t.

Tea with Mrs Julius Redepenning and children

Aldridge ushered Mrs Julius Redepenning — Mia — and her three wards into his mother’s elegant sitting room. “Mission accomplished, Mama,” he said. He winked at Mia and ruffled the smallest child’s hair. “She’s actually really nice,” he whispered to the eldest, the only boy, before whisking himself out of the room.

Her Grace exchanged a twinkling smile with Mia. She’d sent Aldridge with her message for this very reason — his ability to use his charm to set people at ease. Sometimes, the awe with which people approached duchesses could be useful. At times like this, she could wish for a less elevated social position.

“Come and let me see you,” she said to the children. They obediently lined up in front of her. Good. The task of making them acceptable to Society would not be inhibited by their appearance.  Yes, their dark hair and exotic tilt to their eyes hinted at their Javanese blood, and their skin was more ivory than cream, apart from the boy, whose complexion was more golden, a sign of the time he’d spent at sea with his father. But it could be a touch of Spanish or Italian blood, gained on the right side of the blanket, that gave them their good looks, and no one would make mention of it if enough of the leaders of Society showed the way.

“You are Perdana,” she said, “and your family call you Dan.” He bowed, his eyes huge.

She addressed the older of the two girls first. “Marshanda, I believe. What a pretty name for a pretty girl.” Marsha, as they called her, dropped her lashes and curtseyed.

The younger girl was bouncing with eagerness, biting her lip as if to keep from bubbling over with words. When the duchess said, “This must be Adiranta,” little Ada beamed.

“You are a great lady,” she confided. “Ibu Mia said we must curtsey and be very polite, but we are not to be afraid because you are very nice, and the Prince man called you Mama, so I am pleased to meet you. Oh! I forgot to curtsey.” She remedied her oversight, and very well, too.

“That was a lovely curtsey,” Her Grace said, taking care not to let her amusement show on her face. The Prince man was presumably dear Aldridge, and he would be as amused at his elevation to royalty as she was.

He returned at that moment with a closed basket — the kittens from the stable mews that she had requested to keep her young guests entertained while she spoke to Mia. “I met your footman on the stairs, Mama, and relieved him of his duty.” She narrowed her eyes. He was hovering. Why was he hovering?

The children were soon settled on the hearth rug with a kitten each. Aldridge took the chair nearest to them and some wool from her tapestry basket which he was soon knotting and twisting to create them each a toy for the kittens to play with.

“He is very good with them,” Mia commented. To her credit, only a whisper of her surprise shaded her voice.

Her Grace make no answer. Aldridge had gone to considerable lengths to make sure that his irregularly conceived sons and daughters — four of them — could grow up without taint of bastardy. The duchess hoped he would marry soon and have children of his own. He would be a wonderful father.

She would say none of that to Mia. The topic for today was how they could help the irregularly conceived children of that scamp Jules Redepenning.

“It is early to think about their future, Mia,” she began, “but I can assure you of my support when the time comes. However, I understand from my friend Henry that you have a more immediate concern. Tell me about this Captain Hackett.”

By the time she had the salient facts, they had finished their tea, and Aldridge had drifted over to lean against the back of her chair, listening but saying nothing.

“I am leaving tomorrow for Hollystone Hall,” Her Grace commented, “and I understand you and the children are to join the Redepenning Christmas party at Longford Court. In the new year, though, the man may become a nuisance. Let me know if you need any pressure brought to bear.”

“David might be able to help, too, Mama,” Aldridge suggested. “If the man has one shady episode in his past, there will be others.”

The duchess nodded, pleased. “Well thought, my son. Mia, I shall drop a note to David Wakefield. You know him, I think.”

Mia nodded. “Rede’s friend, the private inquiry agent.”

At that moment, they were interrupted and the reason for Aldridge’s lingering became clear.

“What are you up to?” demanded His Grace, the Duke of Haverford, lurching into the room. “Conspiring? Planning to get rid of me, hey?”

On the hearth rug, the children reached for their kittens and then froze, like cornered mice. Aldridge, without seeming to move with purpose, was suddenly half way down the room, where he could put himself between the erratic peer and either of the two groups in the room.

His Grace balanced his weaving body on the back of a chair, peering at the children in some confusion. His rumpled stained clothes hinted at a night spent drinking, if his manner was not already clue enough. The canker sore on his nose was the only evidence of the sickness that was slowly destroying him; that, and his current state. Ten, even five years ago, he’d show almost no outward sign of over-indulgence, until he fell flat on his face and had to be carried to bed. “Aldridge,” he barked, “whose are the chee-chee brats? Yours? Eleanor, I’m on to you. You’ve been waiting, haven’t you?” He pulled himself up, a hideous simulacrum of the handsome commanding man he had always been, only the underlying viciousness left to carry him forward.

