Word Wenches

The Write Stuff

Andrea here, musing today on writing. Or specifically, on handwriting. An old friend of mine wrote me a note about the blog I did on letterpress printing, and shared her own love of letterforms with a sample of the Zen calligraphy, which she’s been studying (and teaching) for a number of years.

I’m in awe of people who can create such beautiful art—for in my opinion, letters are true art. And that got me to thinking about handwriting. In the spirit of full disclosure, I have TERRIBLE handwriting. (right) It’s embarrassing, as I was an art major, should be able to create a nicer looking page than my pitiful scrawl. I try to explain it away by the fact that I’m slightly dyslexic. In typing I tend to transpose letters all the time. (You don’t want to try to read a paragraph that I type in hurry—it’s scary.) And when writing by hand, I do tend to mix up which letter comes next, especially if I try to rush. I have to be really careful at book signings to get a person’s name spelled right. (It’s actually rather stressful.)

A Touch of Magic!

Andrea here, musing today about making things by hand, and the tactile and visual pleasures of connecting with three dimensions in this digital age. It seems that more and more institutions of learning, from school classrooms to museums of every discipline, are recognizing the importance of object-based learning. Engaging with an actual “concrete” (okay, not literally) entity brings a subject—be it history, art, technology, the natural sciences—magically alive in ways that transcends a computer screen image or photographic reproduction.

I recently had a wonderful first-hand experience in watching this happen. In September, I teamed up to do a special project with a professor who teaches undergraduates at my alma mater how to print on an old-fashioned printing press. It involved creating a keepsake for an alumni gathering, and as it was my bright idea to print it by hand with real type and quality paper—even though 700 copies were needed—the two of us had a LOT time to chat in the press room as we cranked out the pieces one by one. (I fell in love with letterpress printing as a freshman, and did a lot of it, so it was great fun for me to get ink on my hands again after so many years.)

When Minor Characters Come to Life . . .

Andrea here, musing today on minor characters in a story, and how they can surprise you. Take, for example, my just-released mystery, Murder at Kensington Palace. In doing research for the book, I had come across a paragraph or two that mentioned scientific soirees were occasionally held at Kensington Palace during the Regency because King George III’s sixth son (and ninth child), Prince Augustus Frederick, lived in one of the state apartments and was very interested in science.

Aha! I think—it’s the perfect place for my opening scene! So, I make a note of it, doubly happy because I now have a great title for the book. When it comes down to writing the scene, I shuffle through all my notes and photos from my visit to the palace, as well as research I’ve done on the real-life scientific scholars who might have attended, as I have fun putting a few small cameos of actual people interacting with my fictional characters. And course, I remind myself to made a very brief mention of Prince Augustus Frederick—or the Duke of Sussex, the title he was granted by his father in 1801.

Naturally, I imagine this will only take a minute down rabbit hole. I only intend to have him walk by, and then have a few other people comment on some of his habits to make him a little individuality . . . However, I ended up being really surprised by what an interesting man he was. I had always thought of George III’s sons as a rather undistinguished lot (if not downright dislikable fellows.) And for me, Augustus Frederick was sort of lost in the shuffle of the 15 children.

 

Hellion Heroines

Andrea here, musing today about heroines . . .or more specifically, hellion heroines. Murder at Kensington Palace, my latest Wrexford & Sloane Regency mystery released this week, and as the creation of a book is quite a journey, from the first glimmer of an idea to the final pages being ready for a reader to begin turning, I always like to sit back and reflect a bit on the process.

It’s great fun constructing the plot and weaving in enough twists and turns to keep people guessing (though as a total “pantser”, I confess that I’m sometimes in danger of tripping over my own two feet!) However, for me the real heart of crafting a story is creating the characters—how to give them challenges and vulnerabilities, how to make them both flawed but appealing enough that readers will cheer for them to overcome all obstacles. And in a series, where the protagonists carry over from book to book, the characters have to grow—as we all do through our journey through life.

A Shocking Discovery!

Andrea here, musing today on a very “shocking” topic! Ha—now that I have your attention, I shall explain! I have a new release coming out on the 24th. Murder at Kensington Palace is the third book in my Wrexford & Sloane Regency mystery series, and the plot involves electricity!

The voltaic pile (basically the first electrical battery) was invented by Alessandro Volta in 1800. As often happens in the world of invention, the discovery was sparked by a disagreement he had with Luigi Galvani, another man of science who had discovered he could make the legs of a dead frog “jump “ when they were used to form a circuit between two different type of metal. Galvani claimed he had discovered animal electricity—an electrical fluid inherent in the frog itself.

