Word Wenches

What We Are Reading!

This month, as always, the Wenches have been indulging in an eclectic mix of books—many of them perfect for light-hearted holiday reads.

Joanna: I think I’ve mentioned Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series before. The first, Midnight Riot, introduces us to London cop Peter Grant. Grant is not just a canny policeman with an encyclopedic knowledge of the odd corners of the city, but a man who can sense the weird creatures who live in its shadows. Ghosts and monsters. Magical creatures.

This month I read Whispers Underground, Book Three in the series. Grant continues his training under Master Wizard Nightingale. The signature humor continues. The cynicism is firmly in place. The cast of quirky characters still delights.

Heyer Society: Insights About an Icon

by Mary Jo

Few authors can be credited with inventing a genre, but Georgette Heyer is one of them. Her witty and insightful novels set in early 19th century British society created an irresistible world that has been drawing in readers and writers for decades.

I am one of them. My first novel, The Diabolical Baron, had a few hints of the writer I've developed into, but overall, it's so influenced by Georgette Heyer that I should probably pay royalties to the Heyer estate. <G> I cherish the discussions I've had with other Regency writers on Our First Heyer Novel.

Heyer's work and world are continuing sources of fascination, and now writer Rachel Hyland has just published a delicious collection of essays about that work and world. Heyer Society: Essays on the Literary Genius of Georgette Heyer.

Just reading the titles of the essays is mouthwatering, but even better, today we're lucky enough to have as a Word Wench guest Jennifer Kloester, who is probably the world's leading authority on Georgette Heyer. Author of the definitive Georgette Heyer biography, Jen is a novelist in her own right, and a contributor to Heyer Society.

Snow, Ice — and magic

Anne here, just back from a writers’ retreat, nursing a cold picked up on the plane, and thinking about my fellow wenches and friends who are battling with snow and ice and bitter cold. It made me reflect on some of my own few experiences of snow, and how they opened up another world for me.

Coming from a mediterranean type of climate, I don’t have a lot of experience with serious cold — it almost never snows in my part of the world —  but when I was a little girl we lived inland, and on some winter nights the temperature dropped right down below freezing point. Killer frosts. 

I grew up knowing Jack Frost was real, because after those bitter nights I’d see the magical ice paintings he’d leave etched on the windows. I’d stare into the swirls and ripples of ice and “see” all kinds of strange and wondrous images. To me, they were a little like Arthur Rackham paintings —the more you looked, the more you’d see.

I’d also play with the frost. On chilly nights, I made little “frozen gardens” by putting a saucer of water on the back step, filling it with flowers and little snippets of greenery and leave it to freeze overnight. Then in the morning, I’d bring it inside and put the saucer with its little frozen arrangement on the breakfast table. 

A Scottish Carol

Our Sunday excerpt series continues!
Susan here, with an excerpt from my story, "A Scottish Carol," from our Word Wenches anthology, The Last Chance Christmas Ball . . . 

On the way to Lady Holly's Christmas Ball at Holbourne Abbey, Dr. Henry Seton, Laird of Cranshaw, and Clarinda Douglas, Lady Hay, the widowed daughter of Henry's old mentor – meet again at Cranshaw's home in Scotland, awaiting others to travel to the ball. But a blizzard strands them alone together--and while Clary yearns to go to the grand ball, Henry is secretly relieved to miss it. As the snow flies and hearth flames crackle, both must face a shared past of passionate first love, heartbreak never forgotten, and the fear of starting over . . . . 

