Word Wenches

AAW — Films and TV shows

Anne here for this month's Ask A Wench, and the question of the moment is, "What movies or TV shows have you enjoyed lately?"

We start with Pat.  I record TV and never know how long the shows have been in the DVR. Looking at the list of unwatched programs, I’d say I have apparently stopped watching most regular TV. I used to love Modern Family until it got stale. Elementary has good and bad years, depending on the writers. The Good Place is still watchable, but they’re pushing their limits.

So lately we’ve been streaming a few shows. Dietland is marvelously well-written and acted but occasionally violent. At the moment, I think The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel  is my very favorite.  Set in the early 60s, when Lenny Bruce kept getting thrown in jail for using obscenities in public (yes, kiddies, saying the F word would get you sent to jail), it’s about a young housewife with a gift for comedy. This was not a time when it was easy for a young mother to balance home and career, but the fact that her career is in sleazy nightclubs and makes little money stretches credulity a bit. The show is produced by the gifted people who created Gilmore Girls, so expect laughter, a little societal satire, and not total realism. But looking at the early 60s from our current perspective is entertaining, and the witty dialogue is laugh worthy. 

Nicola here. With the new series of Endeavour, the Inspector Morse prequel, starting tonight, my Sunday night viewing is sorted for the next month and I’m very excited. I love this series with its flawed and fascinating characters, the period setting of 1960s Oxford and the clever plots. I’ve watched and re-watched the previous series so many times.

The Northern Lights!

Nicola here, just back from a cruise along the coast of Norway taking in some spectacular scenery and the stunning beauty of the Northern Lights. Standing on the deck on the ship at 2am in temperatures of -13, it did occur to me to wonder what our ancestors had made of the extraordinary phenomena of the aurora. It’s so beautiful and other-worldly that even in these days when it can all be explained by science, it’s still pretty mind-blowing.  How did people view the aurora in the past? Fortunately there was an excellent lecture on the ship that covered everything to do with the Northern Lights and it was so interesting that I thought I would blog about it here.

Fine Dining through the Ages!

Nicola here! When I was a small child we lived in an ultra-modern house in a town in the North of England. It was the 1960s and 70s and open plan was the height of fashion. Both sets of grandparents however lived in bungalows and my step-grandparents lived in a Victorian two-up tow-down house. All three of these buildings had one thing in common; they had a room that was “for best.” The door was almost always closed and when I was allowed in I didn’t like it. It was always cold (there was no heating on because it wasn’t used very often) and it smelled of that closed up mustiness that rooms sometimes have. In all cases there was a cactus or an aspidistra (or both!) on a wooden plant stand. It was the dining-room.

Dining-rooms are curious things. They go in and out of fashion. At some stages they are the ultimate in aspiration and at others ignored. The Ancient Greeks are usually given the credit for inventing the concept of the dining-room. There were very specific requirements for it: no more than 11 wood or stone benches around the walls. It was a place where men gathered to eat honey cakes and chestnuts, washed down with wine. Yes, it was men only! The Romans, refining the concept, created the triclinium where both men and women dined reclining on sofas, which can’t have been great for the digestion. The Roman triclinium was a very high status room built to have a view and to provide refreshing breezes as one ate. Many were outside and had murals on the wall and fountains in the tables, according to archaeology done at Pompeii.

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!

A Sense of Memory

Nicola here, musing about the atmosphere of particular places. Today I’m taking us back a long way in English history, beyond the Regency, beyond those ubiquitous Tudors, to a time before the Norman Conquest when England was split into the Anglo Saxon seven kingdoms. The village where I live has a recorded history that goes back to this distant time – there are actual documents from the era relating to events that happened in this very place over a thousand years ago and I find that mind-blowing. As I walk along the footpaths and over the hills I frequently imagine how it might have looked in that time and try to see all the way back through the mists of history to think myself back there.  I can be pretty successful at this; when it’s quiet and I’m standing on the Ravens’ Fort and all I can hear are the birds singing and I feel the breeze on my face I can persuade myself, for a split second anyway, that I have travelled in time. Then an aeroplane flies over and I think perhaps not after all.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas

Nicola here. It’s New Year’s Eve here in the UK, with fireworks, celebrations and all the traditions that go with the ending of one year and the start of the new. One of my favourite new year'e eve traditions was celebrated by my grandmother for many years - She would open the windows at the front and back of the house to invite good luck in and the front and let bad luck out at the back! However this might just have had the practical intention of airing the house after all the smells of Christmas cooking!

