When the toffs dance the night away, they
spend the morning in bed. The folks who run about to take their coats, clean
their spills, and carry trays laden with delicacies—not to mention deliver
their billets doux and right
scandalous invitations—have no rest at all.
Harold Randal woke at dawn, stuffed his
rumpled shirt into his trousers—no need to look sharp during cleanup—and gulped
down coffee from a tavern on his way to work. He didn’t worry about being late;
that snake Fowler wouldn’t waltz in before ten. Harold prided himself on being
better than that. He would have to get the lazy Forster twins moving on his own
or they would be at it all day.
He found the key in its spot under a brick
by the tradesmen’s door and let himself in. The caterer’s kitchen looked well
enough. They always take their glassware and leave their bill. He wandered down
the servants’ passageway, under the stairs to the musicians gallery, and into
the Octagon. Sun streamed through the east windows, and he wished it didn’t.
They had a long day ahead.
A soft sound from the ballroom startled
him. He thought he was alone. He peeked around the door to see Maudy, the shy
little maid of all work, scrubbing away at a doorknob with an odd little scrap
of flannel. Pretty little thing was Maudy, but how did she get in?
“Good morning, Mr. Randal,” she said
twinkling up at him and not pausing in her work. She peered closely at the
brass handle and rubbed it harder. Harold stood transfixed by the sight. Pretty
and industrious. She glanced up and blushed. “I ’spect you’re wondering how I
got in so early.”
“The thought did come to me.”
“I never went home,” she told him. “I fell
asleep under the counter in the cloak room. Thought I best get to work.” She
stared down at her dress. “Sorry I’m so wrinkled up.”
Harold laughed at that and pointed to his
own clothing. “No need to look fine for cleaning,” he assured her. “Have you
had something to eat?”
“I found a half-eaten cake on a plate on
the counter when I crawled out. I hope no one minds I ate it and all.”
“What were you doing under the counter,
Maudy?” he asked.
She stared at her feet.
“Maudy…”
“Hiding from Fowler,” she whispered,
glancing furtively around. “It doesn’t do to get cornered by that one, and he
was in a taking last part o’ the night. Frightens me, he does.”
“Dirty bounder,” Harold muttered. He groped
for something else to say. “What’s that you’re using to clean with? Looks finer
than our usual.”
She held up a piece of flannel, cut in a
neat square with embroidery clear around the hem. “I found it on the floor of
the cloak room. It’s perfect for shining brass. I can clean it if you think
someone will come looking for it.”
Harold’s brows came together. The edge
looked fancied up, but who would care about a scrap of flannel left on the
floor. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We can clean it if they ask, like you
say.”
He fetched a mop and began cleaning the
floor to the ballroom, moving chairs back as he went. In a half hour, he had a
pile of dust, used tokens, and crumpled valentines fetched up in the middle of
the floor. At least four of the gents had their sentiments rejected, near as
Harold could see.
By that time most of the crew had wandered in. Most needed no direction. They set about dusting, scrubbing and polishing as needed. He reached the rows of chairs where the dowagers and wallflowers generally sat and began moving chairs so he could mop. He hadn’t gone more than a row deep when he heard a scuffle in the Octagon room.
I am in desperate need of assistance and hope that your generous readers will come to my aid. I must begin a new story and have no clue what to name my characters.
Who are these people and what are their names?
Many authors speak of their books and the characters therein as their ‘children’ or ‘offspring.’ This is true for me but only in the sense of having an emotional attachment to and an investment in the development of those characters. When I named my children, their father helped. No one ever helps me name my fictional characters. I knew before my kids were born what I wanted to give them and a specific name that represented that. Not true early on in a book. I haven’t spent nine months gestating with these characters so I rarely have any idea what to call them.
For some authors, characters come to mind full-blown, complete with names, cultural and family backgrounds, back-stories, and all sorts of other information. I, however, usually start writing a book with no clear idea of who the characters are other than the role that character plays. Take the following paragraphs from a work in progress as an example.