December 1815
Scotland 

         “Sir.”
    Firelight glowed and snow fell, and Dr. Henry Seton, Lord Cranshaw, dozed in the chair. The remnant of a dream stirred yearning, loneliness. He frowned.
         "Sir.” A whisper.
        Henry opened his eyes. A vision stood in the dim light of the doorway, an angel or a ghost clothed in frost and mist. A tall guardian hound stood by her side. The exquisite spirit watched him gently. Henry went still, wrapped in her spell. 
        “Lord Cranshaw. Pardon me. It is Yule Eve, and I am expected.” Slowly the figure came toward him. She limped, the dog buttressing her carefully. His dog. And—Clary? Could it be? He had not seen her for years—well, not like this. Actually he had seen her recently; she had been disguised as one of his medical students. Best not mention that, he thought.
           He sat up, cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said gruffly.
           “My fault,” Clarinda Douglas protested. “I did not mean to startle you.”
            He got hastily to his feet. “I was just…reading.”
            “I apologize. You looked quite as if you saw a ghost.”
            Henry tipped his head. “In a way I have,” he murmured, “Miss Douglas. Greetings. I believe it is Lady Hay now?” 
            “Yes. Though I am widowed.” She moved, a tap of the cane, a slow step. 
           “I had heard. My condolences.” He took her hand, cool and slim in its soft little glove.
           “Thank you.” She watched him. With those gray-blue eyes and flaxen hair, that pale coat and bonnet, she looked a fragile ice princess. No wonder he had thought her a ghost.
            How strange to stand so close to her in the intimate warmth of his study, neither of them knowing what to say. He released her hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
          “I expected to meet your sister here.” She smiled—tremulously, he saw. He knew the spectrum of her smiles, anxious, sweet, mischievous…seductive. “Mrs. Seton-Graham and I are going to Lady Holbourne’s ball down in England.” 
         “You are my sister’s traveling companion?” He blinked, surprised. “She never said.” 
         “We are good friends,” she explained. Henry nodded, aware, though Fiona rarely mentioned Clary. “I was also invited to the Christmas ball at Holbourne Abbey, and Mrs. Seton-Graham kindly offered to share her coach. She said you…”
         “Would not be here?” he supplied quietly. 
         Her fingers flexed on the cane’s ivory handle. A gift from her father when she turned sixteen, he remembered. “When your sister arrives we will leave, and be no bother to you.” 
        “You have not heard? Have a seat, Lady Hay. Here, Maximilian, out of there.” He moved the dog away from a low, scroll-end settee beside the fire. 
        She sat tentatively, primly, gloved hands clasped. “Heard what, Lord Cranshaw?”

A Very Wenchly Winter Party

Susanna here, still trying to figure out what time zone I'm in, having only just got back from a two-week-long research-and-business-and-more-research trip to the UK, the second week of which took me to London, where I had the very great pleasure of spending time with old friends and meeting new ones.

Wednesday, November 14 was the date of the annual Winter Party held by the UK's Romantic Novelists' Association (of which I've proudly been a member for the past decade) and just before the party my American publishers, Sourcebooks, very generously hosted a special afternoon tea event where not only was I introduced by fellow Word Wench Nicola and interviewed by Honorary Word Wench Christina Courtenay (who took the photo of the table, above), but the icing on the doughnuts provided afterwards even matched the pink of my jacket!

Treasure in the Attic

Last week I was in London for the RNA Winter Party and Industry Awards, and had the pleasure of meeting up with fellow Word Wench Susanna Kearsley who had come to talk to the RNA’s members about her latest book, Bellewether. It was a fabulous occasion and as an added bonus, the following day I had a ticket for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Gallery in Westminster Abbey. I’ve wanted to visit the gallery ever since I read of how they had found so many treasures up in the roof space at Westminster Abbey and that they were restoring and displaying some of them.

To get to the Queen’s Gallery you have to climb up a spiral staircase (or take the lift) up a newly-constructed tower on the exterior of Westminster Abbey. This proved to be one of the most exciting parts of the tour because the walls are made of glass and as you ascend you can look at all the external architecture of the cathedral; the huge flying buttresses and the glorious stained glass windows. It was awe-inspiring! Unfortunately there is no photography allowed anywhere in the cathedral but I've done my best to illustrate the blog anyway!

My Very Own Ice Storm Story

Joanna here.  What I’m doing . . .

(I bet you think this post is going to be about writing.)

(It’s not.)

Here in my mountain house we're under an inch of solid, glistening ice for four days.

Quite pretty in its way. 

But it leaves me with no power, no water, no heat, no light, no wifi, and my winding sheer-drop roads are slick as glass. I spent yesterday and the day before fussing with oil lamps and hauling firewood about and not washing.

Meanwhile. Crack! . . . another tree crashes to the foliage.  Bang! . . . a fist-sized chunk of ice hits the roof.

My dog cowers.

The cat does not deign to comer, but then, she doesn’t have to go outside.

The trees (Did I mention the trees?) are everywhere lying across the road, pulled down by the weight of the ice.

