Musings On A Nerdy Youth

            My love affair with books began a very long time ago. I can't say exactly when it started, but I can clearly follow the trail backward in my mind through the many stories I've read and loved over all these years.

            I suppose it started in my first year at school when one pupil in class was chosen to pick the book our teacher would read to us in the last half hour before we went home.  This was my favourite part of the entire day (compulsory warm milk through paper straws being my least favourite part). I loved sitting there, cross-legged, listening to the teacher's voice and letting the story carry me away. When it was my turn to pick a book I almost always chose "The Gingerbread Man". I can remember the teacher, Miss Papworth -- of the shining black bob haircut and white Dr. Scholl's -- groaning, "Not that one again". What can I say? I was not particularly adventurous when I was five. Learning to tell the time, tie my shoelaces and ride a bike were my most pressing concerns. The Gingerbread Man took me away from all that for a while, because the poor naïve fool had worse problems than me.

            For anybody growing up in England in the early seventies, I'm sure Ladybird books would be familiar. They were thin hardbacks for children with wonderful illustrations inside. Quite "grown-up" illustrations, now that I think of it. "The Gingerbread Man" was one of these, along with "The Elves and the Shoemaker", which I adored. After a while I graduated from those books to paperbacks, such as Michael Bond's Paddington -- still have those books now on my shelf. The very first book I can remember being sad to finish was "Olga Da Polga", also by Michael Bond -- the story of a feisty guinea pig and her adventures. The moment I'd read the last page I felt so bereft without those characters at my side that I had to pick it up and start over again. I did so very furtively, because I wasn't sure whether it was allowed. It felt naughty, since I'd read it once already and was now hogging it to myself.

            I often borrowed from my elder sisters, so I was a few steps ahead of my reading age. They introduced me to Enid Blyton, who wrote about the "Secret Seven" - a gang of mystery loving friends, who drank a lot of lemonade and ate tons of gingerbread biscuits for some reason -- and the adventures of schoolgirls at "St Clare's" and "Malory Towers". I suspect those books would seem old-fashioned now, but I remember them fondly. How I wished I was Darrell Rivers with the bright eyes, freckles and jolly hockey sticks (or was it lacrosse?), always doing the right thing and coming out on top. She was the first character -- apart from Olga the guinea pig -- that I felt close to, as if they might be real. I thought how wonderful it must be to create a character like that and take them off on adventures.

            Not every book was a winner in my opinion. I remember a little grey teacher one year solemnly and dutifully plodding her way through the first chapters of "The Wizard of Oz". We were all quite appalled. This was supposed to be a children's story? Even the teacher seemed ambivalent about picking it up to read the next chapter. But we were all saved. She abruptly left in the middle of term and we were given the gift of a wonderful young and excited substitute teacher who apparently neither knew nor cared about all that, cast the reading plan to the four winds, and brought with her a copy of Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." Now that was a story! I think the entire class exhaled a sigh of relief, although we never knew what became of our old teacher. We were heartless little monsters and I don't remember anybody asking -- perhaps we were afraid of bringing it up in case somebody remembered we were supposed to be reading "The Wizard of Oz". The substitute, who ended up taking over for the remainder of that year, also introduced us to the very funny and original "Bottersnikes and Gumbles" -- which still makes me laugh today and yes, I still have my copy.

            Whenever I had a book token to spend for my birthday or Christmas, I'd dash off to W.H. Smith or Heffers and spend several hours making my choice, haunting the rows like a lost spirit (or possibly a shoplifter -- I'm sure I must have been followed by a few store detectives in my day, because it took me so long to choose a book). Alternately there was the library, an old house with little separate rooms and creaky floors that you had to tip-toe around on, which just added to the thrill of it all. On a rainy day there was nothing better than a trip to that library. It's been replaced now, apparently, by a modern building, bigger and smarter. And carpeted. Shame, but at least there are still books in it.

            I devoured Noel Streatfeild's stories about girls who determinedly overcame the odds to find success. Whatever the story, the plot was basically the same: poor, plain, put-upon girl, possibly an orphan, works hard, steps over the nay-sayers, has a brief setback when her ego gets too big, eventually sorts everything out and gets a hug from somebody at the end -- possibly fame and fortune too, but the hug was the thing. Her stories were safe, predictable and heart-warming. I suppose that was  my needy phase when my dreams were bigger than my possibilities. In a lot of ways those stories were like Harlequin, or Mills and Boon books, but without the men. They were for little girls who needed hope and encouragement, who needed to believe "hey, that could happen.". We all need a little bit of that from time to time.

            When I was sick - measles, mumps, you name it, I was felled by it -- and stuck in bed for days, my sister read Agatha Christie murder mysteries to me. A bit adult, perhaps, for an eight year-old, but I enjoyed it very much. The company of my sister and her soothing voice must have helped the most, because I don't remember much of the actual story.

            Later came teachers who introduced me to Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and the Brontes. While other students eyed these books with despair and slumped at their desks as if this was punishment, I lived for English class. I loved the language within those pages and the way the author could take me to another time, another world. As a glum, sulky teenager with black-painted fingernails and a self-important, Garbo-esque desire to be left alone, those books were my escape from the dreariness of the early eighties. Nobody bothers you when you're reading a book. And if they do you are perfectly within your rights to ignore them.

