Character Showcase - Gideon Jones

At the beginning of SLOWLY RISING, Gideon Jones is a Bow Street Runner, who also has experience providing protection services for some important members of society. He has been called upon, in the past, to solve various problems -- such as blackmailing ex-lovers and murderous relatives impatient for their share of a rich old lady's inheritance.

But Gideon's company was not always in high demand. Far from it. As a babe he was left at an orphanage, where he spent the first ten years of his life being abused and told that he was unwanted, nothing more than a burden on society. Then he spent several years in a workhouse, before he took his chance in the outside world. Despite this unhappy start in life, he has always kept his head up, determined never to be pushed under by those who think they're superior.

Recognizing the importance of an education, he taught himself to read using old copies of the "Hue and Cry"* (a weekly newspaper containing details of crimes and criminals wanted), but he also keeps an old, tattered copy of Gulliver's Travels, which once blew into his hands over the orphanage wall. Now, as an adult, he keeps a thick dictionary by his side to look up any words he does not know. Determined never to be looked down upon again, he doesn't want to be known as all brawn for the rest of his days; he wants to be respected for his brain too.

"Gideon didn't believe in pandering to the upper classes. He owed them nothing, saw no cause to cower and demean himself, to save their dainty brows from the furrows of vexation, or shelter their backsides from the bruises of reality. Often he found that they appreciated his manner, for in most cases they were surrounded only by sycophants and his brutal honesty made a refreshing change. In small doses. "They hire Gideon Jones, then they get Gideon Jones. Exactly as he is, scars and all," he liked to say, when people complained about his undecorated form of speech."

When the Dowager Lady Bramley hires Gideon to pose as a valet and look after her good friends, Adam and Sarah Wilding, he finds himself embarking on a new adventure. He has rarely been far outside London, but now he's off to the countryside, to a house called Slowly Rising. He's heard it's haunted - Lady Bramley says there is a "lurking menace" and "deeds afoot" that are beyond her to explain. But Gideon doesn't believe in ghosts, hobgoblins or witches... "they could not possibly hold more horrors than the places in which he spent his childhood." He's a plain-speaking, straightforward cockney and he won't take nonsense from anybody or anything-- whether they be flesh and blood, or a spectral creature bent on mischief.

He's fairly sure there's nothing left in this life that can surprise, or frighten him. And then he arrives at Slowly Rising and meets the odd little lady's maid who works for Mrs. Wilding. He doesn't trust her - not a hair on her pretty head. She's too prim and haughty, too tidy and composed, too good to be true.

As for those dyed-pink silk stockings she wears...surely not fitting for a lady's maid. Possibly meant to distract a man from his job. Oh, and under her bed she keeps a silver chocolate pot that sings to itself.

Is she the "lurking menace" he was sent there to stop?

He'll just have to keep an eye on her...and her stockings, because there is something adrift about Miss McKenna.

SLOWLY RISING will be available online August 29th, 2018

JF

(Image here: Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Freidrich c. 1818)



*after 1839 this publication became known as the Police Gazette.

Character Showcase - Mrs. Hopper

Well, I suppose I must begin by telling you that Mrs. Hopper declined to be interviewed for her character showcase. She is most put out by the portrayal of her character in the book SLOWLY RISING and threatens to take steps to halt publication before Wednesday, August 29th. As she says, she does not stand for tomfoolery of this nature and she has a reputation to protect. She has been made to look like a buffoon.

 

But since we stand by our version of events, we intend to continue as planned and give you a little insight into the "housekeeper" who comes to manage the vicar's household after the death of his wife.

 

Agnes Hopper is a widow from Monk's Cross - the nearest market town to the much smaller village of Slowly Fell. She dresses with a style and elegance that seems out of place for a housekeeper and especially raises eyebrows in her new village. Agnes Hopper, so they say, "is no better than she should be."

 

Her curiosity piqued by this remark, Mrs. Sarah Wilding, the mistress of Slowly Rising manor house decides she had better take a look at Mrs. Hopper and she brings along her new lady's maid for the visit. Both women will soon have formed their own opinions about the vicar's housekeeper and neither are very flattering.

 

"She's not much acquainted with a feather duster," says the lady's maid. Mrs. Hopper has far too many frills on her sleeves. For a newcomer, she is also a little too forceful with her opinions and comfortable playing the less-than-gracious hostess in a house that is not her own. Yet.

