I'm still in the throes of post heart attack tests and examinations. More in March, so it's not done yet. But I'm here, and at home.
As for writing - this situation is obviously going to continue for a while, so I'm looking over my backlist. I still have some books to reissue, but they are mostly contemporaries. They'd have to be heavily edited, because technology has come a long way since I wrote them, but I'm thinking about doing it.
However - I've had an idea and it won't let me alone, so maybe the backlist will have to wait for another day.
And I have a paranormal that was one of those books that was so close to selling and actually won me two agents. Do I rewrite it?
I think I just open a new page in my word processor and go for it.
Thanks
And a sincere and grateful thanks to all the good wishes I received. Honestly, it's been overwhelming and your kind thoughts helped me so much I can't tell you. Thank you so much.
Excerpt
Yes, an actual excerpt! This is from a story that was supposed to be in a Dragonblade anthology, but they couldn't fit it in. The story is still contracted to the publisher, so I can't do much with it at the moment, but I can give you an extract. It's about the matriarch of the Burrell family, Marguerite Burrell. I thought it only fair to give her an adventure of her own! The following excerpt is unedited by anyone but me, so the mistakes are my own.
The picture isn't official, it's just a portrait of a woman who reminded me a lot of Marguerite. An older lady, comfortably built, with a strong sense of elegance.
Rescuing The Cub
Marguerite stared out of the carriage window, past the curtain of thick snow to the green hedges beyond. So far they had made good time, and her coachman assured her they would reach the inn well before nightfall. “Nay,” he’d said when she expressed her doubts. “We’ll be snug before dark.”
Her maid snored, head thrown back and blankets slipping off her lap in her corner of the carriage. In the other corner, Selina Fortescue sat staring into space. A pretty girl, dressed in a fashionable redingote in heavenly blue, she did not appear like a waif, but by her report, she was persecuted and oppressed. At least she’d removed her ridiculously huge bonnet and allowed Marguerite to tuck a blanket around her.
In years past Marguerite would have huddled miserably in a stagecoach, amid the noise and stink of people crammed together in misery, longing to reach their destination, or even the next inn when they could get out for a few precious minutes before the coachman yelled for them to get back in and endure the next ten miles.
This was infinitely better. A comfortable, well-appointed travelling carriage, a hot brick at her feet and soft blankets keeping her warm. No money troubles, not any more, not with daughters and a son who married spectacularly well. They loved her, they took care of her almost to the point of stifling her. That was why she kept the modest house in Edinburgh. Her own haven, where she could retire when the world grew too complicated. As it had now.
Complications followed her around, this time mostly because of Lord Haydock and her dealings with him. Forcibly she turned her mind away from that unfortunate encounter. At least she had the means of rescuing the girl from his clutches.
The arrogance of the man!
The girl, not quite out of the schoolroom, was no stranger to Marguerite, but not an intimate, either. She had met her at musicales, and informal entertainments, always well dressed, her pretty manners to the fore. She had climbed into the carriage and fallen asleep directly after she had been made comfortable, so Marguerite had to wait to make her better acquaintance.
At the first stop, she had not woken but now, when they were clear of London and nearing their first night in a comfortable coaching-inn, she was awake and silent.
Marguerite cleared her throat.
Miss Fortescue turned, a bright smile pasted to her face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes. You can tell me what put you into this fix.”
The smile faded. “Did they not tell you? I was afraid.”
“Indeed?”
“That my guardian would marry me. He made advances.”
A knife twisted in Marguerite’s heart. Lord Haydock had not seemed interested in a mere child. His ward, he’d told her, had come from a cousin of his, who had begged him to care for her on his deathbed. She had never been so deceived in her life before.
“What kind of advances?”
Miss Fortescue shuddered and glanced to where the maid sat snoring. “That kind. He came into my bedroom at night, when I was dressing for dinner…” She shuddered again.
How was this possible? Were they talking about the same person? Surely her judgment couldn’t have abandoned her so thoroughly? “What did he do?”
“Told me I must prepare myself for marriage.” She drew herself up and sniffed. “Is that not enough?”
Why would he do that? He already had children. He did not need to marry again, nor was he poor. Something here was not making sense. Haydock had not struck her as the kind of man who would be carried away by passion, enough for him to abandon all propriety and responsibility.
“Did he touch you? Frighten you?”
“He is always frightening me,” she said, but she did not appear afraid. More disgruntled. “And touch me? Yes, he does touch me. All the time. He takes me into dinner, and hands me out of carriages. That is not the problem. He wants me to marry a completely inappropriate person, one I could never have any respect for.” She shrugged. “I believe he owed a debt of honour. I am an heiress, you know.” She smoothed the blanket with a gloved hand. “I was looking forward to my first season. Lord Haydock’s sister was supposed to present me.” She sighed.
Something pricked at Marguerite, and for the first time doubts about the story filled her mind. The widow had a grudge against Haydock. The girl did not understand what Marguerite mean. Well, too late now. She would deliver the girl to her aunt, and leave it at that.
Truth was, with all her ambitions for her children fulfilled, the world seemed a more boring place, and she yearned for adventure. She’d spent most of her adult years in peril of one kind or another, from not being able to pay the rent and fleeing at midnight, to forcing society to look at her daughters, and accept them.
But the adventure, the never knowing what the next day would bring, that she’d enjoyed.
People would kill for a life like the one she had, she reminded herself. But it didn’t make any difference. With a new adventure offered to her, she had jumped at the chance. And to get back at the man who’d offered her something she swore she would never do again.
A flash of red outside the carriage caught her attention. At first she thought it a scrap of fabric, then she sat up straight, heart hammering, and thumped on the roof of the carriage. “Stop, stop!”