It may be the end of December, but in an older tradition it’s only the seventh day of the “twelvetide,” the 12 days of Christmas that started on 25^th December and end with Twelfth Night on 5^th January. In the medieval calendar there was still a lot of festive celebration to go!

In the carol, on the 7^th day of Christmas my true love sent to me seven swans a swimming. In the old Celtic tradition the seven swans were linked to the seven known planets, elegance and mystery personified. In the 17^th century, when the carol originated, swans were seen as good omens, tasty to eat and a source of warmth from the feathers and down. The Christian interpretation of the song was that the seven swans symbolise the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit.

There’s a rather nice idea here the binds the 12 days of Christmas to the idea of New Year’s resolutions. We all have different gifts and qualities. For example, some are good teachers, others can encourage and motivate people and some people are creative. In the New Year, whether or not we make specific resolutions, we can all plan to use and enjoy our own unique gifts.

A very happy New Year’s Eve! Do you have any special traditions you enjoy at this time of year or resolutions you are intent on making?

And finally Jo Beverley's story

 Anne here with our final Sunday snippet for the year from our Christmas anthology, The Last Chance Christmas Ball. Here's the start of Jo Beverley's story, Miss Finch and the Angel.

Four steaming horses swept the post chaise up the drive of Holbourne Abbey and were halted by their postilions, snorting and stamping, before the impressive pillared entrance. Liveried footmen hurried out, their own breath white in the crisp air, to open the carriage door and extract luggage from the boot.
First emerged a valet. Then followed a fashionable young gentleman in a many-caped buff greatcoat and a glossy beaver hat set at an exact angle on golden hair. He regarded the house, smiled slightly, and strode forward to climb the steps.

"A pleasure to see you, Munton," he said to the portly butler who stood waiting in the entrance hall to take his hat and gloves and pass them to a liveried footman. 

"And you, my lord. May I offer season's greetings?"

"I'm sure you may," the young gentleman said pleasantly. "All in order?"

"In general, my lord. Mr. Kimball still chooses a contemplative life."

"Even at Christmas?"

"Indeed, my lord, but the ball will take place as usual."

"Of course it will, especially as it's the fiftieth. Where is Lady Holly?"

"In her rooms, my lord."

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!

A Season for Marriage

Nicola here, continuing our Sunday excerpts from The Last Chance Christmas Ball, (the e-book is on special sale right now for only $.99!) Here's the setting: 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 A Season for Marriage... Lady Caroline  Camden is unhappily married to a brilliant MP whose work is his life. In love with her husband and resigned to the fact that he will never love her, Caroline runs back home to Holbourne Abbey, hoping that her old family home will work its magic on her marriage and that against the odds, she and Piers may find happiness...

Anyone for 300 year old ketchup?

Nicola here. There’s something about this time of year that makes me think about food even more than I usually do. Perhaps it’s the run up to the festive season when I’m not only thinking of the dishes I’d like to cook, or more accurately, I’d like the DH to cook for me as he’s a much better chef than I am, but somehow the dark evenings, short days and cold weather make me long to turn to food for both comfort and warmth.

I’m reasonably okay about trying new dishes but when I came across a recipe that mentioned elderberry ketchup I did wince a little. My memories of ketchup, which I haven’t tried in decades, mainly consist of eating fish fingers with tomato ketchup as a child. Anyway, the dictionary definition of ketchup I found is “a spicy sauce made chiefly from tomatoes and vinegar, used as relish.” Historically, ketchup recipes began to appear in British and American cookbooks in the 18^th century. In the UK it was in fact mushrooms rather than tomatoes that first became a staple ingredient, along with shallots and sometimes walnuts. The tomato version only came along 100 years later.