Volta believed the reaction had a more rational explanation than that, and set about creating a chemical electrolyte (the fluid that creates the circuit between two different metals and thus an electrical current.) He soaked cloth or cardboard in brine and spaced them between disks of zinc and metal—and lo and behold created an electrical current! By adding more disks and electrolyte pads, he discovered he could make a voltaic pile more powerful.

This awesome new discovery was hugely exciting to the scientific world during the Regency. In London, people flocked to the Royal Institution, one of the leading scientific organizations of the time, to hear lectures and see demonstrations of voltaic batteries.

 

The Joys of Friendship

Andrea here, thinking today about the joys of friendship and all the special ways it can enrich our lives. Here at the Word Wenches, we all write books that have friendship and love at the heart of our stories, though we play with those elemental tropes in our own individual styles. The beauty of friendship is that it has an infinite number of ways to weave us all together.

In our occasional blogs on craft, we’ve talked a lot about the solitary life of a writer, and how we spend a lot of time in the “writing cave” with just our characters for company. (Trust me, there are times I wish I could send them back to their own abode and get them out of my hair! But as with all friends, you quickly learn to love their little quirks . . .)

 

A New Rainbow of Red, White and Blue

Andrea here, tomorrow is America’s birthday, and like all birthdays, it’s a time for festive celebration—red, white and blue cakes, fireworks, parades and general merriment as the milestone serves as a traditional high point in summer across the country. But as we gear up for a day of fun and backyard grilling, I also have a few more serious thoughts about the occasion.

Despite our flaws and foibles—and as a collection of “we, the people,” the country has many—there is much to celebrate. Our forefathers founded this brash experiment with some very radical ideas about equality and the notion of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” And throughout our history, those ideals have served as a guiding light, even when at times, the beacon has seemed dimmed by dark clouds.

The Bestest Time Evah

 

Pat's cool vacation

Vacations, vacations, wonderful vacations.
It's summer time (up here in the northern hemisphere) and folks are travelling.

So I asked the Word Wenches, What do you remember as a really great vacation?

 

Pat remembers one totally-for-fun expedition.

From Pat:

Our vacations are often working vacations, or combining two purposes like family and travel, and after a while, they all tend to blend together a bit. So perhaps I’m most nostalgic about a trip IT Guy and I made alone, just for the fun of it, shortly after he retired. We finally had the freedom to leave at any time of the year we liked—no job, no kids with school, no social or business obligations.

We were a bit uncertain about our newly limited budget, so we didn’t want to do any big splurges, but we had one place we’d dreamed of for decades—the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta.

Yes, we’d traveled that direction once before, while writing California Girl  about a Route 66 trip. At the time, we could only admire the gorgeous balloons floating across the sky as we drove through. They were magical and all too brief. So this time, we made the trip just for the festival. I wasn’t writing a book about it. No research was involved, just pure enjoyment. We went with a tour so we didn’t have to worry about finding the best rooms or parking or any other hassle.

And it truly was the most magical trip I can remember. We saw the balloon glow and the dawn patrol and watched the race from our room when we left the grounds. We sat back and embraced the beauty of the countryside and the mystical blue skies.

And I even sneaked in a visit to a special tea room to meet with an author friend of mine and catch up. All in all, a very memorable trip!

Andrea is one of several Wenches who get their wilderness on.

Andrea: There are so many vacations filled with special memories—from the sublime to the absurd—so it’s impossible to pick a favorite. Spending time with family and friends, exploring history, just chilling out . . . each has its own unique and wonderful vibe.

 But that said, a backpacking trip with my two brothers to Wind River range in

Andrea, intrepid mountain hiker

Wyoming not long after I had graduated from college and started working in New York stands out as one of the ones on the “keeper” shelf.

As happens when the rhythm of going off to school and college begins, it had been a long time since the three of us had been together in the same place for more than a day or two at holidays. My younger brother had recently moved to Wyoming to work for a mining company. He loves the outdoors—as do I and my older brother. So when Big Brother suggested we pack our knapsacks and do a fishing trip with Little Brother up in the alpine lakes, I was all in.

 

Hiking through THIS country

 So off we went, hiking in 16 miles up to Island Lake, a remote spot at 11,000 ft (the last few miles are a real huff and puff when you’re carrying 60 lb on your back!) Oh, but was it worth it. We were camped on the water’s edge, surrounded by a semi-circle of peaks called Cirque of Towers. In the late afternoon sunset, the towering majesty of the stone alight in pink and gold was breathtakingly beautiful. We also hiked  one day up to the top of highest peak in the continental U.S. at 13,000 ft. Again, unbelievable views.

 But the truly special moments were sitting around the campfire each night, really having a chance to connect and talk the journeys we had been on so far. We were up there for a week—one rarely takes that sort of quiet time with people who matter in our lives, and that sense of renewing bonds and shared experiences still resonates with me.

