Exclusive excerpt from Slowly Rising

Today I'm sharing with you an excerpt from my newest release. Enjoy!

* * * *

            As Amalie strolled around the stone markers that day, the sun went in and marbled clouds gathered with a swiftness that was not rare for an English summer afternoon, but the silence that came with it did strike her as unusual. All the birds had abruptly tucked themselves away and the village dogs—usually a lively, rowdy bunch over whom manly commands held little sway— paused their barking, waiting. For something.

            Before too long she felt a soft sprinkle of fresh rain, and with it came the sensation of being watched. Amalie turned, and there, in the shadow of a yew tree, stood a man in a mud-spattered greatcoat. At first glance he was little more than a muddled smudge of shadows, some deep and others shallow, but then a breeze moved the tree branches and let more bluish light catch upon his rugged face turning a charcoal sketch into a watercolor.

            With one, thick-knuckled, ungloved fist he swept off his hat and gave a quick bow. "Af'noon, miss." His hands were scarred and rough. She noticed this at once, even from a little distance and as he tried to hide them from her view.

            She answered hesitantly, "Good afternoon," and would have moved on, but then he said,

            "I seek a house called Slowly Rising. Do you know the place?"

            Amalie stopped and squinted as the rain quickened. A mounting breeze spat drops under her bonnet brim, into her face. "Slowly Rising?"

            "Aye. There's no one else about to ask and nobody answers their doors to strangers around here, it seems. Even the church doors are bolted." He gave a wry smile. "They must have been warned I was coming."

            She realized now that they were utterly alone. Quite suddenly. Earlier she had seen a few villagers on the common and passed some in the lane, but now there was not another soul in view. They must have taken flight indoors at the first darkening of cloud. Like the wildlife, they huddled away, waiting for whatever might come.

            "But I'm glad I found you here," he added, taking another step forward just as the clouds ripped open and the rain fell in earnest. "You'll do for me."

            "I beg your pardon?"

            "You're a pleasant sight to refresh the blood and bones of a tired man, miss. That's all I meant." Apparently he did not care if he drowned in the downpour; he barely flinched, but kept his gaze fixed upon her, hat in his hands, and seemed in no haste to go anywhere. "You're a real tonic. I don't reckon I've seen prettier in all my days. I thought you weren't real at first. That you must be a lovely ghost driftin' among the gravestones."

            "The house is just that way." Amalie pointed briskly, ignoring his strange remarks. He was a man, and they said stupid things quite often. Best not to encourage them by showing any reaction. "Up the hill and through the copper beeches."

            "Is it much farther?" he murmured.

            How weary he looked. "Not too far."

            "I've had a rough journey you see," he said, looking down at his dirty coat. "I'm hungry."

            "Well, you'd best make haste then."

        

    Still he did not move. He began to look like an abandoned pup begging for shelter and supper, his hair slick to his head, the tips of his ears poking through.

            In a sudden burst of sympathy, she relented her sharp tone to add, "I am on my way there now. I can take you, if you like."

            "Do you live there?"

            "I work there. What business do you have at the house, sir?"

            A smile broke across his damp face, shaking off the rain. "I'm to look after you, ain't I?" It was as if he'd suddenly thought of it, or had forgotten his purpose there until that moment.

            She tried to shake off the sudden foreboding— a mood as grey and heavy as the clouds that had stolen away the sun. Usually she liked the rain; this afternoon it began to hurt her skin. Or perhaps she simply felt more sensitive to it. More alive.

            "'Tis my job," he said, nodding. "What I'm meant to do."

            She raised a hand to her coat collar, pulling it up against that chill. A gust of wind tossed those needles of rain about, soaking the long grass at her feet and lifting the hem of her skirt, as if it meant to blow her clean away.

            "Do they expect you at the house?" she demanded.

            "They should know I'm coming. Lady Bramley sent me, didn't she?"

            Well, that was something of a comfort at least. Amalie had nothing but the greatest respect and fondness for her former mistress, and faith in her judgment.

            Leaning forward to stay upright against the thrusting rain, one hand holding the crown of her bonnet, she shouted, "Then we had better take shelter under the lych-gate until this rain passes and then you can follow me back to the house."

            He nodded again and wordlessly waved her on with his hat. But when he stepped from the thick tufts of slippery grass to the wet path, he almost lost his footing and she instinctively put her hand out to hold his coat sleeve. He was unsteady as a newborn foal. His boots were scuffed and dirty, like his coat, his breeches not much cleaner. There was even dirt on his cheek and a nasty set of scratches. He looked as if he'd been in the wars, she mused. When his gaze found her fingers on his sleeve, she quickly took them back, surprised at herself.

            "I don't know why you think anybody else needs looking after," she muttered, recovering her customary no-nonsense tone. "From the state of you, it seems you're in greater need of help at present, sir." Turning away, she added, "Make haste, or you'll catch your death."

            A moment later they were shoulder to shoulder beneath the old slate roof over the churchyard gate.