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!

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."

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.

What We're Reading—October

Anne here, hosting this month's What We're Reading post. As always there's a lovely range of books for all tastes. And just a reminder -- these are not promo posts; they're genuinely what we've read and enjoyed in the last month. 

We'll start with Pat, who says: I'm on a hunt for light-hearted, humorous, feel-good books these days, so I'm over the moon when I find one.

180 SECONDS by Jessica Park qualifies, even though I suspect it's probably called a New Adult romance since the protagonists are in college. But this isn’t about the normal trials and tribulations of overworked, under-loved students. The protagonist Allison has been in foster care all her life, until she was adopted by a gay dad when she was sixteen. She’s closed off, shut down, prepared to peel out of the life of anyone who gets close. She does her best to avoid people entirely. She wants to love her adopted dad, who is a real gem, but she can’t even open his care packages. And then in one freakish moment when she’s forced herself to go into town, she’s caught up in an internet video where she has to stare at a boy for 180 seconds. That scene alone is worth reading the book. Esben, the hero of this story, is almost too good to be true, but he has his major hidden flaws as well. The romance is a rollicking ride of self-discovery and interconnectedness of the internet and how it drives the lives of these kids. So, it’s almost fantasy, but it’s fun fantasy. For a feel good read, try this one. 

Mary Jo read and recommends  David Rosenfelt's Andy Carpenter Series & Dogtripping

The Two Elizabeths of Ashdown House

Nicola here. Today it is my great pleasure to welcome to the blog Julia Gasper, a historian and author whom I met through a shared interest in Craven family history. Today Julia is talking about one of the Georgian Lady Cravens, Elizabeth Berkeley, whom she intriguingly describes as a "writer, feminist and European." Julia also draws some interesting parallels between Elizabeth Stuart, for whom Ashdown was built, and her namesake Elizabeth Berkeley.

"I greatly enjoyed reading Nicola Cornick’s novel, House of Shadows. However, one thing I found worrying was being told that, in this fictional world, Ashdown House had been burnt down in the early nineteenth century. This really bothered me. (And a lot of other people - Ed!) Every time it was referred to, I felt uneasy in case I might go over there and find that this exquisitely beautiful seventeenth-century mansion in Oxfordshire really had vanished!

I am happy to assure you all that Ashdown House, near Lambourn, is still there and owned by the National Trust. I visited it when I was writing my biography of Elizabeth Craven, the Georgian writer, who lived there in the 1760s, when she was a young bride. It was her first marital home, and she shared it with her husband, William, 6^th Baron Craven, heir to the considerable estates and wealth of the Craven family. His mother and his two sisters lived there with them.

Elizabeth Craven was born Lady Elizabeth Berkeley, younger daughter of the Earl of Berkeley, and she was married in 1767 at the tender age of sixteen to Lord Craven. She had little choice in the matter. She had seven children before parting from her husband rather traumatically in 1782 and going to live in France, to escape the scandal and gossip that always in this period accompanied aristocratic divorces. She did not disappear into obscurity by any means, but travelled around the whole of Europe, to Italy, Austria, Poland, Russia, the Crimea, Turkey, Greece and Romania, writing about everything she saw and everyone she met, from galley slaves in Genoa to the Empress Catherine the Great. She was a passionate person whose life included many love-affairs, and she had to be strong to stand up to the social disapproval this often attracted.

Elizabeth Craven always loved reading and acting. She wrote plays, poems, novels and travelogues, as well as a remarkable early feminist work called Letters to Her Son, in which she condemned the laws that made a wife obey her husband and gave him so many unjust powers over her. She advised her son  - another William Craven  - to treat his wife with respect and sensitivity, as an equal companion, and never to remind her that he was, in the eyes of the law, her master. If he did that, they would both be very much happier. It is pleasant to record that he followed her advice, with total success.

