II’ve been languishing in bed with the flu.
Nasty viruses going about, but since I was prescribed for an infection
shortly after Christmas and given antibiotics, it was a given that I’d get the
cold that’s been roaring around the country! Never mind, very soon I can get
back to some real work. Already I’m getting itchy that I haven’t written for a
few days.
Do
you make resolutions? I don’t, not really, but I do review what I’ve done in
the last year, what I’ve done that worked, what didn’t, and where I should go
next. I do try to be businesslike, but the writing part of me cries out for me
to do something.
This
time it seems to be historicals. I have an idea. I haven’t written one for a
while. I’ve polished one book until it shines, and it’s currently out on query
at a few places, so I have to let it ride. But I do want to do some more. And
I’ve had a series on ice for years, because I haven’t found the time to write
it. It’s hard-core history, and it involves the Jacobite wars, but lashings of
romance.
I
had two books out in December! It’s a rewrite of “The Haunting,” called "The Haunting of Belle Sauvage" and I’ve
incorporated it into the Hosts to Ghosts series. It’s the story of how the
company comes to be. It’s a real pleasure to see the book out. Ghosts,
vampires, and hidden treasure. What’s not to love?
you can see it here.
you can see it here.
This
month sees the release of my version of “Tom Jones.” This project was a real
challenge, as I had to get into another person’s style. I want to put extracts
of that, and “The Haunting of Belle Sauvage” up, so I’ll do “Tom Jones” now, so
you can get a flavour for it, then, maybe, the other book later, so as not to
clutter up your mailboxes. I was astonished at how many scenes there were to
do, and where Fielding left opportunities, almost as if he’d censored the book
himself.
Let’s
all have a great new year, and may all our wishes come true! (well nearly all!)
Excerpt:
Part One of The History of Tom Jones
A motley history of bastardism, fornication, and adultery.
Returning
home from a very satisfactory visit to London, the wealthy Squire Allworthy
discovers a baby—in his bed!
He
knows the baby isn’t his, but once he discovers the mother he believes
responsible, he undertakes to bring up the boy as his own, alongside his
relative and heir. Tom Jones, as the baby is named, grows up utterly loveable,
sexy, gorgeous and a bit of a scamp. Well, a lot of a scamp. While the Squire
pleasures mistresses and schools maids in enjoyable discipline sessions, Tom
learns how to live and love, with able help from the local populace. And makes
enemies in the process, who plot their revenge on the bold boy who has captured
the neighbourhood’s hearts.
Not
a word is altered in this classic novel—only added to. Lynne Connolly adds the
parts that Fielding skimps on, and who knows but Fielding wanted to put them
in?
Tom
Jones is a bawdy romp through one of the most enjoyable eras in British
history. Follow Tom, the Squire, the local round-heeled girl Molly and a cast
of unforgettable characters as Tom grows to manhood in an English countryside
of Hogarthian splendour.
An
odd accident which befell Mr Allworthy at his return home. The decent behaviour
of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper animadversions on bastards
I
have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy inherited a
large fortune, that he had a good heart, and no family. Hence, doubtless, it
will be concluded by many that he lived like an honest man—owed no one a
shilling, took nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained his
neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was charitable to the poor,
i.e. to those who had rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from
it—that he died immensely rich and built an hospital. Always considerate of his
health and the people around him, the squire conducted his more interesting
business away from home, where his reputation should not be sullied by any
rumour that he was less than upright at all times. Indeed, according to the
ladies, his uprightness was never in doubt.
And
true it is that he did many of these things, but had he done nothing more I
should have left him to have recorded his own merit on some fair freestone over
the door of that hospital. Matters of a much more extraordinary kind are to be
the subject of this history, or I should grossly misspend my time in writing so
voluminous a work, and you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and
pleasure travel through some pages which certain droll authors have been
facetiously pleased to call The History of England.