 

But Mrs. Hopper has not come to Slowly Fell simply to work as a housekeeper. She has other talents— or so she believes. Having heard of the haunted house that overlooks the village, she plans to investigate and put a stop to the rowdiness of those spirits left to run amok within the walls of Slowly Rising. After all, she knows how to communicate with "lost souls" and has talked to her husband every day since he died.

 

As Mrs. Wilding's lady's maid remarks, poor Mr. Hopper. He still cannot get away from his wife, or finish a sentence. Even in death.

 

Can Agnes Hopper rout the "undead" of Slowly Rising? Or will she find herself in over her proudly feathered hat?

 

Find out soon! SLOWLY RISING available August 29th, 2018. (If Mrs. Hopper, who knows more about everything than anybody who ever lived, is not able to get it stopped first).

 

Happy reading!

 

JF

 

 

(Image used here: Woman Before Rising Sun by Caspar David Friedrich C. 1818)

Character Showcase - Coquin

In SLOWLY RISING (available next Wednesday, 29th August) Coquin is the name of a naughty, restless spirit creature who lives inside a silver chocolate pot. She constantly pesters her young mistress (and, as Coquin sees it, her gaoler) to let her free. In the meantime she spins the stirrer inside the pot, chatters incessantly to annoy her mistress and sings songs. Over and over again.

How did Coquin get inside the pot and who, or what, exactly is she?

Well, you'll have to read the book to find out.

Suffice to say, she's older than she thinks she is, naughtier than anybody knows, capable of greater destruction than she can imagine, and there is only one person who can set her free from her pot. But it's not her little mistress who, for all her promises, is firmly resolved never to let Coquin out again.

Look what happened last time.

No, it is a certain man who will stumble upon Coquin in her chocolate pot and let her out, without even knowing what he's done.

In the words of Coquin's mistress, "Men only ever made the world untidy, leaving women to clean up the mess."

I have to say, if I were ever trapped in a pot, I would rather it be one in which chocolate is made than anything else.

Look for SLOWLY RISING next week, and, if you haven't already, grab your copy of the prequel SLOWLY FELL, which is currently on sale at all the best online book stores!

JF


Images shown are both 18th century paintings by Jean-Etienne Liotard. The first is called "The Chocolate Girl" and the second "A Lady  Pouring Chocolate". I love the way you can almost touch the material in both pictures, particularly the first).

 

 
 

Coming next week!

Slowly Rising is a house that slumbers with one eye open— a lantern that flickers with watchful amber flame in a second floor window. But like a cat hunched before a mouse hole, it is never fully and deeply asleep. Just pretending.

Once in a while it stretches; its tail languidly unfurls to give a single, sultry sweep from side to side before it lies still again. With an ear to the wall you can hear the wattle and daub vibrating with a low, throbbing purr.

The woman who sings in the walls of the house is waiting.

* * * *

Amalie McKenna, the new lady's maid at Slowly Rising, is ambitious, hard-working and devoted to her job. Nothing can distract her and she has no time for mischief. This house might have a macabre history and more than a few wayward spirits, but Amalie is unimpressed. The supernatural has been a part of her world since before she was born and there's not much left that can surprise her, or make her heart beat faster.

 Gideon Jones has also come to Slowly Rising with a job to do. Unlike anything she's ever encountered before, he's a straightforward, plain-speaking, fearless cockney with rough edges and an irrepressible smile. He claims to be an ordinary valet, but Amalie doesn't believe that for a minute. Because nothing that lives within the walls of Slowly Rising is quite what it seems.

* * * *

Despite their differences, there is one thing the house's residents have in common: they're brave souls who came on a long journey, ready for adventure. And if they are bold enough to ignore the warning scratched into the doorframe, the menacing sentry of crows, and rumors of a man once scared to death within, then they're welcome to stay a while. At their own risk.

Now the woman who sings in the walls of the house waits for you. Are you ready to step inside?

 

 

SLOWLY RISING is the sequel to SLOWLY FELL and it will be out next Wednesday, August 29th, 2018. I'll be posting excerpts and character showcases in the days leading up to release, so don't forget to check in over the week.

 

Happy Reading!

 

JF

Do you believe in sales??