House of Shadows tells the story of Princess Elizabeth, daughter of King James I, and her secret love for an English cavalier. Elizabeth married Frederick, Elector of the Palatinate and became for a brief time Queen of Bohemia. But she and Frederick lost their throne after only one year and were driven out of their kingdom, and so she acquired the rather melancholy title of the Winter Queen. One of Frederick’s most loyal supporters was the gallant soldier William, 1^st Lord Craven, who put his sword and his fortune at the service of the exiled monarchs. William fell in love with the Winter Queen and she returned his passion, but their difference in rank was a serious barrier. It is said that they married in secret, after many years of concealment and yearning.

Did any lady in the annals of courtly love ever set her faithful admirer a more gruesome task than that of retrieving a lost treasure from the coffin of her dead husband? That is what Elizabeth of Bohemia demanded from William, Lord Craven, and of course he did not refuse. He was hers to command, and the scene of the novel in which he performs the deed is dark and splendidly macabre.

Ashdown House was one of William’s gifts to his princess, who had lost her own home, and loved hunting. It was built in the 1660s and the first thing that strikes you when you approach is its extreme elegance and air of romantic aloofness, surrounded as it is by miles of green parkland and farmland. This was once a mediaeval deer park and it is close to the Berkshire Downs. When it was built it was actually in Berkshire, but by dint of a boundary change Oxfordshire managed to acquire it.

Ashdown was not the only house that Lord Craven built to receive his royal beloved. He also built her a far larger house, a veritable palace, at Hampstead Marshall, another one of his Berkshire estates, but that has not survived. In the century between the first Lord Craven and the sixth, Ashdown House was used as a minor residence, a convenient hunting-estate, not too far from London, where deer, pheasants, hares and other wild game could be shot and either eaten on the spot or taken up to London for a dinner-party at the Cravens’ house in Mayfair.

In her Memoirs, Elizabeth Craven says that she was very interested in the history of the Craven family. She looked at documents in the family archives, and she was sure the Queen of Bohemia had married the first Lord Craven. When I was writing my biography of her, I had a strong feeling that she was fascinated by this earlier Elizabeth, her namesake who also married a William Craven. 

There are many other things they had in common. They were related, because Elizabeth Craven was actually descended, via the Berkeley and Richmond lines, from King Charles I of England, brother of the Queen of Bohemia. So Elizabeth of Bohemia was her great-great-great-great-aunt. Both women married at sixteen, both had large families of children. Both were women of considerable intelligence and strength of character, a strength they needed as both suffered great upheavals and reversals in their life. The Winter Queen had to endure her husband’s defeats in he Thirty Years War and the loss of his hereditary domains in the Palatinate. Elizabeth Craven had to suffer cruel persecution from the prigs and the gossips when her husband decided to part from her, and most painful of all, she was forcibly separated from six of her seven children. All of her four daughters were kept in the care of their father, and forbidden to write to her, a wound that was as humiliating as it was distressing.

Both Elizabeths, curiously enough, married minor German princes. After many outrageous love-affairs, including one with William Beckford, the author and art collector, Elizabeth Craven found herself a second husband, the Margrave of Anspach, who made over his little principality to Prussia and retired to England. She married him in 1792 and until his death in 1806 they lived at Hammersmith near London. They made their home a hub for artists, musicians, actors, unconventional people and French emigrées fleeing from the Revolution. Elizabeth had a private theatre where the performances became celebrated. After the Margrave’s death she retired to Naples to spend her last years in quiet seclusion.

When we compare their portraits, it is not too fanciful to see some resemblance between these two Elizabeths, who were both admired for their brains as well as their beauty.

My intuition that Elizabeth Craven was fascinated by the Queen of Bohemia, whose destiny in so many ways resembled her own, was finally confirmed in a surprising way. After I had finished writing the biography, and published it, I discovered a lost novel by Elizabeth Craven, called The Witch and the Maid of Honour. It is set mainly at Coombe Abbey, one of the Craven properties, and the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I, features in it as one of the characters. A tournament at court to celebrate her wedding to the Elector Frederick is one of the high points of the book. The Princess Elizabeth is shown at exactly the age Elizabeth Craven was when she arrived at Ashdown House in 1767, and learned about the history of the Craven family. I am now in the process of editing this book, which may be the very first historical novel ever written in the English language, to bring it out in a more accessible form so that it finally gets some of the attention it deserves.