I spent a nonnegligible part of yesterday sawing trees apart with a handsaw (which I know from a hawk, which
we also have, hovering on a wimpling wing,) to drag them out of the roadway into the woods.

Today, Day Four, I still have no water, lights, heat, wifi, etc. but in exchange I have sore muscles all over. Ouch, ouch. The Electric Company has stopped promising me they will fix my little problem ‘between eight o’clock and midnight.”

Now they just say, ”everybody has problems. You have more ice than anybody else. (Which I figgered.) We’ll get to you.‘‘

The road is now passable, the trees cleared (by moi.)  I drove fearfully down mountain and into town to take a shower at the YMCA, (ahhhh,) buy a hot lunch, and find a place with a working wifi.

(The library wifi was out, but I may have found my WWR so it was not a total loss.)

What the woodstove looks like in the darkness

So now I can write this post and put it on the internet. YEAH!

Did you know I need FOUR oil lamps to read?

When there are no electric lights, the night is very dark. All the corners are filled with blackness and the candle you carry about with you is a small point of light in an overwhelming night. Who knows what’s outside that three-foot circle you can see? Vampires and ghosts and your evil Cousin Theodore who wants to kill you for your inheritance.

Also, the stalwart hero might be there. You never know.

This is the world of our historical people. Not the sparkling ballroom with three hundred beeswax candles

What four oil lamps look like in the dark which is why they call them "dim and flaring"

a la Barry Lyndon. That was a rare, special extravagance of the very rich.

Four oil lamps, just lit

What did your Middling Regency person get?
A warm kitchen with everyone around the table or the little front room and four or seven candles grouped close next to the dramatic reader who’s keeping you on the edge of your seat with Oliver Twist or Tom Jones. You, over to one side, get enough light for knitting. Only just. Or light to see what cards you're holding as you take down Aunt Edith at whist.

It is better to light just one little candle than to curse the darkness, of course, but it is even better to light LOTS of little candles and you can curse the darkness all you want once you see where you’re going.

 

So. What’s your best “roughing it with no electricity” story?

Maggie Moves to Murder! Nobody's Sweetheart Now

by Mary Jo

Maggie Robinson has visited the Word Wenches before to talk about her delightfully original historical romances.  Now she's turned to murder!  Her first Lady Adelaide mystery, Nobody's Sweetheart Now, has just been released, so I've inveigled Maggie to visit us and talk about this new direction.

MJP: Welcome back to the Word Wenches, Maggie! Could you give a bit of information on your background and how you got into writing?

MR: I was an English major in college a thousand years ago (even in the English honor society, LOL), but didn’t get around to writing seriously until about 15 years ago. I was a teacher, library clerk, newspaper reporter, administrative assistant to two non-profits, and mom of four, and several other things I’ve forgotten!

Truth: One night my husband and I had an argument. I was so mad I went upstairs to the guest room…and also where the computer was. I couldn’t sleep and started pounding out a historical where the hero was going to be perfect. Ha. Even in fiction they’re a pain. One thing led to another, and a bunch of books later, it really is all my husband’s fault!

A Neverthriving of Jugglers

Pat here:

• An army of ants.
• A flock of birds.
• A flock of sheep.
• A herd of deer.
• A hive of bees.
• A litter of puppies.
• A murder of crows.
• A pack of hounds.

Ever wonder who sat around and came up with these? How about a bloat of hippos, a business of mongooses, a tower of giraffes, and  a confusion of wildebeests?  Insane? Or just one woman’s little joke from the 15th century?

Love in Art

Susan here – thinking about how artworks can express and evoke romance in much the same way as a book or a movie. Paintings, drawings, sculpture, and more can convey a sense of love, passion, devotion, attraction--and we can take that in and understand it in the blink of an eye.

The power of the visual is strong, immediate, intuitive. Images are shortcuts to our mental and emotional response, and we can connect instantly. If the subject is romantic, we get it immediately. Here are some of my favorite examples!    

King Tutankhamun and his queen, Ankhesenamon, shown on the back of a golden chair found in Tut’s tomb. 18th dynasty. This shows the tenderness and affection between the teenage king and his young half-sister/wife – a sense of emotional intimacy that appears elsewhere in Egyptian art (particularly of this period).