I did mention fishing, right? So I have to add an anecdote. Both brothers are serious fishermen, and take pride in their flyfishing skills. Off they went each afternoon, after casting pitying looks at moi, their novice sister. One day, they laughingly left me an old rod with a hook baited with a worm, and told me to have fun, ha, ha, ha. So of course I throw the line in after they left . . . and promptly reeled in a 24” lake trout! I wish there had been cellphone cameras back then. The looks on their faces when they saw my monster were priceless. (Need I say, their fish were mere minnows in comparison!) I still tease them about that to this day!

 

Nicola's favourite holidays are very Scottish:

 

Scotland. A house by the beach

Nicola: It’s wet and windy here in the UK at the moment so there’s no better time to revisit one of my favourite holidays which was also wet and windy! Yes, it was last year on the very northernmost coast of Scotland. I’ve been on many amazing trips, some even to hot places (!) but in the end I just keep going back up north!

The first great thing about it was that we were staying in a cottage that was literally on a beach. Now I live as far from the sea as it is possible to get in the UK so going to the seaside is always a huge treat for me – and Angus as well of course. To fall asleep to the sound of the waves and to get up, open the door and be out in the dunes was totally amazing for us.

... both of them dressed for the weather

The area is rich in history, from the Viking settlement at SmooCaves along the coast to the ancient graveyard just across the sands with its tiny ruined church and many legends. Next to us was the Castle of Durinas, built in the 18^th century on the site of a medieval palace. The castle, like our little cottage, was available to rent for holidays and fortunately it was vacant that week. I played the “I’m a historical author and I’d love to look round” card, which I don’t do very often but I simply had to see inside… I got the full tour with local guide Duncan and his adorable dog. Together we explored the ancient passageways and they told me stories of ghosts and pirates which, of course, will one day make their way into a book. If you’d like to go and stay there, the link is here!

The final icing on the cake, as it were, was that just down the road was a craft village where I spent plenty of time browsing the workshops, and on the site there was also one of the best cafes in the north of Scotland that served hot chocolate that could make even the coldest, rainiest day less driech!

Panda in a suitcase.
Have cat, will travel

Mary Jo brings us her great vacation and a cat picture.
Any vacation is better with a cat picture so I'll show that first.

Oh, Jo, how can you be so cruel as to ask about a favorite vacation?  I've loved them all, and you can see that both The Panda and I are always ready for a new adventure.

arched niches in the walls

I haven't blogged about my trip to Greece before since it was pre-Wenches, but it was a great chick trip with me, my sister, and our former sister-in-law, whom we like so much that we kept her.  <G>  We spent several days in Athens in the Plaka, the historic area of the city, and had an amazing view of the Parthenon from our

Santorini

windows.  Then on to Santorini, the Greek island I've most wanted to see, and it was amazing. 

I could drown you in pictures, but I'll go with just this iconic one that shows the rugged volcanic bones of the island and part of the caldera, which is the circular sea left when the volcano blew the island into component parts. There is also the dazzling white and blue colors that say "Greece," and also make up the Greek flag.  Sigh. I want to go back.

 

Once upon a time, Anne took her first expeditions a writer.

Cats of Rhodos

Anne here. 

I can never pick any "favorite", whether it's a book or a vacation or a piece of music.  Looking back it feels as though much of my childhood consisted of holidays — we camped in tents when I was small — in fact, my mother left Dad and my three older siblings in the tent when she went off to give birth to me in hospital. They were camping at the beach near my grandparents' home. Travelling was something my family did constantly. As a child I travelled all over the UK, Ireland and parts of Europe with a caravan, and once I grew up, I went off with friends and tramped the bush and hitch-hiked around Tasmania and New Zealand. Whenever I could I headed off on holiday.

 

But Jo, when she passed this question to the wenches, added "..

Anne's foot in Connemara
(see it, bottom left)

. special points if a vacation inspired your writing." 

And that decided me, because there was one year when I went off travelling around the world on my own, for the better part of a year. We have this wonderful thing in Australia called Long Service Leave, and after you've worked for an employer for 10 years, you are entitled to time off on full pay.

So I took my long service leave, and added leave without pay to it, and went off with my backpack to explore the world.  

 

Penllyn in Wales

I was a bit nervous at first, but it turned out travelling solo, you meet all sorts of wonderful people that you probably wouldn't if you were with someone else. It also gave me time to think and ponder — a luxury that had been in short supply in my working life. And stories began to spin in my mind. Then, when I was in countries where I didn't speak the language, and didn't feel comfortable going out in the evening for anything other than dinner, I started to write in the evening. I sat on beaches in Brittany and wrote, I sat on Greek islands and wrote, I sat in grubby stations and wrote. The ideas came thick and fast and I loved it.