HERO paused in the doorway of his gentleman’s club and surveyed the room. Good he nodded to himself. Not a friend or family member in sight. He ambled toward a row of tall wing-back chairs near the fireplace. It was beastly cold outside, and the chance for a few quiet moments to warm himself and consider his circumstances was irresistible. He sat, propped his cane against the chair-side table, and held his hands out to warm in the heat of the fire.
“Hullo coz,” WHATZIZNAME’S
voice floated from behind the chair. “Mind if I join you?”
HERO repressed a growl. Of course, I mind, but I doubt saying so would stop you. The last thing he needed now was one of his many cousins pouring out their latest family troubles and seeking their wealthy relative’s advice. Advice which without fail proved to be expensive, for him. However, this time he would turn the tables. This time he would seek advice—not that he would follow it—before WHATZIZNAME could even hint at a personal problem let alone that cash would solve it for him.
“By all means, cousin,”
HERO gestured to the chair flanking his. “I could use your help.”
WHATZIZNAME paused in the act of sitting, his bum poised a good twelve inches off the chair. His face paled, and his eyes went wide. “Y . . . you wish my advice?”
HERO waved a hand in the
air. “Well, I thought, since you are a man of the world, you might have
experience with the kind of trouble I’m in.”
WHATZISNAME finished sitting. He looked about as comfortable as a fat monkey that had stumbled upon a tiger’s lair. “Ahem. And what sort of trouble might that be? I can’t imagine that a man of your reputation and, ah, sangfroid would have any difficulty not easily resolved.”
HERO allowed himself to
heave a sigh. “My problem is of a delicate nature.”
“Ah, woman trouble,”
WHATZIZNAME sat back and made himself comfortable.
WHATZIZNAME’S frequent difficulties with women made him a horrible source of good advice. HERO knew he could successfully follow the opposite of his relative’s counsel to resolve the issue with his current mistress.
“Precisely.”
“What is the exact nature
of the problem?”
“As you know, LADY X, and
I have enjoyed a pleasant dalliance for several years.”
“True, every man I know
envies your success with the widow.”
“Well, she’s decided she
no longer wishes to be a widow.”
“Ah, and she wants you as
her next husband?”
“She said as much to me.”
“So buy her off.”
“She’s wealthy enough not
to be interested in money. That’s is reassuring to my vanity, for I know her
interest is in me and my title rather than my fortune. However, even if I could
purchase my way free of her, it wouldn’t work.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because . . . .”
As you can see, dear readers, I really must name these two gentlemen and the lady involved. Progress in drafting this novel will be next to impossible if I cannot find suitable names. To help you help me, here’s a little background on the story. It takes place in 1815. While the story opens in a London gentleman’s club, the bulk of the story takes place at the country home of a recently deceased relative. Lady X will play a very small part, but she is a motivating force in HERO’s decision to obey the summons to the reading of the will. Anything you can provide in the way of suggestion will be most sincerely appreciated. However, my most desperate need is names for these three characters. Please comment below with any suggestions and accept my grateful thanks.
Rue Allyn is a Bluestocking Belle and the award winning author of both contemporary and historical romance. You may find her on line at the following links:
Can it be TRUE? Has the Viscount Deverall reunited with his
long estranged wife? Lady Genevieve is well-known throughout
the city for her selfless good work and perfect demeanor (if not for her
fashion choices). The tall and graceful viscountess is an inspiration to young
women, who are so flighty today, with their insistence on love-matches and
their continued passion for French fabrics and styles (despite the fact that we
are at WAR with France!). The charity which she operates, the
Society for the Improvement of Friendless Children, has announced a large
project which will house orphans who currently dwell in the city’s poorest and
most dangerous neighborhoods, beset with crime and sin!
Lord
Cameron, Viscount Deverall, is well-known for very different
reasons, not least of which is his devastatingly handsome appearance and keen
sense of style (even Brumell has offered praise!). However, his most famous
exploits are too shocking for this news column to put into words. In order to
spare the delicate constitutions of ladies who may be reading, I will not even
hint of them.
