August 23, 1764
T
he grounds of Rothgar Abbey were thronged again for the grand celebration of the wedding of the marquess’s rather scandalous daughter to the handsome Earl of Huntersdown. Petra watched from her bedroom window, for she wouldn’t go down to mingle until after the ceremony. That would take place shortly in the private chapel, which was a remnant of the abbey that had once stood on this site.
She was ready, dressed in a gown of green silk sprigged with spring flowers, a costly replication of the one Robin had bought for her in Montreuil, the one he’d loved her in when passion had first hit them in full force. The one she’d opened for him on the
Courlis,
the one she’d worn to arrive here, to find a loving home.
She turned his ring on her finger, a star sapphire, exactly what she’d asked for. She touched the pearls around her neck, a gift from her father. A three-strand bracelet of pearls was a gift from Diana. Though it didn’t quite fit the outfit, she wore Robin’s cameo brooch among the fine lace that trimmed her bodice.
She’d asked him about that.
“The sparrow?” he’d said, as they strolled through the gardens. “I commissioned it after my father’s death, though I’m not sure why. I’ve always been puzzled by that story. Why did the sparrow kill the friendly robin? Was he punished for it? There’s no mention. I suppose I was simply thinking on death.”
“And realizing that your days as Cock Robin were numbered.” She quoted the end of the poem.
“All the birds of the air fell a-crying and a-sobbing when they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.”
She squeezed his hand. “He’ll never die for me.”
“That’s as well,” he’d said, eyes twinkling, and it was then he told her the cruder meaning of “cock.” She laughed again now at the memory.
Portia came in to ask if Petra was ready, and she went out to take her father’s arm to be led down to the chapel. There she found Robin, in a grand suit of blue velvet that had sapphire-and-diamond buttons that she remembered. That almost made her laugh again. She was fighting laughter, anyway, simply because she was so happy.
Robin’s mother was here, along with his sisters and brothers. There hadn’t been enough time to truly get to know them, but she sensed harmony was possible. His mother, to her amusement, had been disapproving rather than approving of Petra’s devotion to the faith they shared, but once Petra had assured her she would accept her children being raised in the Protestant faith, that barrier had fallen away.
She was a strong-minded, proud woman, the Dowager Countess of Huntersdown, and used to having her own way. She was also used to having Robin to herself and not entirely happy about Petra’s unorthodox origins, but a handsome dowry and grand connections had sweetened matters, and she and Petra had love for Robin in common.
Even Coquette had her place here, sitting by Robin’s feet in perfect, courtly dignity.
Petra said her vows, content that they made the same promises to Robin as the Catholic ones, and in the sight of the same God. She knew from the way he made his vows to her that he meant them in the truest, deepest sense. She sent prayers of thanks to her mother, and to God, who had brought her here.
Then she and Robin went out among a merry crowd to share their happiness with her father’s servants, tenants, neighbors, and friends. The day was made better by it being the anniversary of the marquess’s wedding, and by the recent announcement that the marchioness expected a child at Christmas. Most people here thought it a simple matter for rejoicing, but some, especially in the family, knew what it signified.
Her father and Diana had known about their baby before Petra had arrived. They’d been happy, but the old concerns had lingered. That was why he’d seen her as a special blessing, as a special promise. Strange, however, to think that her baby and Diana’s would be so close in age.
Petra took Robin in search of a special guest. She’d sent a coach for Mistress Waddle, and the old lady had traveled here with her daughter and son-in-law and one of her granddaughters, a bright-eyed eight-year-old called Tess. Petra had arranged for handsome clothes for them all, so they wouldn’t feel out of place, and she would soon do more for the woman who’d been so kind.
Seeing her now, she hugged the old lady tight. “You were an angel to me.”
“Go on with you,” Mistress Waddle said, pink under a wide, flowered hat. “If a person can’t offer a bed and a bit of soup, what’s the world coming to? So pretty, you look, and I gather as this fine gentleman isn’t the pestifying husband.”
Robin laughed and kissed her, making her swat at him. “I can see you’ll be trouble. You keep him in line, dearie. It’s the only way.”
Petra could tell they were still feeling a bit out of place, so she took them to meet the Harsteads, and left them all happily comparing their part in the adventure. She saw Mistress Digby, but that lady was avoiding her.
As darkness fell a bonfire was lit, but Petra and Robin had already slipped away, up to her pink-and-white room and to their nuptial bed. “Clean,” she said, smiling, “but not to myself, thank heavens.”
They had no need of servants, for they undressed each other, taking their time now that there was all the time in the world, but having to fight the wild pull of passion.
“No need of haste,” he murmured, “but no need to wait, either.”