 

I came home at the end of that year with several A4 notebooks full of stories and ideas, and the firm intention of becoming a writer. And that, dear readers, is how a vacation inspired me to become a writer.

 

 

And back to Joanna again.

I have always admired the adventurous Australians one meets, hiking about in the far corners of the globe.

I hadn't realized they were taking writerly notes.

 

As for me:
I have lived a lifetime of vacations. So much travel, all of it wonderful and interesting. I am so lucky.

Picking one vacation more or less at random . . .
In the summers when I was young, my father used to take us to Maine to go fishing.

 

I am not the first of us to talk about fishing.

 

Yer typical Maine lake, but without a boat

Now, for me, fishing consists of sitting in a boat with a line dunked in the middle of a lake, admiring the scenery and thinking deep thoughts. Every once in a while you actually catch something, which is gratifying and leaves you with a lifelong disdain for any fish that isn't in the pan pretty much as soon as you dock on dry ground.

Catching fish makes you feel very clever.

I knew an actual Maine Guide and asked him how one survived when lost for long periods of time in the wilderness

and he said to forget about chasing down deer or hitting a rabbit over the head with a rock.

Carry fishhooks and eat fish.

But I digress.

A Maine stream of the type I do not catch fish in

There are other types of fishing that involve going out on the sea and being sick the whole time. Or you can hike through the bushes and trip over rocks and eventually get to a stream where you do this thing with throwing your hook upstream to entice fish but mostly it gets tangled in a tree.
Not my fish shtick, as it were.

 

The Carnegie library in Calais Maine because one cannot fish all the time

The lakes remain with me. Vivid hours with my father and a sister or two, listening to the woods, feeling the wind. Silence and bird calls everywhere around.
It just doesn't get any better than that.

 

 

And you? What's your great vacation? Where did you go and what do you remember? 

By the Numbers—A Regency magazine for Smart Ladies!

Andrea here, with summer nearly upon us here in the Northern Hemisphere, my thoughts are turning to reading (that is to say, I’m ALWAYS reading, but the long lazy, afternoons of the beach reading season always encourage thoughts of relaxing with the printed page—whether it’s old-fashioned ink or pixels.) It also got me to thinking of the historical heroines that we Wenches write, and how reading was an even more important part of their lives.

No television! No streaming! No social media! How on earth did they (assuming, of course, that they were among the privileged few who didn’t have to work endless hours to eek out a living) occupy their time? We know from first-hand accounts that letter writing and letter reading occupied a good amount a lady’s leisure, as did perusing the popular periodicals of the era.

It's our Wenchiversary!

By Mary Jo and the rest of the Wenchly Crew

Has it really been thirteen years since we cautiously launched the Word Wenches blog? Indeed yes, and so much has changed in the world, in publishing, and in us. We've lost beloved Wench sisters Edith Layton and Jo Beverley, entered into new genres and new forms of publishing, and we've expanded to having Wenches from Australia, Canada, the UK, and the US so we can truly say that the sun never sets on the Wench Empire!

Here is the very first Word Wench blog post, also written by me. (I thought I was better at not volunteering!) Here is also a link for the first month of blogs, as we felt our way into this new enterprise and learned how to use the blog site's tools.

And we're still here, musing three times a week on books, history, travel, and other intriguing topics. Blogging is work even if we each only write one about every two weeks. When on deadline, there can be a mad scramble to swap dates, whip off something very quickly, or republish an older post. But we've kept blogging all these years because, basically, we like doing this.

We like connecting with our readers. We like being able to do quick, low stakes riffs on things that catch our attention. We LOVE telling readers about our new books, or new authors we've discovered.

For our first anniversary, we did a three part series on Getting Naked With the Wenches, and very popular it was! Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

 

Musings on Mindfulness, Machines and the Art of Letterwriting

Andrea here, taking a break from research (though I’ve been diving into some really interesting things of which you’ll be hearing soon) to muse on mindfulness and connecting the brain to something other than a machine.

I have been thinking about this lately as I take my daily “plotting walk,” which helps me unwind as I just let my thoughts wander. It’s amazing how often good ideas or the unraveling of plot knots happen when you turn off all the noise in your head and take the time to look and listen to Nature. There’s an elemental delight in spotting a leaf shaped like a heart, or a sea-washed feather on the beach—that sense of discovery and wonder is a special reminder to stay connected to real world, not just the devices that have become such a dominant force in our everyday lives.

Ask A Wench - Men in Boots, and other favorite historical clothing!