            He was a big man, thick-necked and swarthy. Now that she saw his bare hands closer, she could verify the existence of scars upon his knuckles. They were many and deep, some old, some recent. No wonder she had been able to see them from a distance. When he saw her looking, he held his hat behind his back with both hands and peered glumly at the sky, head ducked behind the upstanding collar of his coat.

            Perhaps the wind and rain had knocked the breath out of him, for he had nothing to say for several minutes, except to mutter, "Remember your etiquette and polite conversation, you daft clod," in a deep, gravelly voice. Every so often he stuck his head out to check the progress of those bleak clouds and fidgeted with the hat behind his back.

            Amalie also consulted her knowledge of what was right and proper conversation with a stranger. They had not been introduced, and she did not even know his name. Before she could remedy that fact, he swayed toward her and said,

            "Where the dickens did this rain come from? It were a fine day when we set out."

            "The weather is changeable, even in summer."

            Yes, the weather was probably a suitable topic. Lady Bramley would approve. Besides, it was the reason they found themselves stuck there, clumped together in awkward, but necessary proximity.

            "When I were a boy," said he.

            Then nothing.

            "When you were a boy, sir?"

            But he was lost in thought, staring out from his collar, his countenance troubled, bewildered. She wondered if cool rainwater had seeped down the back of his neck; that might cause a similar discomfort, surely.

            "When I were a boy," he finally began again, "they made me stand out in rain like this for a good hour or more. Punishment for talking back."

            "Who did?"

            "The governor at the orphanage."

            "I see." Although she felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of this confession from a stranger, he seemed at ease telling it.

            "Good thing I were a strong lad and survived the fever what followed. But sometimes I still feel it in me lungs. A bit o' rattle, like a penny stuck in an ol' iron pipe. Always thought it would be that what did me in." He looked at her. "They tried their best to be rid o' me— whipped me, choked me, starved me and beat me— but I couldn't be brought down. Nothin' ever got the better o' me." Then, even odder, he reached for her hand, clasped it tightly and said, "Not until this. When I saw you."

            Amalie would have retrieved her hand, but he strengthened his grip and, much to her shock, lifted it to his lips.

            "Stay beside me," he said.

            She was certain she felt his hard, forceful pulse through the tips of his fingers as they pressed into her palm.

            "You'll be safe with me always," he murmured, his voice hoarse, his lips skimming her knuckles.

            Rain rattled across the slate shelter overhead, but she barely heard it, her own frantic heartbeat smothering any other sound. She couldn't move or breathe. Time meant nothing            suddenly, as if they were frozen in a picture.

            And then she came to her senses again. If anybody saw this strange man kissing her hand, she would never live down the rumors and tormenting.

            "Kindly release my hand, sir." It occurred to her then that he might be suffering from concussion. That scrape on his cheek looked recent, like some of the scars on his hands. Further proving her theory, he studied her gloved fingers as if he did not know how they came to be in his possession, and then he let them drop.

            "I forgot me manners, didn't I?" he said, apologetically.

            She quickly tucked one hand inside the other. "It is only rain," she said, "not a plague of locusts, for pity's sake. I am quite safe and so are you." She shook her head. "Men sometimes make a drama of the oddest things. We shan't melt or be swept away."

            "I think I am already swept away," he murmured, smiling uncertainly down at her.

           

* * * *

Want to find out what happens next? Get your copy here. (If you don't see your favourite online shop listed here, let me know via my Facebook Author Page and I'll be sure to include it in future lists for your convenience. Thank you!)

AMAZON US

AMAZON UK

AMAZON BRAZIL

AMAZON GERMANY

AMAZON FRANCE

BARNES AND NOBLE

TWISTED E-PUBLISHING

SMASHWORDS


(Imagine used here: John Constable's The Hay Wain 1823)


 

Character Showcase - McKenna

Amalie McKenna is an eager, hard-working young servant in the household of Lady Bramley. She has an ambition to become a lady's maid -- just like the woman who raised her -- and her mistress is very encouraging and supportive. When Amalie is sent by her ladyship to tend the new mistress of Slowly Rising, a manor house in the Shropshire countryside, she knows this is her big opportunity and she won't let anything spoil it. Not even the distractions caused by that irritating, nosy new valet.

Amalie, or "McKenna", as she must be called now that she's a lady's maid at last, is well aware of how important it is not to let oneself become distracted and she has no time for flirtations with cheeky-faced, impertinent rogues. She may look young and innocent, but she's not naïve and she doesn't intend to make a mess of this new life here in the country. Hoping to make her mother in heaven proud, she wants only to be the best lady's maid there ever was. It's everything she's ever worked for.

The other servants think she's haughty and prim, and too young to be a lady's maid. They tease and torment her, but the fact that they cannot get under her skin only annoys them all the more.