The Winter Queen bequeathed to Lord Craven many wonderful portraits of the Stuart royal family, and many of them can be seen still at Ashdown House. To Elizabeth Craven the writer, these were her distant relatives too. 

Elizabeth Craven: Writer, Feminist and European by Julia Gasper is published by Vernon Press 2017 - ISBN 9781622732753 is now out in paperback and E-book formats.

Some of Elizabeth Craven’s more unusual works are available here:

The Modern Philosopher, Letters to Her Son and Verses on the Siege of Gibraltar, by Elizabeth Craven, edited by Julia Gasper.

Cambridge Scholars Press, 2017.

You can find out more about Elizabeth Craven and the eighteenth-century world she lived in on Julia's blog ELIZABETH CRAVEN AND HER WORLD

Thank you very much to Julia for a fascinating blog piece and for sharing her knowledge about the two Elizabeths with us today! 

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!

The Power of Numbers

Nicola here. A short and hopefully sweet blog from me today as I’m heading off on holiday to Scotland soon and am surrounded by dog and human packing and am trying to work out how much food we will all need for 2 weeks in remote locations!

Anyway, back to the blog, and a writing friend mentioned to me a week or so ago that she thought numbers in book titles were becoming a trend. Just as there had been “girl” titles, so there are now number titles, and a glance at the UK charts seems to support this: Joanna Cannon’s new book is called “Three Things about Elsie” and Jonas Johannsen has written “The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred Year Old Man” to name but two.

Ask A Wench - Deadline Fever!

Nicola here, introducing this month’s Ask A Wench question which is: "What comfort foods and other strange rituals do the Wenches turn to when under deadline?" This is a subject which elicited many sighs, groans and hollow laughter when it was raised amongst us. We've all been in deadline territory and we have the scars to prove it. How do we handle it? What rituals do we indulge in to tempt the Muse? How much extra chocolate does it take to see us through to the end of the book? These are all questions that we will be tackling. And because deadlines are pretty much universal in working and other aspects of life we know readers will have lots of tips and suggestions to share, so bring on the deadlines!

Back to School

Here in the UK it’s the first day of the new school year today. I can vividly remember the pleasure of the school summer holidays – six weeks off! – lasting from the end of July to the beginning of September, including my birthday and usually a holiday by the seaside. Summer was such a treat in that respect! Then the days would start to shorten and the nights would turn cooler and even if it felt as though it was still summer we knew that autumn and a return to school was on the way. The shops would all go on about “back to school” uniforms and stationery, and my grandfather in particular would tease me about going back to school knowing how much I wanted the holidays never to end. It wasn’t that I disliked school. I enjoyed it most of the time but there was something special about those summer holidays of childhood. Of course I never really thought about how fortunate I was to have an education until I started to study history and realised that girls in particular hadn’t always had those opportunities.

Twenty Years Ago

Nicola here, inviting everyone to join me in a small celebration! Twenty years ago this year my first book for Harlequin Mills & Boon was published. True Colours was named in homage to Georgette Heyer; the writing style probably owed a fair amount to her as well for she, along with Alice Chetwynd Ley, Clare Darcy and others had been strong influences on my developing love of the Regency romance.

Even now I can remember the sense of disbelief to see a book I had written actually in print. For years I had written in my spare time – 12 years to be exact. True Colours was begun when I was at college and was a long time in the writing and re-writing. Life went on around it – marriage, moving jobs, moving house… And then suddenly there it was in my hand and on the shelves. It was an extraordinary and almost unreal feeling. I also remember being a tad disappointed by the cover which looked rather vampirish to me (the US version that came later was much prettier!) I also remember spending my first royalty cheque on a new bicycle! Later that same year (August, in fact) my second Regency romance, The Virtuous Cyprian, was also published. I wrote two books a year in those days even though I was working full time in an office as well. Her I am in a bookshop looking very excited to be on the shelves with Penny Jordan and Sidney Sheldon! This is a photo of an old photo so apologies that it isn't that good!)