Nicola here, introducing this month’s Ask A Wench feature. Recently on my Facebook page I’ve started to post an item called Saturday Swagger, sharing some of the gorgeous historical portraits I’ve seen and love. One of them was this 17th century miniature of Sir Edward Herbert reclining in a come-hither pose. When she saw it, fellow author and Word Wench friend Sophie Weston of the Liberta Blog  commented: “The Boots! The Boots!” Happily, this set us all thinking about those aspects of historical costume that we particularly enjoy, and the result is this blog piece in which we ask: “What is your favourite item of historical clothing, to wear, to make or simply to appreciate?” So here are the Wenches' thoughts on this topic of sartorial splendour and we would love to hear yours!

Going to the Dogs!

Andrea here, musing today about secondary characters. I find that one of the ways to keep a series fresh and engaging for readers is the addition of new secondary characters in each book. Not only do they add to plot twist possibilities, but they also add color and texture in their interactions with the main protagonists, allowing me to bring out facets of the “stars” in interesting ways. (Though often they aren’t really content to hover in the shadows, but get a bit pushy and keep demanding more time on center stage! Honestly, don't they know who's the boss here?)

It’s great fun to sit and think about what sort of friend will add to the mix of a story. It’s hard for me to explain how they come to mind . . . sometimes—like the fog in Carl Sandburg’s famous poem— they come in on little cat feet . . .

Bang on the Mark—The Art of London Firearms

Andrea here, going down another research rabbit hole today . . . Cover your ears, for there could be a number of loud bangs! I recently took you through a few thrusts and parries with London’s most famous Regency swordsmen. Well, today we’re looking at London’s best gunmakers of the era.

I swear, it’s not that I’m bloodthirsty—I just find that in the hands of a master craftsman, pistols and swords are lethally beautiful works of art. For me, they are a perfect example of artisans becoming artists, and I love how the famous design adage “form follows function” comes to life in the hands of men like Manton, Wogdon and Egg. (At left are pistols by John Manton.)

I recently saw a small but scintillating exhibit at Met in NYC entitled The Art of London Firearms, which showcases some of the treasures from its permanent collection, which are rarely displayed. So, let me prime my pen and take a quick shot at giving you some of the highlights of the golden age of flintlock pistols . . .

A Question of Numbers!

Andrea here, and I'm excited to announce that today is Release Day for A Question of Numbers, the latest book in my Lady Arianna Regency mystery series. I've had such fun writing these characters and their adventures, so I thought I'd share a bit of backstory about why I love writing the mystery genre, as well as a bit about the inspiration behind this latest story.

I began my career as a published author (don't ask about the old manuscripts squirreled away in a desk drawer) writing traditional Regency romances for NAL. I loved the era—and that's stayed with me to this day—and after glomming a number of books in the genre (including Wenches Mary Jo, Pat and Jo Beverley) I buckled up my courage and took a try at it, and to my surprise and delight . . . I got a contract. When the publishing world changed, I moved to sexy Regencies, which were fun, but I came to realize that my heart really lay in writing mysteries.

What We're Reading in March

 ... and what a medley it is.

Joanna here, with some lovely book suggestions from all of us.

I’m rereading one of Lois MlcMaster Bujold’s books. The Curse of Chalion. I picked it up at the library because the librarian had it out on the Recommended Shelf and I was reminded of it. 

When we reread books we sometimes come at them a little differently or, at least, I do. This time, when I approached Bujold’s broken, exhausted, emotionally and psychically destroyed protagonist I was better able to see the honorable man beneath. It’s a new way for me to look at heroism and I’m hoping to learn from it.

This is not a Romance, but it’s a satisfying portrayal of a complex protagonist and — yes — a bit of a love story.

 

Andrea writes:

I’m a big fan of Charles Finch’s historical mysteries—I find his Charles Lenox series, set in early Victorian England, an absolute delight. So it’s always a treat when a new one comes out.

Now, Finch has done something really interesting with the series. In the first book, A Beautiful Blue Death, which came out 12 years ago, we meet Lenox as an established amateur detective. He’s a cultured, erudite, clever younger son, so his slightly “black sheep” profession is tolerated by family and friends (it helps that he’s such a lovely, sensitive fellow) And throughout the next nine books, we see him develop, take on new challenges, dabble in politics, get married, have a child . . . all while unraveling some very intriguing mysteries.

Then lo and behold, like the clever mystery writer he is, Finch suddenly surprised his readers with a unexpected plot twist. In his previous book, The Woman in the Water, the 11th in the series, he started writing a “prequel to the series—we meed Charles as a green cub, just down from Oxford, trying to decide what he wants to do in life. He loves solving conundrums, but everyone thinks he’s a fool to consider it as a possible career. Nonetheless, he keeps reading the papers about crime, and finds he has an idea he thinks may help solve one. The police, of course, dismiss him as fop and

En Garde!