She has often felt like an outsider in any case, and her best friend is Arjun Das, the Indian valet of Lady Bramley's neighbor back in London. He is the only one who ever seems to see and understand her. The only one who listens and takes her seriously. Of course, she also has Coquin, the naughty spirit she keeps trapped in a silver chocolate pot that her mother once gave her, but that creature seldom listens to her either. Since they arrived at Slowly Rising, Coquin has been more restless and noisy than ever, begging her mistress to be let out of that pot and run free.

The last thing McKenna needs in her new post.

Before she lets Coquin out again, she'll need to learn as much as she can about the other spirits in the house. And she'll have to discover exactly what it is that brought the so-called valet, Gideon Jones, to Slowly Rising. Because she's quite sure that man is not what he pretends to be.

Nothing the lives within the walls of Slowly Rising is what it seems.

* * * *
(Excerpt below from Slowly Rising)

Not all spirits played well together. Sometimes they started fires or floods, or fierce mistrals that blew houses down. Sometimes they caused sudden quarrels between lovers, or lust between enemies. They made cows behave as if they were moonstruck, stopped hens from laying, and generally constructed chaos for their own amusement.

            And Amalie did not want anything bad to happen here to her kind new mistress. She had seen the scars on Mrs. Wilding's forearms when she dressed her in the morning, and so she knew that lady had already fallen foul of bad fortune— whether it be the fault of human hands or other beings. One day, when the time was right, she would ask her mistress about those poorly healed wounds, but Amalie recognized the scars left by flames when she saw them and that, for now, was all she need know.

            "They used to burn witches," said Coquin from her pot. "Well, they tried. They didn't know it made us stronger."

            Because when something burns it stays in the air to be dispersed with the smoke over far distances and in the tiniest of pieces. It becomes more powerful, indestructible, a part of the air itself and therefore a necessity of life. It is never lost. Never gone.

            "Did you know, sweet Amalie, that the word departed used to mean, split in two? Divided? It is not a word of which to be afraid, mon ami."

            What was the menace jabbering on about now? Lifting her head briefly from the pillow, Amalie urged again, "S'endormir!" Tired after a long day of work, she was in no mood tonight for Coquin's songs and stories. "To be sure, nobody else keeps such a noisy, chattering chocolate pot."

            That brought her silence, for a while at least. If one did not count the indignant huffs belched forth at intervals from the spout of that silver chocolate pot.

            Somewhere in the wall a woman laughed softly and water dripped.

            It must be raining again. Warm, summer rain.

            Amalie yawned into her pillow and let her limbs relax under the blanket. At least this house would never burn; it was too damp.

            Nobody could catch fire here.

* * * *

Want to read more? Get your copy of Slowly Rising here.
Happy Reading!

JF
 (Image: La Scapigliata by Leonardo Da Vinci c. 1508)

Character Showcase - Arjun Das

In my new release SLOWLY RISING one of the heroine's best friends and advisers is Arjun Das, the Indian manservant of Lady Bramley's neighbor. If you read SLOWLY FELL you will know a little bit about this curious neighbor of whom her ladyship had grave doubts at first, and I daresay you'll get to know him better, as she has done, in the future. Suffice to say, in this book, you will become acquainted with Arjun Das, the neighbor's very wise, all-seeing, all-knowing gentleman's gentleman --  who is, on the surface, a valet.

Despite his very dutiful approach to the job, Arjun possesses a sly streak of teasing mischief. He loves to tell spectacularly tall tales -- although he tells them so solemnly that nobody can be sure whether they are the work of his colorful imagination or true stories. When he and his equally mysterious master, Mr. Volkov, first moved in at 17 Hanover Square, Arjun Das pretended to be mute just to amuse himself, which caused an even greater stir among the other servants on the square. And probably made him accidentally privy to a few dark secrets, since they assumed he would never be able to tell anybody what he knew.

He likes to keep folk on their toes, unable to predict what he might do next.

Our heroine takes a liking to him at once, for she feels as if he sees her and understands her as nobody else ever does. He is always ready to advise and guide her in a gentle way, and when Lady Bramley sends her to tend a new mistress at the haunted manor house called Slowly Rising, Arjun comes out of his house, even in the rain, to see her off with a few kind words of encouragement.

"Do not look down, little one. Always look to see which way the bubbles rise. They will show you the way to the surface, bravest of tiny, tiny woman creatures. If you look up, you will see and remember that there are no limits. Nothing is beyond you."

 

She will carry his sound advice with her on this adventure. To Amalie McKenna, Arjun has been a dear friend and confidant, but only much later will she realize exactly how special he is, for this gentleman's gentleman so extraordinary has other talents too. And yes, his stories are all true.

 

Well, mostly.

 

HAPPY READING!

 

JF

 

Images used here: Both paintings by Raja Ravi Varma (1848-1906). The first is a portrait of T. Madhara Rao, Indian civil servant, politician and Dewan of Travancore, who was known as a great administrator. I have been told  that he bears a good resemblance to the Arjun Das of my story. The second portrays Vishnu with his two wives on Garuda, a legendary bird of mythology -- a painting included here because its so striking. Whether or not Arjun Das had two wives, he is keeping to himself.

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)