SLOWLY FELL is now available from all online bookstores at a special low price, so here is your chance to pick up a copy and catch up on the story before the sequel SLOWLY RISING is released at the end of this month.

* * * *

Do you believe in witches?
Adam Wyatt will tell you that he certainly doesn't believe. He's the solemn, sensible blacksmith of Slowly Fell and he keeps his distance from females entirely for his own tranquility of mind, not out of any fear of mischievous magic. In his opinion, the great number of souls lost forever to the village pond can be blamed on carelessness and unlucky accident; nothing to do with a witch's curse.

The Dowager Lady Bramley, widow of the local squire, also denies a belief in witchcraft. Or ghosts. Although she's lately enjoyed long discussions with her dear departed husband, who is intent on luring her to Slowly Fell, a place that haunts her dreams-a village with a macabre history, and a connection to her family that she would rather not remember.

Admiral Wetherby did not believe in witches either, until madness caused him to burn down his house and all his possessions, sending himself up in smoke with it. And now his daughter, practical, level-headed survivor, Sarah Wetherby, arriving in Slowly Fell to look after the vicar's sick wife, doesn't know what to think about witches. She is not a young woman prone to fanciful ideas, but she loves a good mystery, and there is certainly something going on in Slowly Fell. Sarah has begun to suspect that she's lived here before. Certain sights around the village are familiar- the house where a reclusive old woman resides in grand, but lonely splendor; the pond where a family of accused witches once met their deaths in the ducking-stool, and even the gruff manners of that handsome bachelor blacksmith seem to her familiar as old friends. Or something more.

But in Slowly Fell, nothing and nobody is quite what they seem.

AMAZON UK

AMAZON US

Illustration used here: April Love by Arthur Hughes c.1855 (Just because I like it)

The Storyteller

            My father was a fabulous teller of stories-- he could make you laugh until you felt sick, but you didn't mind. And you were still laughing the next day, thinking about his expression as he described how somebody got their face pushed into a plate full of egg, or how he tormented his little brother. How he was, of course, always in trouble.

            His stories were true -- not fiction, but about his childhood, adolescence and young adulthood, growing up under circumstances that few people today would experience -- but they were still remarkable, even magical to us, as we sat around him in rapt attention. He often wove a bit of humor into his tales and nobody else could tell them quite the way he did. I've always said I get my love of a good story from my Dad. But I still can't tell them the way he could.

            Growing up in England in the seventies we had a lot of power cuts, and maybe that's when he started telling his stories to entertain us, but I can clearly remember thinking how wonderful it was that he could make us laugh like that and put pictures in our heads as if we were watching a movie. But better.

            I wanted to do the same, but I would have to write my stories down for people to read, because I was never confident about speaking in front of people. I would have to hide behind pen and paper. Even so, the stories still had to come out.

            The fiction my dad loved were some classics of English Literature. His favourites were Dickens' "Great Expectations" and R. D. Blackmore's "Lorna Doone". I don't know when he would have read them as he left school at fourteen to work -- and from what he said of his education in rural East Anglia it did not involve a lot of books! -- but somehow he had absorbed those wonderful stories and he never forgot the colorful characters. I suppose that's another influence on me, because when I create characters I often think, "What would Dad say? Would Dad like them?"  or  I imagine I can hear him laughing. Which, for me, is the best review ever.

         

   My sisters and I are old ladies now (I can  hear them complaining - "Speak for yourself"), but when it comes to our memories of Dad, I think that's how we all still picture him, laughing and telling one of his stories.

            There were many deeply sad stories in his life too, but he left off telling those until he wrote his memoirs in his eighties. We knew they were there, but he didn't talk about them and so we didn't dare either. He said to me once, during the last two weeks I spent with him, "We didn't have touchy feely in my day". He just got on with his life, no matter what was thrown at him. I read his memoirs now, feeling very, very grateful that he took the time and made the effort to tell us the whole story in the end. And loving him all the more for it -- if that's possible.

            I understand now that his sense of humor must have saved him many times. It kept him going through terrible tragedy, when some would have given up and given in.

            One day, perhaps, I'll write a story about it. When I can  be as strong as he was.

            For now, I'll keep writing my silly creations, trying to amuse, surprise and entertain in the

only way I can. As I grow older I find myself greatly influenced by my dad, by the contrast of laughter and sadness in his life, and his love of memorable characters. My next story is no exception.