For
those unaware of the rumors (though they are more than rumors! No fewer than
thirty members of the ton have confirmed what they saw that
night!), Deverall embarrassed the new viscountess soon after their wedding in a
most scandalous way (a mere three weeks into their marriage! And who WAS the
unknown woman also seen that night?). Following the public transgression of a
lord who should know better, the couple has not been seen together for nearly
three years, and Deverall lives exclusively in his rented rooms near St. James
Street. But perhaps things have changed!
Last
week, the viscount moved back into the townhouse where his viscountess has been
keeping residence and maintaining the honor of her family’s name during the
many years her husband has avoided all the duties of his role and title to
instead dally with gamblers and the wort sort of characters. What lord puts
pleasure above duty to such degree? To date, there is no heir (nor spare) to
Deverall’s title!
What
mysterious event could have occurred to cause Lady Genevieve to allow Lord
Deverall back into their home? What silver lies did the admittedly charming
lord spin to convince his wife to tolerate his presence?
If
this couple can reconcile, all things may be possible. Perhaps the authorities
can even capture the Black Mask, the criminal mastermind who has stolen
thousands of pounds of jewelry from all over the city (not to mention a few
ladies’ hearts!) And to think, I once feared the end of the Season would mean
London would grow sleepy and dull!
Even
in the countryside, the potential for news beckons. It has been reported that
the family of Lucien Bonaparte has purchased a grand estate in Worcestershire,
where they will take up residence (still well guarded by the British army, for
the estate and the nearby town represent the limit of the Bonaparte’s parole.).
Any
one of these situations may blossom into a real story. Indeed, this summer may
be a season of revelations! Dear readers, I will deliver any scrap of knowledge
that comes my way.
Yours faithfully,
Verity Truetale
Book Excerpt:
(From A Most Relentless Gentleman)
The
Season was nearly over. Summer was about to begin her reign over the city,
though the warm air had not yet brought out the terrible stench of the
Thames that would emerge in a few weeks. Now it was actually pleasant, the
air soft and the evening light of the sky filtering through newly leafy
trees.
As
he got closer to his destination, Cameron opened the letter again. Three years
of nothing, and now this. In the solitude of the carriage, he allowed himself
to speculate. Was it possible Genevieve was as sick of this separation as
he was? Or was her family applying some pressure to live up to expectations?
The
carriage clattered to a halt in front of a familiar house. A golden glow seeped
from all the lower windows. As he strode up the walk, he heard the
faint sounds of laughter and talk. Gen was entertaining. He was vaguely
annoyed at the idea of her happily toasting guests after she penned a letter
implying that the sky was falling.
He
knocked once, also annoyed by that. A man shouldn’t have to knock on his own
front door.
The
door opened. The mouth of the maid also opened as she stared at him in shock.
Cameron
stepped inside. “Where is my wife?”
“In
the dining room…my lord,” the maid squeaked out. “Shall I…shall I announce
you?”
“Who
else is in the dining room?”
“The
whole board of the Society for the Improvement of Friendless Children, my lord.
And their spouses.”
Cameron
curled his lip in disdain. “Just tell her I’m waiting in her study.”
The
maid nodded, finally regaining her composure. “Yes, my lord.”
Cameron
showed himself into the study. He looked at the expansive walnut desk, the
surface covered with documents and ledgers. On the wall hung
several framed charcoal drawings of no artistic merit. Children
could have done better, he thought, before realizing that children probably
were the artists and these were gifts to their greatest patron.
He
leaned toward one, a crude rendering of Genevieve herself. Despite the rough
medium and the scant talent of the creator, something of Genevieve was in that
drawing. The remarkable height, the dark hair, the direct gaze of the avenging
angel.
“What
are you doing here?”
At
the sound of the voice, Cameron turned to the door, where the real Genevieve
stood. The drawing faded into nothing. There she was. Tall, slender, with
the dark hair curled and pinned atop her head with only a silk ribbon as
an adornment—she needed no other. He took in the rest of her in a glance, and
then had to do more than glance, because her gown demanded it. The neckline
dipped enticingly low, treating him to an expanse of soft skin that no one but
him should ever see.