RNA: A Gathering of the Clans

by Mary Jo

I love writers' conferences, and I've been to my share of them. The sight of so many introverts blossoming into temporary extroversion is delightful. Creativity and connections and chocolate are all much in evidence.

I've met many of my best writer friends (and most of the Wenches) at writers' conferences. Which is why when Wench Nicola, currently president of the British professional romance writers' group, Romantic Novelists' Association, invited all interested Word Wenches to come to this year's annual RNA conference in Leeds, I jumped on it. (No, of course this had nothing to do with the chance to take a deductible trip to the UK! Why would you even think that? <G>)

 

Vale Janga

Anne here, writing on behalf of all the word wenches in a special Sunday post, a tribute to Janga Rholetter — one of our long time wenchly readers and a friend to many of us here, readers as well as writers. Janga passed away suddenly last week — we knew she was desperately ill, but the speed of her passing took us all by surprise. 

Janga loved words; she loved stories and poetry and romance and writing. She was an intelligent and insightful reviewer — I suspect many of us here became addicted to her reviews and have added to our TBR piles because of Janga. She was very active in the romance community; she was a wenchly reader from the very first — enter Janga into the search bar and you'll see so many comments over the years. She was also very active on the Eloisa James boards, she blogged and reviewed on The Romance Dish and also on her own blog.

I felt very privileged to know her. She wrote to me about my very first book, and that began a correspondence between us that lasted almost 20 years. We talked about books, about poetry, about writing, about teaching, and about life. She was a wonderful critic, perceptive and articulate and encouraging. She saw things in my work that I wasn't aware of. She made me feel a better writer than I am.

I am sad, though, that her own fiction never saw the light of day. She was, I suspect, her own toughest critic. She was a private person—there are no photos of her on her sites—and very modest. But though her fiction might not be out there, Janga left behind a rich legacy of her writing, in reviews, interviews, essays and blogs. 

Her good friend PJ Ausdenmore wrote a wonderful tribute to Janga on The Romance Dish. You will also get a lovely sense of the person Janga was by reading this blog that she wrote back in 2012, her gratitude list for Thanksgiving. 

I might be the one writing this post, but Janga was beloved of all the wenches. Goodbye, dear Janga, thank you for sharing your thoughts, your books and your wisdom, from Mary Jo Putney, Pat Rice, Susan King, Andrea Pickens, Nicola Cornick, Joanna Bourne, Susanna Kearsley and Anne Gracie. Rest in peace.

A Dip in the Pool of History

Nicola here! Last month we had a heatwave in England and now once again the hot weather is back, the grass has turned yellow and
there’s talk of banning the use of hosepipes. Our heat here (up to about 90 degrees Fahrenheit) is nothing though compared to the temperatures elsewhere in Europe and also across the world. It’s not something we’re equipped to deal with (no air con in most homes and other buildings) but at least as an island we have lots of lovely beaches and cool seas. I live as far away from the sea as it’s possible to do in England so I make do with the local swimming pool which is still very refreshing even though it’s a heated pool. Elsewhere in the country, the lidos - outdoor, unheated swimming pools - are becoming very popular again. It reminds me of the Spartan regime of my school swimming lessons which I always associate with the smell of wild garlic because they took place at an outdoor pool in the woods!

What We Read in July

Anne here, hosting this month's What We're Reading post, and what a line-up we have: science fiction, dual timeline, historical romance, women's fiction, non-fiction, and murder mysteries, with quite a few wenches turning to crime.

Mary Jo here.  I recently reread a book I'd read in the past, and I liked it even better the second time around.  John Scalzi's Agent to the Stars  is science fiction, but not the kind with ray guns and evil invading aliens. Instead, it's funny and very entertaining and even has some romance.