Codex Manesse, German, 14th century - medieval imagery of lovers is often stiff and unnatural, but this little image has a sweet joy and a flirting embrace that is very genuine.

The Arnolfini Portrait, Jan Van Eyck, 1434, National Gallery, London. An enigmatic double portrait of a possible marriage between (tentatively identified) the Bruges merchant Giovanni Arnolfini and his wife (her right hand in his left, the artist’s signature and image in the mirror on the back wall make this a possible legal document; other symbolic representations refer to marriage, loyalty, fertility and so on). Arnolfini was once described by a scholar as “a cold fish,” yet there’s a certain vulnerability and shyness in both groom and bride that is endlessly fascinating, and – even if one just absorbs the exquisite beauty of this little painting– it has a romantic, what-will-happen-to-them sense that captures our curiosity. There is a theory that this is perhaps a memorial portrait of a wife who had died - making this portrait even more romantic and poignant - and certainly less cold than some suggest. 

Rembrandt, The Jewish Bride 1667, Rijksmuseum. The subjects of this picture are unknown - perhaps Old Testament figures, which Rembrandt painted often - or perhaps another couple. Whoever they are, the painting of these two is exquisite, rich with a real yet understated emotional content that seems lasting and powerful. There is such love in this painting, from the quiet, protective gestures to the warm lighting—even the build-up of paint on the surface adds layers of golden richness that deepen the emotional content.

Pierre-Auguste Cot, The Storm, 1880, The Metropolitan Museum, NYC. In college, this was the poster I taped on my wall--the young lovers fleeing a storm or some unseen enemy, all gorgeous passion, swirling energy, devotion and the mystery of romance.  

Frederick Burton, The Meeting on the Turret Stair, Museum of Ireland, 1864. Poignant and powerful, the last meeting of a couple doomed to be apart--the last touch as they pass each other to be forever separated. The polished realism, the vivid color, the solid figures and the spiral of their bodies all work together to give this image its emotional power. 

The Painter's Honeymoon, Lord Fredric Leighton, 1864, Boston MFA. This picture so beautifully conveys a moment of devoted, contented new love -- light, textures, the contrast of hard and soft, light and dark, all contribute to the strength and quiet beauty of the image. And those clasped hands, just lovely. 

The Order of Release 1746, Sir John Everett Millais, 1852, The Tate. The Highland wife in this exquisite painting is the very image of strength in love, accepting her Highland husband from English custody. Her control and determination here stirring and beautiful. Another love story is related to this painting, as the model was Effie Ruskin, the wife of John Ruskin. She fell in love with the painter when the Ruskins traveled with Millais on a trip to Scotland; two years later, when her marriage to Ruskin had ended, they married.

So there you go, some of my favorite romantic paintings. Please share your favorite images too!

Susan    

The Christmas Ball: Excert Two: My True Love Hath My Heart

  Joanna here --

As you remember from Anne's posting last week, all the Wenches will be posting an excerpt from our stories from the anthology the Last Chance Christmas Ball, one each Sunday in the lead-up to Christmas.

Here's Anne's excerpt from the story Mistletoe Kisses. 

I'll just repeat what she said last week:

"We wenches had written a Christmas anthology before with a linking theme, but for this one we decided all the stories would be linked to an event, based around an annual Christmas ball, held by Lady Holbourne known as Lady Holly to her friends."

Here's the blurb for the collection:  Christmas 1815. Upstairs and downstairs, Holbourne Abbey is abuzz with preparations for a grand ball to celebrate the year’s most festive—and romantic—holiday. For at the top of each guest’s wish list is a last chance to find true love before the New Year…

My story is titled My True Love Hath My Heart. In it, we meet a legendary jewel, a heroine seeking revenge, a handsome scoundrel, housemaids gossiping, a bit about jewelry design, young love, and somewhat older love which is more complicated, this being the second time round.
And . . . well . . . Christmas.

The title of my short story comes from the eponymous Sir Phllip Sidney poem. (I have been waiting to use the word eponymous for a long time.)

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

 

So. My excerpt opens in Holbourne Abbey in the insufferable Mr. Gower's bedroom. Our heroine Claire, dressed in a maid's uniform, is rifling through Mr. Gower's jewel boxes.