Mr
Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very
particular business, though I know not what it was, but judge of its importance
by its having detained him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a
month at a time during the space of many years.
This
enabled him to pay attention to a lady he had been acquainted with for a long
time, but had sadly neglected of late, business having kept him in the country.
Mrs
Dickinson was the relict of a city businessman and had a very fine sort of
lodging in Red Lion Square, so good that when she invited Mr Allworthy to save
the cost of an inn and stay with her in comfort, he accepted with a grateful
heart and voluminous thanks.
So
pleased was the estimable lady to see him that she found great difficulty in
keeping her fichu in place, a matter the squire was only too pleased to assist
her with, and, the fichu disposed of, a great expanse of cleavage came into
view, something Mr Allworthy took advantage of with both hands.
On
tumbling her back onto the sopha, the squire animadverted on the size of her
breasts, which had become bountiful in his absence. “Mr Allworthy, I have had
nothing to do but eat and visit the establishments that cater to my
requirements,” the lady said. “I have long been in need of more vigorous
exercise.”
A
gleam came into the good squire’s eyes when the lady announced that fact. “I
believe I can help you with that ambition, my dear madam.”
So
saying, he swept up her skirts, finding the lady, having anticipated his visit,
had little more than a hooped petticoat and a shift between her decency and her
total exposure to the squire’s appreciative eyes. “My word, madam, you have
spent a long time without a man,” he said, gratefully fingering her slit, which
had gathered copious moisture to guide his way. Not that he needed such
guidance, his experience having given him much knowledge in the matter of women
and what they required.
“I’m
a respectable woman, sir, and I do not lift my petticoats for a man unless I can
also enjoy his company out of the bedroom. I have a reputation to consider.”
The
squire glanced up from his absorbing pursuit. “I hope I have not sullied your
reputation. I would not wish to damage what you have taken so long to develop.”
But he was gratified by the widow’s words and appreciated her welcome.
Taking
some of her welcome, he tasted it and found it good. Having done so, he
hungered for more and bent his head to her welcoming amplitude. At the first
application of his tongue, the lady shuddered and begged him not to stop this
side of Christmas. While he doubted he could accomplish that feat, being
comparable to the marathon races accomplished by the ancient Greeks, he assured
himself that he was capable of achieving the lady’s good favour.
Mr
Allworthy was proved correct in his assumptions, and applied himself
assiduously to his self-imposed task, reflecting that he had not tasted a woman
in a considerable time, being too taken up with matters of work and his duties
in the country. A clean, respectable woman could produce a nectar a man could
appreciate, even incorporate into his daily absorption, and Mrs Dickinson
proved extremely generous in her offering, as she was in every aspect of her
life.
Mr
Allworthy tasted, and found good enough to continue until the lady’s screams
and gratified murmurs gave him permission to expose his desire for her, which
he did without further discussion.
His
spear proving adequate to the occasion, he plunged deep inside her, mingling
their essences with a satisfaction that nearly overcame his vow to bring her to
the gates of heaven more than once. Burying his face in her breasts, which she
generously gathered in her own hands to offer him, he thought it only good
manners to accept and make himself at home in her warm welcome.
His
roaring was enough to provide entertainment for the populace passing outside,
but they remained hidden to the world at large, as Mrs Dickinson had received
him in her first floor salon, using the ground floor of her snug house mainly
for business. He had completely omitted to take the servants into his
consideration, but fortunately the lady was a good mistress, and he would also
see they did not go out of pocket.
Plunging
inside the lady’s sweet quim, he did not ask for permission, taking the lady’s
sighs as abundant invitation. Only then did the good squire realise how much he
had imperilled his health by leaving such exercise too long, for he had a
strong belief in the power of good fresh country air and vigorous exercise to
prolong a man’s health and happiness.
The
lady seemed of similar mind, because she applied herself to the course of
physical prowess with great enthusiasm and abandon, having a mind to contest
the squire’s ability to keep his course for more than a short span of time.