Andrea here, musing today about swordsmen . . . or rather, three swordsmen in particular. As usual, this happened in a very serendipitous way: I was just checking a quick fact for my WIP. I swear, I only meant to spend a moment or two confirming the exact location of a famous Regency fencing academy. But then, I couldn’t help but get distracted (the road to perdition—or in this case, procrastination—is paved with good intentions!) History is filled with such fascinating characters—and as swashbuckling figures, few can match the Angelo family—Domenico Angelo Malevolti Tremamondo, his son Henry Angelo, and his grandson Henry Angelo the Younger. So let's thrust and parry down the research rabbit hole! (above is Henry the Elder)

It seems Domenico, a dashing Italian fencing master who was considered the finest swordsman in all of Europe, fell in love with the famous actress Margaret Woffington while training in Paris and followed her back to London. I havne' discovered when happened to the that relationship, but Dominco must have found London to his liking for he established Angelo’s School of Arms in Soho during the early 1750s to teach British gentlemen the art of the sword. (He adopted Angelo as his surname to fit in to his adopted country, and from then on, the family was always known as Angelo—that's Domenico at right.)

What We're Reading in February

Nicola here, introducing the Wenchly reading recommendations in the month of February. As ever we have a big mix of books for you and look forward to hearing what you've been reading too! the picture on the left is the rather gorgeous old bookshop in Marlborough, a town just down the road from me, where I love to browse. Sometimes you might even meet the resident bookshop ghost, which seems appropriate for Pat's first recommendation today!

Pat writes:

SEANCES ARE FOR SUCKERS by Tamara Berry

Ellie Wilde is a cynic, for good reason. As the youngest of triplets, she’s paying to keep her comatose sister in the best nursing home available by using her limited skill set—tricking people. To be fair, she also gives them comfort—by ridding their homes of ghosts she doesn’t believe in. People might call her a psychic medium, but in reality, she’s a great problem-solver and people reader. She has to be, or her sister will be out on the street. Her brother is a gym teacher and can’t possibly afford the cost of nursing care, so it’s up to Ellie. When she’s offered a small fortune and the opportunity to fly to England and live in a mansion while she rids the house of its resident ghost, she happily takes the job.

The art of genius

Andrea here, I was recently looking at a book on great English watercolor paintings to refresh my memory for a small plot point in my current WIP, and it got me to musing about several things (which happens more frequently than I care to admit—procrastination is often far more fun than actually writing!)

First, it got me to thinking about how if I had another lifetime and could pick one discipline to master, I would choose painting in watercolor. Oil paintings are wonderful, but for me there’s something magical about the sense of spontaneity of watercolors—the eye and hand reacting quickly to the subject. The nature of the medium is that one can’t overwork or overthink a painting, or it loses the translucent beauty of light and color that makes it so special.

Let's Party!

Andrea here, looking ahead to February with a sigh. Where I live, it’s usually the dreariest month—gray, cold and often snowy—and seem to go on forever, even though it’s the shortest one of the year. So perhaps I can be forgiven for daydreaming about parties to chase away the Winter Blues. Dancing, laughter, glittering candlelight, champagne . . . Well, of course, as I’m a history nerd, that immediately brought to mind thoughts of the most famous party in history—the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, held on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo.

Another reason it flashed to mind is because I've just finished my latest Lady Arianna Regency mystery, A Question of Numbers, (it’s available for pre-order here) and the party features prominently in one of the key scenes. (Honestly, what historical author could possibly resist using it in a book set in Brussels as the armies of Wellington and Napoleon prepared to clash!)

The duchess, born Lady Charlotte Gordon, daughter of the Duke of Gordon, married Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond, (who famously fought a duel with the Duke of York in 1789) and bore him seven sons and seven daughters. The family moved to Brussels, where the oldest son, William, Lord March, was serving as aide de camp for the Prince of Orange, commander of the Dutch forces allied with Wellington’s British army.

Rhapsody in Blue—science and art!

Andrea here, musing today on the joys of experiencing that wonderful sense of discovery when you go to see library and museum exhibits. Okay, that's a given with me, as I’m a total history nerd. But more specifically, I’m going to wax poetic on the fun of learning fun little surprises about a subject that’s already a little familiar.

Allow me to explain! The other day I decided to pop into the New York Public Library to catch a small exhibit on Anna Atkins, a pioneer in photography, who's credited with creating the first illustrated book using solely photography. I had discovered her a while back in doing some other research, and love the images she created.

Ask A Wench: What We're Doing

This month, the wenches are recovering from the holidays and chatting about what they’re doing now!