. . .

“I always wondered what housemaids did in their leisure time.” The voice came from the doorway. “Theft, apparently.”

There was an instant like lightning, filled with a flash of recognition in the midst of blank surprise. She recognized him at once. How could she not? Nobody else spoke like silk over steel. Like honey and granite rock. Shouting in panic, sarcastic over the card table, whispered across a pillow, that was not a voice one could forget. She turned slowly to face him.

Nick Lafford stood in the doorway, a man not taking his dismissal seriously. She was furious with him. She was impatient and unforgiving. And everything inside her—heart, mind, and spirit was glad to see him.

He strolled into the room. Time flowed sluggishly around him, giving her a long opportunity to feel five or six emotions in a row, all of them complicated and contradictory.

“Picture of a maid dusting the jewelry,” he said. “How thorough of you.”

“Searching it, actually.”

“We rise above the banal, then. I always enjoy rising about the banal with you.” He came to look past her into the box on the wardrobe shelf. “We have the very likeness of plunder. I feel quite piratical. Is the loot immensely valuable?”

“Not so far.” She closed the leather case with the rubies and put it firmly back in the tray. “If they were vegetables, this would be a pile of potatoes.”

“Not counting the Coeur de Flamme.” Nick wore one of his deceptively open expressions. 

“Not counting the Coeur, which I haven’t found yet. What in the name of sanity are you doing here?”

“I appear to have joined you in ransacking with intent. Embarrassing if I’m caught at it.” He leaned to look into the jewel box and they touched, just a little. A brush of his jacket on her shoulder. A feeling of warmth at her side. Nothing really.

He said, “I’ll bet these dainty little leather boxes contain the good stuff.”

“Almost certainly. Go away, Nick.”

“I don’t think so. You may, eventually, be glad I’m here.” He stirred a finger into the jewels, inquisitive. “Or, of course, you may not. But I’m here anyway.”

This was so typical of him. Ready to filch jewels at her side or lead her onto the dance floor in Vienna in front of the assembled nobility of Europe. Once, he’d helped her relocate an inconvenient body. Once he—

Blast him for being Nicholas. For being sneaky and single-minded and never giving up. For being clever enough to move her like a chess piece to this time and this place. For saying he loved her.

Blast her for being happy to see him again, even for a minute.

She squashed down the anticipation and gladness that was springing up inside her like so many bubbles rising to the top of beer. She concentrated on being stern. He’d taken her by surprise. That was all. Nothing had changed.

He hooked up entangled necklaces and bracelets and let them dangle. “What a hoard for a man to lug about the north country. They almost beg to be stolen, don’t they?”

“No.”

“I hear their siren call. ‘Pick me up and carry me away,’ they say. Surely he won’t miss a few.”

“I’m busy, Nick. I don’t have time for this.”

“And we’re not thieves, like the regrettable Mr. Gower,” When she didn’t comment he said, “The money doesn’t matter, does it? He didn't just cheat you out of money. He stole your work. He tried to steal your good name.”

Nick understood. That was what made him so insidious. He’d always understood her.

She batted his hand out of the way and picked up the next leather case. “You contrived this. Both of us in the same house. It’s not some cosmic mischance.”

“Humbly, I admit it. I arranged for a guest list to the House party to land in the papers. You saw it. You’re here.”

“I should have been suspicious.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. I’m also glad you’re here,” he gestured a circle, taking in the rest of the room, Holbourne Abbey, and Northumberland, “with me, instead of breaking into Gower’s townhouse. He keeps guards. With guns.”

“Guns in his garden and the unbreakable safe he brags about. I hope someone robs it one fine evening, but it won’t be me. Damn you for interfering.”

“I can’t help myself, you know. Indulged from childhood. No self-discipline.”

He hadn’t changed a whit in the months since she’d sent him away. Still the perfect English aristocrat, casually confident, wrapped in the armor of first-class tailoring. Still the long, intelligent, handsome face that didn't show a tenth of what he was thinking. Brown hair in fashionable disorder. Brown eyes, carefully controlled in what they revealed.

He reached past her and selected a leather jewel case, flicked it open, and found emeralds. “This is nice.”