And
yet. Here she was, evidently thinking she looked perfectly acceptable to appear
before the gaze of the entire board of the Society for the Improvement
of Friendless Breasts.
“I
asked you a question, my lord.” Genevieve crossed her arms. He saw her left
hand as she wrapped it around her elbow. No ring. He added another item
to the list of things that were annoying him, along with the fact that his
breeches were suddenly a little too tight.
Cameron
had to say something.
“Genevieve.”
He
probably should have said something wittier than that.
She
narrowed her eyes. “Why. Are. You. Here?”
“Mama, why must we,” Emma twitched at her crinoline with a scowl in an attempt to keep it clear of the mud and manure in the middle of the main thoroughfare, “wear the height of London fashion in this God-forsak—”
“Emma!” Mrs.Wyndham-Smyth hissed. “Ladies do not use that
sort of language.” She flicked glances over both shoulders, her face paling.
Her daughter continued like she hadn’t heard her. “I thought we were moving to the wilderness when we came all the way to New Zealand and we’re still stuck in this filthy town. At least if we went to the provinces we could have some fun and not dress like trumped-up—”
“That really is enough, young lady.”
from http://www.aucklandcity.govt.nz/dbtw-wpd/heritageimages/index.htm
Emma took a deep breath to steady herself before she went
on. “Tūī says we wear too much clothing. I agree. It’s steaming hot in these
woolen dresses. We should dress like—”
“Heathens!” her mother declared. “You pay no mind to what
the servants say. They are servants and we are their masters.”
She stared at her mother. “Tūī is my friend. She works for us, even though New Zealand is their land. The Māori’s land. I’m not sure why you treat them with the disdain you and so many others do.”
“It’s just the way it is.” Her mother tried to look
indignant, but she seemed to be losing ground and stole more looks around her. As
if her friends might be nearby.
“Anyway, I want to go live in the provinces. Coromandel Town seems a nice place.”
Driving Creek, Coromandel
“The mines?” Mrs. Wyndham-Smyth’s eyes goggled and she
turned a shade whiter. “Wherever did you hear that claptrap?” Her knuckles
whitened on her shopping basket and she walked faster toward the market.
“From that nice Prussian newspaperman, ummm…”
“You mustn’t say ummm, my—”
Emma went on. “That Mr. von Tempsky whom Papa invited to supper last month.”
Her mother’s lips tightened. “He’s not a newspaperman any
more. He’s leading our colonial troops into the bush… against the Māori. To ensure the successful invasion of the Waikato.”
von Tempsky
“But…” Emma froze, then finally slapped her mouth shut a full half minute later. “That can’t be true.”
“True it is,” the woman said, turning back toward her. “And don’t let your father hear you say that. He’s the one who secured the commission for ‘The Prussian’ to help our army.”
“But we can’t…” Emma whispered. “It’s their land. They
have all the land south of the—”
“Not any more.” Her mother gritted her teeth. “Seems the land
in the Waikato has already been offered to the Australians and mercenaries who
are coming to help fight.”
“Clear the way, prisoner coming through!” shouted a burly man. It was the jailor, bundling along a tall, dark man who would’ve been as handsome as Mr. von Tempsky if only he wasn’t so dirty and wearing manacles.
“Do you know who that is?” Emma whispered to her mother.
“It must be that Spaniard—Xavier Argolli or something, I think they said. The constable just caught him. He’s been running free after murdering his ship’s captain on the voyage to New Zealand.” She sniffed. “Imagine that.”
The prisoner looked up then and his eyes met Emma’s. He shook his head and just had time to whisper something before his captor dragged him past.
Fort Britomart, Auckland
“Find von Tempsky,” had been his words.
Emma stared after the prisoner. He must’ve heard her mention the Prussian’s name. “Excuse me, Mama, I’m not feeling well,” she said as she spun on her heel and raced for home, already planning what to pack in her saddlebags. She’d find him.
Excerpt from A Sea of Green Unfolding:
December 1863, Auckland
Crowned by a spired white
church, a high, rocky headland jutted out of the coastline to their port side.