Half undressed, they tumbled onto the bed, pushing at shirt and shift, mouths still joined, tangling together in turned-back sheets, exploring by candlelight this time, the leg, the hip, the breast, the back, and the magnificently upstanding cock.
As they joined together, soaring higher and higher, a great boom and crackle announced the beginning of the fireworks. They exploded together in passion and laughter.
When he had breath to speak, Robin gasped, “Trust Rothgar.”
He gathered Petra in close, and closer yet, to kiss again, hot skin to skin as crackles and explosions sounded outside and colored lights blazed against the night sky.
But then, in time, as peace reigned again, he rested his head against hers.
“There can be only one word to describe this and you, my love.”
“And what is that?” she asked, smiling.
“Heaven,” he said.
W
hat fun to return to the Malloren world. I hope you enjoyed this foray as much as I did. This book had a weird start, however, and I thought you might enjoy reading about it.
Sometimes ideas come to me in a video flash, a vignette, and this time it was a gentleman at a coaching inn who hears a plainly dressed woman swearing. Any lady using strong language would be surprising, but she seems such a sober sort. He asks if he can assist her and ends up offering to take her to her destination. Somewhat warily, she agrees.
This might seem like the beginning to
A Lady’s Secret,
but in my first vision the inn was in England, he was a respectable Regency gentleman, and she was wearing ordinary dress and was a normal sort of governess. Still, it was intriguing, and I pondered possible motivations and outcomes. Clearly she was escaping something or striving to get somewhere, or both. One idea that popped into my mind was that she was a young woman trying to get to her trustees in London to complain about her thieving guardian.
So how did I get from there to northern France, a Georgian rake with a papillon dog, and a nun on the run? As with everything to do with writing a book, it’s a mystery.
I can remember some factors, however. The original spark felt like the setup for a road book, where most of the action takes place during a desperate journey. Regency England isn’t the best setting for a road book, however. It was too civilized. The main routes were heavily traveled toll roads, and law and order was fairly well established. When I found myself trying to come up with plot reasons to send them over minor roads across the Pennines or the North York Moors, I knew I was getting desperate.
So I decided to move the book back fifty years to my Malloren world, when roads were much rougher and many parts of England could still be lawless. Even so, I was still looking for desolate spots so they would be far from help, and it wasn’t feeling right. I mentioned this to my husband and for some reason—even he doesn’t remember what—he said, “They’re in France.”
And so they were. As I said, it’s all a mystery, but once I made that switch and opened my mind to my heroine not being English, things started to gel.
A while ago on my e-mail chat list some readers had been speculating about possible spin-off books. Somewhere in that discussion the idea arose of Rothgar having fathered a child during his Grand Tour of Europe. As you know, in the earlier Malloren books, his concerns about having children, his fear of them turning out to be mad like his mother, had been a strong thread, so an unknown adult child was a powerful idea. Now I realized I’d found her.
Figuring out a book is often a matter of fighting through my preconceptions and controlling thoughts to discover what the story already is.
The Grand Tour, by the way, was an essential part of an upper-class gentleman’s education in the eighteenth century. In his mid-to-late teens, he would set off to visit the cultural highlights of Europe under the tutelage of a tutor-guide—sometimes called a bear leader—and with a small or large entourage of servants. He would visit various courts in order to learn international savoir faire, and visit various locations in Italy and Greece to round out his classical education. In those days a gentleman’s education was largely in the classics. Boys being boys, these young gentlemen would also have fun far from ordinary restraints and scrutiny. Sort of like a very long Spring Break in Florida.
So I realized that my cursing woman was Rothgar’s daughter and off to find her father. Then I had to figure out why, and why she was wearing a nun’s habit. It could be a straight disguise, but that seemed like a cheap shot. On the other hand, it would cramp the story to have her a true nun. My research turned up the common practice of highborn Italian ladies living in convents and the complexities of the rules about nuns in cloisters. I had my situation. I just needed to know why she was on this desperate flight.
“Why?” is the most important question an author asks. Slowly, as I wrote, her story revealed itself. That’s the way I have to do it. Simply thinking about a story or plotting it on paper doesn’t work for me.
Once I had enough understanding to begin, I needed to research eighteenth-century northern France, in particular travel in northern France, which was new territory for me. What fun!
It was especially fun because of Google Book Search. Google Book Search is the new service by Google in which they are scanning and making available many books from university libraries. This is an incredibly important service. Some of these books may only exist in one or two copies, and thus can only be consulted if a person travels to the library in question. What’s more, a natural disaster or a fire could destroy an only copy.