            Let's see. There's a lady's maid who keeps a pet demon inside a silver chocolate pot, an Indian valet who knows everything and tells incredible stories, a house that sings to itself-- when its being naughty, a gardener who thinks he has to feed dragons, several ghosts, a murderous pond -- and a corpse or two. Oh, and a Bow Street Runner who thinks it's all utter nonsense and they're all "Barmy". But that lady's maid knows, the minute she sees him, that they're going to be married. And she's not in the least happy about it.

            I think my Dad will like this one.

 

* * * *

 

Keep an eye out for Slowly Rising - coming this summer! In the meantime, you may want to catch up with the story in SLOWLY FELL, if you haven't already. And if you have, hey - read it again.

Photos - mine and my family's. Painting of "Maid with Chocolate Pot" by Jean Etienne Liotard c. 1745

In which Fred and Flora (Not Friends) begin a correspondence...

            "Your Grace,

            I must thank you for the delightful lemon cakes, which arrived yesterday and were devoured in due haste. My brother and I had never tasted such a heavenly recipe and now we are spoiled for any other.

    

 Hearty thanks should also be extended to your messenger, who succeeded in conducting speedy delivery without any damage befalling his precious cargo. I am sure that if such a task were ever left in my hands those delicacies would have been scattered to the four winds before they reached their destination. But you must know that. And on that subject I am enclosing the sum of five shillings which, although princely to me, shall not, I fear, make much headway in clearing my debt for damages incurred during my brief stay at Castle Malgrave. Do let me know the total reparations required.

 

            At least this will show an intention to pay and you will not think so ill of me...I hope.

            Flora."

P.S.

Should you write back, please address the note to Kate, the Under Housemaid, and she will see that it gets to me.

            "The first Chelmsworth in several generations I've known to pay a debt," muttered Plumm. "Or even make an effort. How very curious."

            "Yes." Maxim gazed at his window. "She is rather... unique."

            She had suggested they might be friends, but he considered that idea quite impossible. What need did he have for a female friend? A young, reckless, unguarded female friend? No, it could only be a recipe for disaster. Detrimental to his health. He would be forever getting her out of scrapes with no reward for his trouble. What was the point?

            "Send the five shillings back at once. They are not required."

            "Very good, your grace. Perhaps...you would care to write a note yourself? To soften the gesture and make her understand that you bear no grudge."

            "Do we not bear a grudge?" he grumbled. He certainly felt something unpleasant lurking.

            "No, sir. It is polite in these circumstances to forgive. It is gentlemanly, your grace."

            "Gentlemanly? Pah! She would not know a gentleman from a rogue."

            "Then it is surely a good service for you to teach her the difference."

            "Oh, for pity's sake. Pass me the tiresome, bloody pen."

            And so he wrote a note with which to return the five shillings.

 

         

   Madam,

            Do not give the matter another thought. I shan't. Keep your shillings, for I would not want to be accused of taking your last coins.

            Malgrave.

 

            Plumm, standing behind him as he wrote, cleared his throat sharply. "Is that what you want to send, sir?"

            "Yes. What of it?"

            "Seems a trifle...brusque. Sulky...even."

            "Sulky?" He scowled. "A Malgrave never sulks."

            "No, indeed. And we would not want anybody to think your grace capable of such childlike action. Would we?"

            Annoyed, he paused to read it over again and then added a final hasty thought.

 

            I am glad you approved of the cake. That's something I did rightly, in any case.

           

            It was the best he could currently manage, and really he did not know why he made the effort. Sometimes Plumm got above himself. A grievous occurrence that ought to be nipped in the bud.

            Expecting no further correspondence, within a week he was surprised to receive a reply.

            Your Grace,

            You are too kind to this silly and inconsequential girl. But if you do not let me repay you, I shall be forever in your debt, and that won't do at all. I am enclosing an envelope of sunflower, hollyhock and lavender seeds from the garden at Wyndham. They might be planted to help cover the hole I left in your box hedge. Well, strictly speaking, poor Georgie Tarleton's head left the hole, but I suppose it would not have done so without my mischief and the urge to propel him through it.