The captain of the whaler steered wide of the breakwater extending from the
point and headed his ship into the next big bay.
“Auckland,” the captain said,
nodding his head at the sprawling city behind the ships filling the inlet and
docked at the wharves.
Upon the headland ranged
several cannon and many one- and two-storied stone buildings. A Union Jack,
flying from a flagpole, presided over the site.
“Complete with fort?” Xavier
said.
“Fort Britomart, on the point
of the same name.” Thompson nodded at the cluster of buildings. “Built on an
old pā site.”
“Big ditches around the
outsides and all,” Xavier said, staring up at them as they passed.
“They’d be the original Māori
trenches,” the captain said, never taking his eyes from the rocks to their port
side. “We’ll dock at Queen’s Wharf,” he added.
The city of Auckland spread out
before them, rising up the gradual slope beyond the bay. The fort was sizable,
but the church dominated the skyline behind Point Britomart. Warehouses and
stores lined the road running along the water’s edge and houses covered the
hills in the background.
“That’s a bit grand for this
little place,” Xavier said, pointing to the church.
“Eh? Oh, that’s St. Paul’s
Anglican. It was the first one here. It’s been there for twenty years, already.
And up there,” he jutted his chin up the hill a little further, “is St.
Patrick’s. Take your pick. They’re both grand.”
“I think I’ll find Aleksandra
before I start looking around at churches,” Xavier said, with a grin.
The sounds and smells of port
hit him when they edged up to the wharf and threw out their hawsers to the
waiting men. As soon as the boat was moored, Xavier grasped the hand of the
captain and thanked him profusely, then climbed down the rope ladder to the
dock.
“Von Tempsky shouldn’t be too
hard to find,” the captain called down after him. “Just ask at Fort Britomart.
They’ll know where to find him.”
“Thanks again,” Xavier said,
waving, as he headed for the point.
The rough scoria of the road
surface grated on the soles of his boots as he passed the church. With its tall
spire and elegant lines, it was truly beautiful. Certainly a finer building
than he’d expected to find here. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a backwater, after
all.
His legs were proving a bit
unsteady from his time at sea, so he stretched them out as he walked, nodding
to passers-by, many of whom turned their faces away as he neared them. He
grinned, despite himself. He must smell like a fiend after being on ship for
three months, and the last of that on a whaler. Once he set the wheels in
motion to find von Tempsky and Aleksandra, he’d get a room and a bath. He could
almost feel the warm water of a scented bath enveloping him.
“Hold there,” the guard at the
entrance to the fort challenged.
He held up his hands and stood
still, coming out of his daydream.
“Hello,” Xavier said. “De
veras, of course.”
“State your name and business,”
he barked.
“Xavier Argüello, looking for
Captain Gustavus von Tempsky. I understand he may be near Drury?”
Several men looked up at his
comment, brows narrowed.
“Right this way,” the guard
said, giving him a sideways glance, his hand on his sword hilt.
The other men melted away, then
the guard stood aside for him to precede him into a stone building.
The door slammed behind him and
metal scraped upon metal.
Xavier turned, but the guard
was nowhere to be seen.
He surveyed the waiting room. A
five by five room, with only a wooden bench against one wall and a high, barred
window.
Some welcome.
If they were trying to discourage
visitors, they were doing a good job. He knocked on the door. A shiver ran up
his spine when no one replied. He tried to lift the latch, but it wouldn’t
budge. Even when he shook it. “Hey, you’ve locked me in! Guard!”
Only silence, then retreating
footsteps on the boardwalk outside the door.
It finally clicked.
This was a gaol cell. But why?
Had von Tempsky disgraced himself?
Xavier sat down to wait
patiently, but eventually he rose to prowl from one wall to another. He pulled
the bench before the grilled window, but it didn’t give him enough height to
see out, so he put it back and continued to walk the walls.
There must be some mistake.