Now these books are in electronic form and thus held in many locations. Even better, Google puts them on the Web for all to read and even download. I’ve acquired an electronic library of books I could only dream about a few years ago.
My best find in this instance was
The Gentleman’s Guide in his Tour through France wrote
[sic]
by An Officer, who lately travelled on a Principle which he most sincerely recommends to his Countrymen, viz. Not to spend more Money in the Country of our natural Enemy, than is requisite to support, with Decency, the Character of an Englishman
. It was published in 1770, only a few years after the events in
A Lady’s Secret
. There may be only one print copy in existence.
The Officer records his journey from England to France, sharing many details. He tells his contemporaries, and now me, that a person may travel post to Dover or by the “Dover machine,” which means stagecoach. Modern readers can think of these as the difference between hiring a car and taking a bus.
The Dover machine, he says, will cost twenty shillings and complete its journey of seventy-two miles in one day. Note the time that journey took. It was probably at least a ten-hour day, so about seven miles an hour. A post chaise cost a shilling a mile, or seventy-two shillings for the same journey, but would be a bit faster.
The packet from Dover to Calais was a half guinea per person. (A half guinea is about ten shillings.) The hire of a vessel for oneself or a party was five guineas. The book was so full of lovely detail that it was hard to resist cramming it all into the novel.
Another interesting source was Tobias Smollett, who wrote at length about his travels at this time. Most of what I learned from various sources didn’t end up in the book, of course, but it enabled me to feel in place with my characters.
Now on to Teresa Cornelys. She was an important person in the London of the 1760s, but I missed her during the earlier research for my Malloren books. She was a natural fit for this one, however, being Italian. I would have liked to have given her a bigger part, but the story flow takes precedence.
She was a bold, adventurous, and unscrupulous woman who started out as an opera singer on the Continent and then became an entrepreneur in London, despite being broke and speaking little English. You have to admire that kind of spirit.
She talked her way into possession of a grand house on Soho Square and tricked and/or seduced men into paying for her schemes, becoming outraged if they wanted their loans repaid. She had patrons among the aristocracy, and for a while her Venetian entertainments at Carlisle House were some of the must-attend events of the London season. She limited the tickets, had a group of English ladies to decide who should be allowed to purchase them, and even dictated what people could and couldn’t wear at the events.
Unfortunately, she was a terrible businesswoman, constantly on the edge of financial disaster, and narrowly escaped being imprisoned for debt. Eventually her business failed and she died in debtors’ prison.
Her assemblies were so successful, however, that others tried to imitate her, and one succeeded very well indeed. That was a Scot called Mr. Almack, and his events became the Almack’s Assemblies so famous in the Regency period.
For more about Teresa Cornelys, read
The Empress of Pleasure
by Judith Summers (Viking, 2003).
Amazingly, Teresa Cornelys was a lover of Giacomo Casanova. He was a longtime friend and the father of her daughter. Teresa confronted him with little Sophie at a London event and the resemblance was so marked that he had no choice but to believe her to be his. Truth sometimes is stranger than fiction, but it can also inspire fiction very nicely.
Incidentally, Teresa also missed hosting Mozart’s first performance in London simply because her rooms were fully booked. Such is history.
It’s such a journey of discovery, writing a novel, and now I’m beginning to discover more about Lord Grandiston. It’s all very intriguing and mysterious….
Right now, there’s more! NAL is republishing two of my early novels. These have been very hard to find for years, but now
The Fortune Hunter
and
Deirdre and Don Juan
are in your bookstore in a lovely trade paperback edition called
Lovers and Ladies
.
This is love in the world of Jane Austen, with spirited ladies and dashing lovers constrained by the pressures of an orderly, elegant society.
Deirdre and Don Juan
won a RITA Award for Best Regency Romance and has been described as “pure storytelling genius” by
Romantic Times
.
Romantic Times
described
The Fortune Hunter
as “the kind of wonderful reading experience that every fan desires but all too infrequently gets.”
I hope you’ll enjoy these oldies-but-goodies. I’m sure there’ll be more to come.
I love to hear from my readers, and you can e-mail me at [email protected] You can also subscribe to an e-mail newsletter. The links are on my Web page, www.jobev.com, where you’ll also find background to my novels and even some free fiction.
You’ll see there that I have spots on MySpace and Facebook, and occasionally post to a couple of personal blogs. I’m also part of a group of historical authors who blog as The Word Wenches. Visit us at www.wordwenches.com. We love reader participation, and there are often prizes.
If you’re not into cyberspace yet, you can write to me care of my agent, Margaret Ruley, 318 East 51st Street, New York, NY 10022. I appreciate a SASE.
All best wishes,
Jo