            It was around that time that I started writing too, rather more seriously. I'd written poems before and short horror stories, but now I began to think in chapter and book form. I wrote a new chapter in my head on the way to school every day. I kept notebooks to scribble in on my lunch break, envisioning the day when Harrison Ford or Richard Gere would play the hero in the movie version of my sci-fi masterpiece. Yes, I had grand aspirations. Blame it on the books.

            And then, one day, our English teacher set us a homework assignment to write a "lost" chapter of Wuthering Heights. I think I was the only one in that class who actually enjoyed it and was excited the next day to hand it in. I got an "A" and I can remember watching the teacher's face as she read it. I thought -- "That's what I want to do one day. I want to write books". Oh, my fevered little heart pounded away with excitement at the prospect of one day wearing fluffy, pink, kitten-heel slippers and a silk robe, to recline on a couch in the manner of a Barbara Cartland or similar. Just like that I think my stroppy teenage, "difficult" years came to an end. I had found something that I could do well and really enjoyed.

            But I had a fair distance to travel and many different routes to try along the way before I got to my happily ever after. I didn't know the first thing about how to be published and it would be quite a few years before I had a first manuscript fully in hand, fit to be viewed. Then I had to pluck up the courage to send my work out there to be judged. That's a story in itself!

            At seventeen, handing that homework assignment to my teacher, I don't know that I ever thought I would make a living as a writer; I just knew I wanted to write stories that would entertain and sweep readers away for a while to another world, as those many, many wonderful stories have carried me over the years.

   

 

So now, like a Noel Streatfeild heroine, I'm getting to do the one thing I wanted. It doesn't always come with a hug, but it makes me happy and, I'm sure, easier to live with than that anti-social teenager with a "strop" on.

Happy Reading (whatever your age)!

 

Jayne

 

What's romance got to do with it...?

            When I tell people that I write romance, I always feel it necessary to quantify the statement with a hasty, "Not that I am at all romantic myself." I suppose I'm a bit over-the-top with the apologizing, because I did choose to write in this genre, but it's true that the grandiose, traditional "romantic" gestures have always made me cringe.

            I like genuine romance, but not the red velvet, all surface and no substance kind. A floor strewn with rose petals, for instance, just makes me think of somebody having to clean all that up. Maybe if you were the first person ever to do that, I would think it special -- but where is the imagination? I would rather see an understated wedding, organized on a shoestring budget but with a treasure trove of imagination, than one of those overblown, tick-all-the-trendy-boxes, conspicuous

consumption affairs where the bridesmaids are all orange and shrouded in ten metres of hair extensions. I know a lot of people like the movie "Love Actually", but I just can't stand it. Forgive me. Maybe I am an oddity -- hey, it's been said before in many colourful ways by my own family. But my lingering trauma from watching that movie, just once, has resulted in not being able to look at a single photo of poor, innocent Keira Knightly grinning amiably without running screaming from the room and seeking sanctuary in a cool dark place. I once accidentally watched five minutes of "The Bachelor" and couldn't find enough bleach for my brain and eyeballs afterward. So, no, I'm not a "romantic" in that sense of the much-abused word.

            But, for me, "romance" is not big or flashy; it's all the little things that add up, the priceless details that don't cost money at all.

            My husband does not have a great imagination -- and he won't mind me saying that, because he's definitely the practical half in this relationship and I'm the one that comes up with the daft stories-- but he always finds quiet ways to show that he cares.

            He frequently cooks dinner for me, puts the kettle on for a cup of tea and straightens the bed sheet for me before I get in, because I can't stand pleats. Oh, the pleasure of a straight, firm, unwrinkled bed sheet! He opens jar lids for me without being asked - yay, he fetches the groceries, and, behold, if he's going out of town he leaves me with a ton of pastries and cakes (sometimes I wonder if he's trying to fatten me up for sinister motives) in the pantry. He politely puts up with my lack of motivation for housecleaning and politics (same thing surely -- no matter how often  we try to eradicate the dirt and slime, it always comes back again exactly as it was before we made an effort), my general air of lazy procrastination, my failure to ever follow a proper recipe without throwing in random ingredients (some would say I write books the same way), lurid speculation about the neighbors (what do they think they're doing driving up and down their driveway??), and my love of a gory murder mystery. I put up with his occasional ugly shirt, noisy cereal crunching, Mario Andretti-type driving, Rodney Dangerfield movies and the throwing of hapless objects at the TV when the ******* football is on.

            We don't go out a lot for romantic dinners, and even on "Date Night" we usually prefer to go with friends so that we're not staring at each other across a table and trying to find something new to talk about. Our best nights in are spent curled up on the couch with the dogs, to laugh together at old comedies and complain together about the state of the world (and the holes in my socks).

            To some of you this may not sound very spectacular, and it isn't really. But to me -- to us-- that's romance. I suppose what counts most is the "us" part.

            You can buy all the red roses and watch all the sappy movies out there, but if you're not on the same wavelength it's meaningless. For us, after more than thirty years together, romance is about accepting the differences; keeping a sense of humour; celebrating the ways -- big and small -- in which you do connect; knowing what annoys or upsets the other person, and trying to save them from the worst of it, and making a home that has room for both of you to be yourselves (however crazy that is), while also keeping in it the things that make you happy together. Love is in the details.

            All that said...yes, there are chocolates. I am not repulsed by that traditionally romantic fare.

 

 

Images used : Arrufos by Belmiro de Almeida 1887, photograph of woman accosting man on the London Eye 2016, and photograph provided by my sister of chocolates prior to their downfall 2018.

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.

           

* * * *

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(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)