Very nice. Trust Nick to see that. “It’s famous—both the bracelet and the central stone. Spanish work, from stones plundered out of the New World. It’s been owned by most of the royal families of Europe at one time or another.”

“It must cringe at the company it keeps. May I confiscate it for you in my capacity as representative of the British government?”

“You may put it away.”

“You’re almost impossible to give jewelry to, my sweet.”

“Well, you can’t steal it for me.”

“I can’t buy it for you either, alas. I’ve tried.” He set the emeralds aside. His next leather case held a necklace of citrine and gold.

Her choice held a diamond broach, the stones cut at least a generation ago. She said, “This came to the daughter from her mother's family. The girl's name escapes me--“

“Mary.”

“That’s right. I expected to find it yesterday when I searched her room. He must hand her trinkets out to her, one by one, and take them back at night.”

“One of several petty punishments. They disagree over her choice of marriage partner.”

The English nobility were particular about who they let marry into the family. Wasn’t that the root of her own unhappy problem? “Who would be the daughter of a Gower? I’d rather scrub and dust for a living.”

She opened the next case. Opals. Then the next . . . and held her breath.

Nick whispered, “Well, well, well.”

Here was the Coeur de Flamme, the Heart of Fire.

House Hunting

Anne here, and no, I’m not looking for a new house for myself. I’m searching for one for my characters. I do it with every book, and because I live so far from the UK I can’t afford to fly to the UK to research every location. And the part of Australia I live in (Victoria) was colonized in the 1830’s which is too late for any buildings to be useful for for my period (Regency, 1811-20)  So my location scouting is mostly done on line, with maps, and with books. And sometimes with a photo taken by a friend in the UK (Thank you CC Coburn). This one I used for the colors in the sky at a particular time of year, not the location.

For my just-finished novel, Marry in Secret, I needed two houses, one a small London house, and the other the country seat of an Earl.

The first one was relatively easy — I really only had to choose the street, because I didn’t want one of the big ultra-expensive fashionable houses, but a smallish house in a smallish street on the edge of Mayfair. 

For London streets I usually use the Richard Horwood map of London or else this one, William Faden’s update of the Horwood plan, because it’s only one year after the date in which this book is set. Both plans have wonderful detail showing the houses, the back yards, the gardens and all kinds of lovely detail.

Sweet Inspiration: On Heroines, Plots . . . and Chocolate!

Andrea here, I’m just putting the finishing touches a new Lady Arianna mystery, which got me to musing on how a series takes shape in an author’s head . . .

But first allow me set the scene: For those of you who follow the series, you may recall that the last Lady A book, SMOKE AND LIES, took place on Elba amidst international intrigue and deceptions as Napoleon plotted his escape from the tiny island off Italy in order to re-seize the French throne. In A QUESTION OF NUMBERS, Lady Arianna and Lord Saybrook’s latest adventure, (which will be released in early Spring) the action moves to Brussels, a city aswirl in rumors and treachery as all of Europe waits to see if Napoleon will once again march his army into battle against the rest of Europe. (Brussels, you might ask? But honestly, what Regency historical author could possibly resist the chance to feature the Duchess of Richmond’s ball—one of the most famous parties in history—in a scene!)

Now, if you had asked me when I first started to envision the first flutters of Lady Arianna if I ever imagined her matching wits with Napoleon, the answer would have been a resounding . . . Well, er, no. (You see, it’s a trick question—but I’ll get to that in a moment.)

So, that’s where Lady A and her friends are now . . . but how did they actually come to life? The process was a little different than the usual way ideas happen for me, so I thought it might be interesting to share, as readers often ask, “How do think up your ideas?” The answer is, sometimes creativity takes some twists and turns.

Being There

Susanna here, with what may be a shorter post this time, thanks to the fact that my trusty travelling computer is being obstinate this evening so I'm writing this on my cellphone instead (a Decidedly Slow Process for someone not used to typing with her thumbs :-)

But since I'm in Scotland at the moment doing research for my current book, and since I know that many of you like to know what we get up to when we're working, I thought I'd share some of what I did today.

Today the sun was shining, so I went to Leith. Of all the locations I need to scout here for the book, Leith's are almost entirely outdoors, and much as I do enjoy walking in rain, even Scottish rain gets a bit soggy at times. Besides which, when I'm scribbling things in my notebook and trying to take photos, sunshine's a definite plus.