            I hope these seeds can be accepted and put to use, for in my humble opinion your gardens are lacking in a sufficient bounty of color. These are some of my favorite flowers, and I should like to think I have left one mark at Castle Malgrave that is not an unsightly souvenir and grievously regretted.

            Flora.

 

            After a day or two, during which he decided he would not write back, he wrote back.

 

            Madam;

            You are not the first person to be taken with the urge to send Tarleton's face through a hedge. You are simply the first to succeed. And with considerable aplomb. He seems none the worse for it, and I daresay my hedge suffered the most harm.

            The seeds will be put to use somewhere in the garden to relieve the gloom it suffers now that you are no longer gallivanting colorfully through it. Rest assured your mark has been made, but we recover. At least our house was not razed to the ground. Entirely.

            Malgrave.

 

            To which she replied,

 

            Dear Sir;

            I am thrilled the seeds are acceptable. You will notice that I do not write your name, for I fear my great aunt might come in to see what I am up to. Her hopes are too easily raised, and she has taken to looking over my shoulder. I am obliged to smuggle my letters out of the house like a spy confined in the Tower of London.

            My brother thanks you for the book 'Robinson Crusoe', which he is most eagerly reading as I sit here. I shall encourage him to write his own note of appreciation as soon as he puts it down and pays heed to me.

            Although you have no desire for friendship between us, it cheers my spirits to know that we are not enemies. I do not like to imagine you despising Lady Flora Chelmsworth. She does not mean ill, and I think it will please you to know that she attempts now to curb her wicked ways, to have better sense and cause considerably less havoc. It is an uphill task, but I bear it.

            We might nod when next we meet?

            Yours cordially,

            Flora

            And he soon answered,

 

            Madam,

            Indeed, a nod would be acceptable. I am informed a remark about the weather is also within respectable range, but nothing further should be attempted. A man such as myself and a woman, such as yourself, simply cannot form a bond of friendship in any way that would be free of perusal and speculation. Especially in our circumstances.

            I hope you enjoy your summer and do not cause too many riots among the rhododendrons. I understand they are beautiful at Wyndham.

        

            The paper seemed empty, so he struggled for something to tell her that she would not find dull and dreary.

 

            There is a particularly noisy chaffinch that comes each day to rattle its beak against my library window, and steal any string, paper or crumbs it finds, should I inadvertently leave the latch ajar. Yesterday it stole its way in and tipped over an entire pot of ink, before it was safely chased out again. Naturally, I have named the bird in your honor.

            M.

        

            He waited a full fortnight to hear from her again and then tore the seal open so impatiently with his knife that he cut his finger.

 

            Dear M;

            That looks very mysterious and somewhat menacing for a salutation, does it not? I am minded to call you Fred, if you have no objection. It is much easier to write to a 'Fred' than anything else. There, it is decided, and you are Fred. Now nobody can know to whom I write and we are safe from the horror of being Suspected Friends. In "our circumstances"— as you say— we cannot afford to have our names linked.

            Yes, the summer passes swiftly and with many entertainments. I am to go boating with a small party. I have no great anticipation of enjoyment in the company— Miss Harriet Seton will be there and the last time I saw her she stuck me with a pin, although she denies it— but this is my great aunt's urging and she is best kept happy. There is not much time to write as she watches me like a hawk.

            I hope you feed your little, trespassing chaffinch. I'm sure she is well-meaning at heart, for all the trouble she causes with her visits.

            Yours,

            Flora.

            Fred. She called him Fred. Apparently none of his many other names were adequate in her eyes.

            She had to be different, of course.

            He sensed this strange correspondence was not a good idea— it was very hard to get one's best, most discouraging glare across in written words— but his usually stalwart instincts of right and wrong were, on this occasion, remarkably capricious. It was not a friendship, and about that they were both agreed; they had nothing in common. So he could not say for certain what it was that they had or did.

            But it continued nonetheless.

 

* * * *

Want to read more about Flora and her "Fred"? The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora is out now at all good e-book stores and will be available in print soon!

Find it in your country:

 

US

UK
BRAZIL
FRANCE
CANADA
GERMANY
ITALY
SPAIN
JAPAN
NETHERLANDS

Artwork used above: Man Writing at his Desk by Jan Ekels 1784
and Young Woman Reading a Letter by Jean Raoux (1677-1734)