Pat here: Oh, I’m slowly going crazy—make that crazier. I’m trying to work with the cover designer for the next Crystal Magic book, AZURE SECRETS, while attempting to finish the draft on the book after that, tentatively called AMBER AFFAIR. And at the same time, I’m supposed to be packing for our trip to Costa Rica. I’ll be on the plane as you read this, knock wood. We’re going with what turns out to be a not very well organized group, which means I didn’t even know what luggage I could bring until just the other day. So I’m frantically rearranging my intended wardrobe and narrowing down to basics to fit into a carry-on. Try that some time. We just received the itinerary and we’re digging in to see what sights are accessible around the hotels we’ll be staying at, checking weather to see if we have all the necessities, looking for wi-fi in hopes we’ll not be too out of touch. . . My list keeps growing instead of getting shorter!

Family Ties

Andrea here, continuing our daily celebration of the Twelve Days of Christmastide with short posts on the spirit of the season. The holidays have been a bit quiet for me as this year, instead of our usual Christmas Day gathering, my family has been scattered around the globe. In celebration of my niece getting her PhD in English two weeks ago, my older brother and his wife took her to Rome (it had to be that timing because both my niece and SIL are teaching at different universities with different breaks) My younger brother and his family just moved houses in Wyoming and were frantically getting their old place ready for sale . . . And my nephew (the PhD's brother) jetted off to Brazil to be with his fiancee. (Niece and nephew pictured here)

So, I was feeling a little nostalgic with everyone so far away. And then very early on Christmas Eve morning I was awakened by the "beep-beep" of a text coming into my cellphone. Hmmm. I was tempted to ignore it—I'm not big on texting or being a slave to my phone. However, I decided to take a quick look and it's my nephew from Brazil, apologizing for the wake-up call but in need of immediate cookie help! He was surprising his fiancee with a batch of traditional Swiss "hasselnuss stengeli" Christmas cookies and couldn't remember how to make the lemon-sugar glaze.

So off we go on a flurry of texts . . . He has very fond memories of making the cookies with his grandmother (my mother). As do I. (He loves to cook and is very good at it.) The missing piece of the recipe was easy-peasy to send off but for the next little while we were also exchanging funny memories of past holidays . . . like the time my mother's usually well-behaved German Shepherd, who NEVER stole food, walked through the dining room in mid-feast with a huge wedge of Jarlsberg that he had snatched from the low cocktail table in the living room . . . and the time my mother was insisting on taking SO many group pictures of the family that he instigated getting everyone to take their shirts off when she was fiddling with the camera. (She framed that picture.)

Anyway, when it ended, I was laughing aloud and feeling, well, very connected, even though we were very far away. To me it was a perfect vignette of what the spirit of the season is all about. Family, friends, laughter, sharing . . . and though I don't think of devices are a very good way to do that, I was grateful for modern technology letting me connect to a loved one and share a few laughs.

What about you? Were you able to celebrate together with loved ones? Or did you do some long distance connecting too?

Eight Writers Walk into a Regency-Era Ballroom...

Nicola here. Over the past few weeks we’ve been sharing excerpts from our Word Wench Christmas Anthology, The Last Chance Christmas Ball (which is currently still on special offer in the US and Canada in the run up to the festive season – you can find it here!) A number of commenters have asked about the process we went through writing the book as a group project (thank you!), so we’ve updated a post from 2015 when the anthology first came out explaining a bit about this and about the individual stories that we came up with. Today's blog title actually came from a review of the anthology that was in Publisher's Weekly: Eight Writers (collectively known as the Word Wenches) walk into a ballroom and wreak fabulous, shimmering holiday mischief all over the place."

Jo Beverley, who drew together the original post, described it as “fun: at times the sort of fun you get from a camping holiday with unpredictable weather and odd creatures invading the tent.*G*” Which is to say that it wasn’t without its challenges. Some of these were logistical. We’re based around the world. Even within the US there’s a considerable time difference between east coast and west coast, but then we add in England, which is five hours ahead of the east coast and eight hours ahead of California. Pat was getting up when Jo Beverley and I were thinking about dinner, and Anne, in Australia, was going to bed round about the time America woke up! Even in this modern age we often had to wait many hours for the answer to a continuity query.

In addition, of course, we are all strong-minded authors who enjoyed a good discussion over many, many plot points and other issues! But we did have fun, and as you'll see, we all love Christmas stories.

In the Bleak Midwinter: The Last Chance Christmas Ball

By Mary Jo

Eight authors collaborating on an anthology is not the simplest of projects, but we Wenches thought it would be fun to work together, and The Last Chance Christmas Ball (now on sale for a mere 99 cents!) was the result. Our Kensington editor, Alicia Condon, suggested we might do something like a holiday ball where our characters can meet and mingle. This sounded like a fine idea, so we agreed. We had no idea how much work it would be to integrate the stories into a larger framework!