Aldridge moved to intercept his father as the man lurched closer, and the duke grabbed him by the arm. “She is betraying me, boy. Betraying you, too. She’s going to bring a cuckoo into my nest, you will see. I knew, as soon as Winshire brought that rogue home. I knew she would betray us. It was always him, you know. Never me.” He snarled over Aldridge’s shoulder at Eleanor. “Lying, cheating, bitch.”

“Now, sir,”Aldridge soothed, “you are upset. Come. I have a new shipment of brandy and I would like your expert opinion.” Before the mystified eyes of Eleanor’s guests, the duke burst into tears on his son’s shoulder and Aldridge led him out.

Her Grace sat in embarrassed silence, her considerable poise shaken not just by the outrageous accusations but by the old pain that Haverford had lived, and James had been away, too long for her to ever have a child by the man she had always loved.

Mia’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Carry on with your play, children. Lord Aldridge is looking after the poor sick man.” She dropped her voice a little. “What an excellent idea the kittens were. I wonder… Surely someone at Longford will have some. Kittens might be just the thing to give the children’s minds a cheerful direction.”

The duchess smiled at her, grateful. “You shall have all the help I can give you,” she promised, again.

This scene links my two current works in progress. It takes place after Mia returns to England in Unkept Promises and before the Duchess of Haverford goes to Hollystone Hall, for the Christmas house party that is the setting for a large part of To Win a Proper Lady. If you read the stories in Holly and Hopeful Hearts, you’ll probably also notice that it explains why the duke was not at the house party, and hints at why Aldridge arrived late.

What Ash Wednesday has in common with creating characters

Outward signs. We burn last year’s palms from Palm Sunday and mix them with consecrated oil mixed with incense, also from last Easter. Inner meaning: we burn all the failed attempts of the year to make a new beginning.

I have been thinking about outward and visible signs of what is inward and invisible. Rituals, actions, habits, practices. They all hint at inner beliefs and motivations. This month, I’m slaving over the backstory, character, and inner motivations of characters for the next four books (one novella and three novels, one of which I need to have completed by the end of May). They’re all crowding my head with scenes that are giving me glimpses of my character’s inner self. But, I have to ask, do they show the character’s true self? Or do they show the mask they display to the world? To write them, I need to know both.

I’m religious, which (to me) means that I love the rituals and practices of my church. I’m also (I hope) a person of faith. I believe, and I try to act accordingly. The books I enjoy, and the books I try to write, are about characters with depth. I want the words I use on the page to hint at dimensions to the character that I don’t spell out in words; not just the rituals and practices, but the beliefs and motivations. And I want them all to be different — not the same hero and the same heroine in book after book with just the physical appearance and the name changed.

My husband has been watching best man speeches on YouTube. (No, I don’t know why, but he has.) The jokes and male-to-male insults of a best man speech are a ritual that indicates the support and affection of the selected friend for the groom. Outward signs with inner meaning.

At Mass today, they had the ashes ceremony for those who missed it last Wednesday, on Ash Wednesday. That day marks the beginning of a period of fasting, abstinence, and prayer in preparation for Easter, more than six weeks away, and the ashes are meant to remind us of the shortness of our lives (‘for you are dust, and to dust you shall return’, says the priest as he marks the forehead of each believer with a cross made from a mix of ashes and oil). They also call to mind the ancient practice of wearing sackcloth and ashes for remorse or mourning. Outward signs with inner meaning.

Oddly enough, one of my characters is a widower who may or may not be called Ash. That’s his name, in the notes about his story that I made close to six years ago; a shortened form of his title. However, in the last month I’ve given him a backstory that includes an unfaithful wife, a manipulative older brother, and a couple of daughters, one (and possible both) of whom is definitely his niece, rather than his own child. This means he hasn’t been Earl of Ashbury for very long, so he might think of himself as Val or Fort. I’m still working on it. Inner motivations. He’s a grumpy devil, and a recluse. He arrived home after his brother’s death three years ago to find that his brother’s widow has sent both girls off to boarding school, washed her hands of them, and departed for parts unknown. He has left them there, figuring they’re better off without him. I’m also still working on his heroine, but I need to know her a lot better before she turns up at his house with a carriage full of children, including his own two, refugees from the cholera epidemic sweeping the school.