Scalzi speaks amusingly  about how he wrote the book in 1997 just to see if he could write a full length novel.  A couple of his writer friends said it was good, and his wife was greatly relieved to like it because if she hated it, she'd still have to live with him. <G>  Then he published it in pieces on his new scalzi.com blog and people sent in a buck if they liked it.  The story wasn't published as a real, print novel until 2005, but it has thrived since, and Scalzi is now a New York Times list bestselling science fiction author of many novels. 

 The narrator is Tom Stein, a young and successful Hollywood agent who has just gotten mega-bucks for his top client, a feather brained but likable young blond beach girl who desperately wants to win the role of a tough-as-nails Holocaust survivor.  His other clients tend to be neurotic and demanding, but that's normal.

Then Tom's life gets complicated.  Carl, the legendarily tough head of his agency, calls Tom in and says that he has been contacted by friendly aliens, the Yherajk, and they've decided they need a Hollywood agent to introduce them to humankind.  The problem is that they looks like blobs of melting gelatin and smell like locker room socks.  Since Tom's boss can't do the job personally, he enlists Tom, who has his work is cut out for him!  So a snarkily likable Yherajk with ADD and the human name of Joshua moves in with Tom, and the fun begins. 

This may sound somewhat boggling, but the story of Tom, Joshua, an old neighborhood dog called Ralph, actress Michelle, and Tom's sharp-tongued Chicana secretary Miranda is very entertaining, and ultimately moving.  I'll be reading it again. (Anne pops in to add her endorsement to this book)

Training A Service Dog

Hello! This is Angus MacLeod Cornick. Today I’m an honorary Word Wench as Nicola has turned her blog spot over to me to tell you about how I train service dogs for the UK Guide Dogs Association. It’s a demanding job but I like to feel I do my bit to help and my fee of one special dog treat per day is, I think, very reasonable. Earlier this year I qualified as an official Guide Dogs supporter dog, a role usually reserved for retired or failed guide dogs – Nicola was very proud of me! The exam was arduous - I had to remain calm and steady in all sorts of situations, from small children approaching me to other dogs barking at me. This was okay as my natural state is to sleep a large part of the time.

My life as a service dog mentor began a couple of years ago when my blissful experience of being a spoiled only dog came to an abrupt halt. I should have spotted the warning signs but I was young and naïve. I thought that when a “luxury indoor kennel” appeared full of cuddly toys my humans were trying to curry favour with me. Little did I realise it was for someone else.

Lyveden New Bield – Visiting “An Interrupted Dream”

Nicola here, with another of my summer historic house travelogues. I finished my latest manuscript a week ago and in traditional fashion celebrated by cleaning the house and doing some ironing. As regular readers of the Wench blog will know, this is the time we all catch up on the thousand and one things that get neglected whilst we are in our writing caves desperately trying to get to The End. Much as a city break in Europe or even a trip to the seaside might sound nice, it’s usually the mundane things that claim our attention, partly because we don’t have energy left for much else but also because we urgently need some clean clothes.  However, when my husband tempted me with a visit to one of my favourite historical sites, I felt a lot more enthused for that than for ironing! So it was that on a baking hot day we set off very early in the morning for Northamptonshire and the intriguing Lyveden New Bield.

Lyveden, like so many country houses, occupies an isolated position. It’s set the middle of the glorious Northamptonshire countryside and as you approach, you see what looks like a ruin standing alone in a field. It’s an extraordinary sight. The house was the dream of Sir Thomas Tresham, a Tudor knight who was a staunch Catholic. He was a wealthy landowner who moved in the highest social circles in the county but although he was ruthlessly efficient in managing his estates to produce profit, he was also very extravagant and pursued a lavish lifestyle. It was, however, the heavy fines levied on him for following the Catholic faith that were eventually to lead to his financial downfall.

A Georgette Heyer Soiree

Nicola here. Last week I spent a most enjoyable evening in London at a Georgette Heyer soiree. It was part of a two-day event organised jointly by London University and the London Book Fair; earlier in the day there had been a conference on Georgette Heyer and her writing which my writing friend and colleague Sophie Weston had attended. You can read her report on the conference here  and it’s both fun and thought-provoking, like Georgette Heyer herself.