A Sea of Green Unfolding
When you’ve already lost everything, the only place left to go is up…
Tragedy strikes in Aleksandra and
Xavier’s newly-found paradise on their Californio Rancho de las Pulgas and
newspaperman Gustavus von Tempsky invites them on a journey to a new life in
New Zealand—where everyone lives together in peace.
Unfortunately, change is in the
wind.
When they reach Aotearoa, they
disembark into a turbulent wilderness—where the wars between the European
settlers and the local Māori have only just begun—and von Tempsky is leading
the colonial troops into the bush.
Lizzi
grew up riding wild in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine
veterinarian at UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine and practiced in the
Gold and Pony Express Country of California before emigrating to New Zealand.
Busy
raising two boys, farming, and running her own equine veterinary practice, she
never thought she’d sit down long enough to write more than an article. A
serious injury, however, changed all that, and planted her in one place long
enough to jump-start her new career as an author!
With Lizzi’s
debut historical romance, A Long Trail Rolling, she
was: Finalist 2013 RWNZ Great Beginnings; Winner 2014 RWNZ Pacific Hearts Award
for the best unpublished full manuscript; Winner 2015 RWNZ Koru Award for Best
First Novel and third in the 2015 RWNZ Koru Long Novel section; and Finalist,
2015 Best Indie Book Award. She’s working on her eighth story!
When
she’s not writing, she’s swinging a rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb,
riding or driving a carriage, playing in the garden on her hobby farm, singing,
cooking, practicing as an equine veterinarian or teaching high school science.
She is multiply published and awarded in special interest magazines and
veterinary periodicals.
Lizzi loves
the friendships she’s developed with the rest of the Belles. She adores how
they’re so progressive, organized, and fun. Best of all, they are all willing
to put themselves out there, together, to achieve
more, create more, than would be possible going it alone.
Lizzi
loves to connect with her readers. How would you like to connect?
There have
numerous reports of strange goings on in the capital yesterday, after a
flotilla of Royal Navy gunships sailed unexpectedly down the Thames in broad
daylight. Despite petitioning the Admiralty for an explanation for this strange
phenomenon during a time of peace, this reporter has been unsuccessful in
procuring an answer from anyone in authority. In fact, the government has
remained very tight-lipped on the matter, stating only that the ships involved
were on a mission of the utmost secrecy regarding a matter of national
security!
But fear not for
your safety, dear reader! These shores are not under imminent threat of
invasion nor are our brave sailors preparing for yet another war. Our sources
inside the hallowed halls of Whitehall tell us the naval escort was merely a
precautionary measure to ensure one of England’s most wanted criminals was
brought to town to face justice. The excessive security was necessary because
the suspect has managed to escape the clutches of the authorities not once- but
twice- since their arrest on the continent last week.
Witnesses also saw a prisoner being taken into custody. But whoever this nefarious scoundrel is, they have been deemed too dangerous for Newgate! They were taken to the Tower of London no less, through the infamous Traitor’s Gate! And if that detail isn’t scandalous enough, it also appears this fearsome traitor is a woman!
We wait with bated breath to hear the lady’s identity and the charges she has been held on. All we can say, with any certainty, is that whoever she is, what ever she has done, our sources say she will hang for her crimes. Until then, an additional battalion of Royal Marines and the King’s finest agents have been drafted in to guard her. Even the Royal Navy gunships remain anchored next to the fortress to keep the wench inside…
The Uncompromising Lord Flint
Imprisoned by her past– set free by her enemy!
Charged with high treason, Lady
Jessamine Fane is under the watchful eye of icily calm Lord Peter Flint. It’s a
task this spy won’t be swayed from, no matter how alluring his prisoner! Only
it’s not long before Flint realises that tenacious Jess hides a lifetime of
pain. With so much at stake, can he afford to take a chance on their powerful
attraction?
Buy the book http://viewbook.at/kingselite2
About the Author
When Virginia Heath was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older, the stories became more complicated, sometimes taking weeks to get to the happy ending. Then one day, she decided to embrace the insomnia and start writing them down. But despite publishing fourteen books already, there are still hundreds more in her head so it still takes her ages to fall asleep.