I know that he will refuse her admittance and she will demand it, and refuse to move on since two of the girls (including his niece) are showing early signs of the disease. I know she shows her anxiety in contempt for his reluctance, not realising he is already thinking about how to help her. I know that he’ll marshal his pitiful complement of servants to look after the well girls and join her in nursing those who have become ill.  Outward signs with an inner meaning.

I know those things, but I have a lot more work to do before I start to commit the random scenes swirling around my brain onto a page.

I wonder if the whole story could happen around an Ash Wednesday?

Outward signs. We burn last year’s palms from Palm Sunday...

Outward signs. We burn last year’s palms from Palm Sunday and mix them with consecrated oil mixed with incense, also from last Easter. Inner meaning: we burn all the failed attempts of the year to make a new beginning.

I have been thinking about outward and visible signs of what is inward and invisible. Rituals, actions, habits, practices. They all hint at inner beliefs and motivations. This month, I’m slaving over the backstory, character, and inner motivations of characters for the next four books (one novella and three novels, one of which I need to have completed by the end of May). They’re all crowding my head with scenes that are giving me glimpses of my character’s inner self. But, I have to ask, do they show the character’s true self? Or do they show the mask they display to the world? To write them, I need to know both.

I’m religious, which (to me) means that I love the rituals and practices of my church. I’m also (I hope) a person of faith. I believe, and I try to act accordingly. The books I enjoy, and the books I try to write, are about characters with depth. I want the words I use on the page to hint at dimensions to the character that I don’t spell out in words; not just the rituals and practices, but the beliefs and motivations. And I want them all to be different — not the same hero and the same heroine in book after book with just the physical appearance and the name changed.

My husband has been watching best man speeches on YouTube. (No, I don’t know why, but he has.) The jokes and male-to-male insults of a best man speech are a ritual that indicates the support and affection of the selected friend for the groom. Outward signs with inner meaning.

At Mass today, they had the ashes ceremony for those who missed it last Wednesday, on Ash Wednesday. That day marks the beginning of a period of fasting, abstinence, and prayer in preparation for Easter, more than six weeks away, and the ashes are meant to remind us of the shortness of our lives (‘for you are dust, and to dust you shall return’, says the priest as he marks the forehead of each believer with a cross made from a mix of ashes and oil). They also call to mind the ancient practice of wearing sackcloth and ashes for remorse or mourning. Outward signs with inner meaning.

Oddly enough, one of my characters is a widower who may or may not be called Ash. That’s his name, in the notes about his story that I made close to six years ago; a shortened form of his title. However, in the last month I’ve given him a backstory that includes an unfaithful wife, a manipulative older brother, and a couple of daughters, one (and possible both) of whom is definitely his niece, rather than his own child. This means he hasn’t been Earl of Ashbury for very long, so he might think of himself as Val or Fort. I’m still working on it. Inner motivations. He’s a grumpy devil, and a recluse. He arrived home after his brother’s death three years ago to find that his brother’s widow has sent both girls off to boarding school, washed her hands of them, and departed for parts unknown. He has left them there, figuring they’re better off without him. I’m also still working on his heroine, but I need to know her a lot better before she turns up at his house with a carriage full of children, including his own two, refugees from the cholera epidemic sweeping the school.

I know that he will refuse her admittance and she will demand it, and refuse to move on since two of the girls (including his niece) are showing early signs of the disease. I know she shows her anxiety in contempt for his reluctance, not realising he is already thinking about how to help her. I know that he’ll marshal his pitiful complement of servants to look after the well girls and join her in nursing those who have become ill.  Outward signs with an inner meaning.

I know those things, but I have a lot more work to do before I start to commit the random scenes swirling around my brain onto a page.

I wonder if the whole story could happen around an Ash Wednesday?

How to use the wheel on a sailing ship

I’ve been bringing my heroine and her entourage from South Africa to England in the latest draft of Unkept Promises, which has meant a lot of research about the type of ship, its size and configuration, what type of accommodation Mia might have found herself in, where she and children might be out of the way but also out in the air during the day, and all sorts of other things that I never mention in the book (but that I need to know so I don’t make any egregious errors).

At one point, she goes off to talk to the ship’s captain, and I set out to find out where the wheel was on a brig-rigged schooner. Which led me to wondering how the wheel worked, which led me to this YouTube clip. You’re welcome.

(The maker of the video notes that he didn’t include the use of the sails, a major factor in steering a sailing ship, as any yachtsman knows.)