Anyone watching me walking around during one of my on-location visits must think I'm a little peculiar. I walk a few paces. I stop. I stand and look intently at...something. The water, or a building just across the water, or a clump of grass beside the water, or the shadow of a cloud. And then I take my notebook from my pocket, scribble madly in it, snap a picture, and move on.

Today I did a lot of that, but I also wandered. 

Before going on location, I've already got a sense of what I'm looking for, and where I think I'll find it, but I've also learned to leave space for discovery.

I used to, years ago, think I was making these trips just to get my details right; to know the way the air smelled and the way things looked and felt, and where the sun set in the evenings. It was actually my mother who first pointed out that being on location is a key part of my process, because while I walk the same ground that my characters will walk (or have already walked, if they're real people from history) I'm absorbing not only the atmosphere but their whole world, and very often this is when they'll start to take shape in my mind and move and speak to me.

So I ended up here, at the corner of Giles Street and Spier's Place, surrounded by buildings that were entirely the wrong age for my book, and yet feeling myself compelled to stop, and scribble in my notebook, and take photos. 

Because my heroine was standing right beside me. 

I'm back in my little Edinburgh flat now, sorting through the day's notes and the photographs I took of views and buildings I specifically intended to. I've also learned Spier's Place didn't exist until 1875, when it came into being as part of an improvement scheme that saw eighteen old closes demolished.

All I need to do tomorrow is find a map that will show me those eighteen lost closes, and maybe then I'll know in which one my heroine lives...

Have you ever wandered off the beaten path, and found something wonderful?

Christmas snippets

Anne here, starting something a little bit different. We're putting up Sunday posts containing an excerpt from our stories in the Last Chance Christmas Ball — one each Sunday in the lead-up to Christmas.

The anthology was such a fun—and sometimes tricky— thing to do. We wenches had written a Christmas anthology before with a linking theme, but for this one we decided all the stories would be linked to an event, based around an annual Christmas ball, held by Lady Holbourne known as Lady Holly to her friends.

The emails flew back and forth as we tossed around ideas, made plans and thrashed out the details of the setting. Some of us wrote interweaving stories, some of us made our stories linked, but separate, several of us had our people not actually make it to the ball. But we all had such fun doing it, we wanted to share it again.

Here's the blurb for the collection:  Christmas 1815. Upstairs and downstairs, Holbourne Abbey is abuzz with preparations for a grand ball to celebrate the year’s most festive—and romantic—holiday. For at the top of each guest’s wish list is a last chance to find true love before the New Year…

My story is called Mistletoe Kisses, and it's about Allie Fenton, a young woman who, for various reasons, has never been able to attend a ball. Now orphaned and on the shelf, she's planning to become a teacher at a girl's seminary in Bath. But first there's her last Christmas at home and then, Lady Holly's famous annual Christmas ball. 

Here's a short excerpt:

"You'll come to my Christmas ball, then," Lady Holly told her. "Don't bother trying to think up any excuses — you're coming and that's that. Your year of mourning will be up, and you have no reason to stay here moldering away when I've gathered an excellent range of eligible gentlemen for your perusal."

Allie laughed. "For my perusal? As if I'm going shopping?"

"That's exactly what you'll be doing."

"Don't the gentlemen have any say in it?"

The old lady sniffed. "Women have been making men believe they have a choice for generations. Now don't be frivolous, Allie — I am determined to give you one last chance to find a husband before you go off and bury yourself in this, this school of yours." She pronounced 'school' as if she really meant 'zoo.'

Allie smiled. For all her caustic tone, Lady Holly had a very kind heart. "I would love to attend your ball, Lady Holly. . . "

The old lady frowned. "I hear a 'but' coming."

A Road Trip to the Far North

Nicola here. I’ve always loved a road trip, whether real or fictional. In my time I’ve been lucky enough to circumnavigate Iceland, drive across a fair bit of Southern Africa and enjoy a fabulous journey on the iconic Route 66. Last month, though, we took to the road closer to home and travelled the North Coast 500. This amazing route around the Highlands of Scotland is becoming one of the most popular driving routes in the world and I can totally see why. It has stunning views and even more amazing history to take in on the way and I thought I would share a little of that here today.