Jo Beverley created a wiki for us so we could add information about the characters and setting so instead of constantly asking things like the name of the butler or the village, we could look it up. This was very convenient.

Then the negotiations began! We talked about our requirements. Susan King, for example, specializes in Scotland so we created a setting in Northumberland, which is next door to Scotland in far northeastern England. A certain kind of great house was required. A promising house was found and modified. I casually talked about how we could have a wounded soldier in the tower as an example of what we could do, and then realized I really did want to write a wounded soldier in the tower!

The Magic of Harry Potter and History

Andrea here, The holidays are a magical time of year, especially for children. So it seems a perfect time to talk about something truly magical—in every meaning of the word! I just saw the wonderful exhibit at the New York Historical Society entitled Harry Potter: A History of Magic. (It’s the U.S. stop for the show that originated at the British Library, and the linked article from the NY Times shows some wonderful pictures of the display rooms.)

Now of course, Harry isn’t just for kids—I’m a huge fan, even though I’m not usually one for fantasy or paranormal. The magic of J. K. Rowling and her books is the storytelling and how she weaves together the powerful elemental themes of friendship, love, courage in the face of loss and adversity as she tells a riveting tale of Good vs Evil.

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.

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."

Lessons in Longitude

Andrea here, thinking about . . . Time. This month, most of us in the U.S. turn the clock back an hour for Daylight Savings Time (I don’t know about you, but I very much dislike the darkness that settles in around 5 pm in winter.) Now, where does that hour go? Yes, I know that we get it back in Spring, but it seems a cavalier attitude to play games with the ticking of the Universe.

My mulling on this has been amplified because I’ve been thinking of working in marine chronometers in a future Wrexford & Sloane mystery book. I happen to love antique mechanical wristwatches, as I think they’re both beautiful and functional. The intricate inner workings are exquisite works of art—for me it’s very cool when functional objects can also be intrinsically beautiful.

But back to marine chronometers! From the first stirrings of humanity, time is an elemental concept that regulates so many facets of our existence—our age, the cycle of the seasons, how calculate speed and distance . . . The first really precise timepiece was the pendulum clock, invented in 1656 by Christiaan Huygens (shown above), a Dutch scientist who was inspired by Galileo’s experiments with pendulums.

Wenches and the Wild

 Joanna here, bringing you tales of Wenchly encounters with wild things.  We Wenches had been chatting by email about chickens and copperheads, as one does.

Mary Jo, first up, brings us her stories from further to the the Wild Side:

I love animals and grew up on a farm, but I have no tales of devil red hens, mega-roosters, or sinuous copperheads.  There have been plenty of cats and dogs in my life, and my woodsy suburban neighborhood has lots of squirrels and chipmunks and deer and foxes and bunnies.  (I hope those last two don't meet up often!) 

But for real drama, I'll have to turn to Botswana.  Two years ago, we did a safari there after I spoke at a conference in Johannesburg, and it was great.  We traveled several vast nature preserves in open sided safari trucks.  The wildlife there is not tame, but many of the animals have become accustomed to the trucks and pretty much ignore their human visitors as long as we behave.  So a leopard ambled by a few feet away and lionesses lounged in the dirt roads, supremely confident.  

But my most dramatic encounter was our last night in one of the three safari camps we stayed in.  This particular camp housed guests in glamorous tents.  (Hence, "glamping.")  The camps were completely dark when we returned to our quarters after dinner, and we were told to always have a guide escort us back.  On that last night, I was walking ahead of the Mayhem Consultant and our guide, only a single flashlight to guide our path through the African night. 

As I neared our tent, I heard something rustling in the underbrush.  It didn’t sound large  but it could have been a hyena or some other critter I didn't want to startle.  I returned to our guide and said there's something up there, it didn't sound like a big beast like an elephant, but he might want to check it out.  He did and came back and said calmly, "It's an elephant."

Sure enough, standing smack dab in front of the entrance to our tent, maybe four feet from the canvas, an elephant was chomping on some greenery.  I thought we'd retreat to the headquarters until the elephant moved on, but our guide just said that we could get in through the end entrance of the tent. Oooh-kay, if he thought it was safe… 

I unzipped the end door entry and we went inside.  (I peeked out the front entrance and saw the vast curved back of the elephant silhouetted against the stars, and felt the presence of that great bulk just a few feet away.)

For the next half hour or so we could hear the elephant brushing around the canvas sides as it continued to foraged.  I wasn't frightened but I was wary.  The Mayhem Consultant wanted his shower so he took it.  ("brush, brush, brush, a crunch of a branch, brush, brush, brush…)  I didn't want to be caught starkers if the elephant absented-mindedly took down part of our tent, but that didn't happen.  Eventually the elephant wandered off and all was calm.

But I didn't forget that encounter with a Wild Thing!