The evening soiree was, appropriately enough, in an 18^th century townhouse, The House of St Barnabas, 1 Greek Street, Soho, London. It has been a homeless charity since 1862 and is now also a private members’ club dedicated to charity work. The first house on the site was built during The Restoration period, a grand mansion with coach house and stables. This original house was demolished for a new one to be built between 1744 and 1747. It is in glorious Georgian style with beautiful rococo plasterwork. When we visited it was also decorated with football memorabilia to celebrate the World Cup; a case of the old meeting the new! According to research, the rooms and gardens of the House of St Barnabas were the blueprint for the imagined lodgings of Dr. Manette and Lucy in A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. The alleyway on one side of the house was later re-named Manette Street.

We were met at the entrance to the reception rooms by a lady and gentleman in period costume who greeted us with appropriate formality, thereby making me realise that although I wrote and read Regency fiction a great deal, I was on uncertain ground when it came to putting the manners into practise!

The first part of the evening was a discussion around the theme of “Two hundred years of social mores: From dance cards to online dating.” I’d been invited to lead this debate with Alison Flood, a journalist and Georgette Heyer fan. As there had recently been some discussion in the press comparing the TV programme Love Island to a Jane Austen novel we decided to take this as our starting point and having checked how many of the fifty or so people present had watched Love Island (three) asked whether people felt there were any similarities between the two. Some lively discussion followed! We agreed that there were some superficial similarities, for example people have always tended to judge on first impressions whether on Tinder, Love Island or at the Pemberley Ball.  In a relatively closed society, whether it be artificially so (Love Island) or a Regency village, newcomers often spell trouble and gossip abounds.

A lot of people felt that they would have preferred a Regency-style courtship to modern-day dating. However an examination of this
idea showed various pros and cons. It feels as though both time and subtlety are often missing from today’s dating. Everything happens fast because life happens fast. But of course in the Regency period matches were often made on quite a short acquaintance without having the chance to get to know one another very well, particularly if there was family pressure. People were also appreciative of the fact that these days there is a great deal more opportunity to meet a potential partner than there was in the past – although it might not always feel like it. Everyone agreed though that the courtesy, respect and “rules” of 19^th century society could be helpful in comparison to what sometimes feels like chaos in the social interactions of today. And then there were the dress codes. Maybe we were old-fashioned (although there was a good age range in the audience) but we all agreed that Regency dress for both men and women was more attractive than tiny bikinis and endless six packs, even on Poldark! There was a sense of “put it away; public nudity is becoming boring.”

Other threads we discussed included the influence of Georgette Heyer’s own era on her writing, which is something Sophie also mentions in her blog, and the fact that we were in effect comparing our modern day reality with historical fiction, or in the case of Jane Austen’s writing, contemporary fiction. All in all it was a stimulating discussion that ran over time until we were all desperate for supper! We concluded by sharing our favourite Heyer books and why we liked them. There was an audible gasp in the room, and some disapproval, when I said that for many years my favourite Georgette Heyer book had been Beauvallet although these days I would probably choose Devil’s Cub or her short stories. We could all agree, though on the perennial appeal and talent of Georgette Heyer as an author and thought that perhaps one of the reasons we enjoy her books is that her characters do to some extent thwart convention whilst operating within that society.

After a delicious supper of modern canapes when we discussed everything from the popularity of Regency dancing to historical accuracy in books and costume dramas, we had some pianoforte music and tackled the fiendishly difficult Heyer quiz, which made me realise I needed to brush up on my knowledge of her books to have a hope of matching the experts. No doubt a Regency lady would have described the evening approvingly as “a crush” and for me and the other guests, I hope, it was wonderful fun to talk to so many Regency aficionados. I left to get the train home, rather wishing I had a carriage waiting!

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the topics we discussed at the Heyer soiree or on her books or any aspect of the discussion.  What is it about the social behaviours of Regency society that we find attractive? What are the similarities and differences, and the pros and cons of dating now and then? Which would you prefer? And which one element of Regency manners would you re-introduce or encourage in modern society if you could?