Needham jolted awake. She screamed, that little scream of a scandalised lady’s maid. “Madam!”
Marguerite took no notice, but held on to the strap as Mount pulled the horses to a stop. It took some time. As soon as the carriage had juddered to a halt, she had the door open, and with only a brief glance to ensure she was not leaping into a snowdrift or a ditch, she jumped down and raced back to the red cloak that lay on the ground.
Not just a cloak. It was the leg under it that had caught her attention. A young, slender leg, clad in a boot that seemed totally unsuited to the weather.
“Madam!” The footman had reached her. Burnham had come into her service the year before. Generally of a practical turn of mind, he’d refused to get into the carriage when the snow started, instead, sitting on his little perch at the back of the vehicle swaddled in all the blankets and hot bricks she could obtain for him. “B’ain’t right,” he’d said, and wouldn’t budge. Now he was agitated, his broad face wreathed with concern. “Come away, madam! It could be a trick!”
She turned to face him, arms akimbo. “Who would be so desperate to risk their life waiting for prey in this weather? Put that thing away!” She gestured at the pistol her footman held. Waving a hand in dismissal, she spun around and went to the red cloak and pulled it back.
A girl lay there, young and fresh, and evidently in distress. She cried out, shielding her face with one arm. “They robbed me!” she cried. “Left me here!”
“Who did?” Marguerite demanded, then waved the qustion away. “No matter. Let’s get you in the warm.”
The girl was shivering convulsively. Marguerite gestured at the footman. “Take her to the coach. We can’t leave her here.” She turned to the girl as Burnham lifted her up. “What’s your name?”
“D-Daisy,” the girl said.
Marguerite swallowed away the memories that pierced her mind. Daisy was a fond version of Marguerite, but only one person had ever called her that. Nobody else would. Her late husband had shot through her life like a flaming arrow, and she’d loved every minute of the time they’d had together. All too short.
As she trudged her way back to the carriage, Miss Fortescue’s scandalised protests reached her ears. “Who’s this?” she demanded. “We can’t pick up every waif and stray!”
Burnham had tucked the girl—Daisy—into the corner of the carriage not occupied by Needham or Miss Fortescue. True, the snug interior of the travelling-chaise became even more snug, but Marguerite had known a lot worse. The carriage had cooled considerably, since she’d left the door open when she leaped down on to the cold, wet snow. Her boots were soaked, and so was the hem of her carriage gown, but what of that?
“Ma’am, you cannot sit in those boots,” Needham said, dropping to her knees in front of Marguerite. “Let me help you.”
“See to the girl,” Marguerite told her. “I am quite capable of removing my own boots.” She removed her gloves by the simple expedient of tugging them off with her teeth. When Needham opened her mouth to protest, Marguerite gave her a glare that silenced her. She attended to the girl.
Although Needham might irritate at times, she was an excellent lady’s maid. Even in the small space afforded her, she stripped the girl’s sopping wet gloves, boots and stockings off her, and eased her out of the red cloak, dropping it to the floor in a sloppy slap of heavy fabric. Beneath it, Daisy wore a respectable, even fashionable, muslin gown, no protection at all against the weather.
All the clothes Marguerite’s had brought with her were in the trunk. The majority had gone ahead, but she had enough with her to manage until they reached Edinburgh. But nothing in the carriage. Daisy would have to endure the blankets and a now lukewarm brick, which Needham muttered was better than nothing as she put it to Daisy’s feet. The quality of the clothes did something to mollify her, as it was obvious the girl was no waif and stray, but a lady, or close to one.
Miss Fortescue had an equal deficit. She had only brought one small trunk, which lay next to Marguerite’s in the trunk.
“How far to the next stop?” Miss Fortescue asked.
“I planned to spend the night at Stevenage,” Marguerite answered.
“There was a sign for a place called Radley Green,” Miss Fortescue said. “Just before we stopped for…her.”
“Daisy,” Marguerite said. There was no excuse for bad manners.
The coach jolted into motion, and Needham gave one of her annoying little screams again. Less a scream, more a squeak this time. Daisy’s face was barely visible under the blankets, but it least it had some colour. Miss Fortescue and Marguerite now had one blanket each. Needham had none. But if they kept the windows tightly closed, it was warm enough.
“Radley Green.” Marguerite reached for the map book in the door pocket. She opened the volume and found the page. “Hmm. Not far, then.” She glanced out of the window. “But it is getting dark now.”
At this time of year darkness fell alarmingly quickly. Once they reached a village, the house lights would help them. And the warmth of Stevenage was not far away. Marguerite longed for the warm, soft bed and hot food that awaited them there.
A shout from the driver’s seat alerted them to another problem. Once again, the coachman pulled up the horses, but this time Marguerite saw no reason to alight. Risking lowering the temperature in their space back to freezing, she lowered the window. “What’s wrong?”
The coachman slapped his hands together. He was shrouded in a thick greatcoat with numerous capes, and he’d pulled his beaver hat low down on his forehead. He lowered his muffler to speak to her. “Hazard up ahead, Mrs. Burrell. There’s a river, a brook really, but the bridge has given way.”
“On the Great North Road?” she exclaimed. “How can that be?”
A slight movement indicated her coachman had shrugged. “Dunno, missus. Old packhorse bridge, been there a dunnamany years. Well it’s not there now. Only just saw it in time, or we’d be in the river by now.”
“Is there another way around?”
“Another road yonder,” he said. “Not that wide, but we can do it if we’re careful.” He waved.
Through the snowflakes she dimly discerned a cluster of lights and a track in the snow. “Where does it lead?”
“A village,” he said. “Great Radley. We can’t cross until they’ve mended the bridge.”
“What about other travellers?”
“Aye, ma’am, that’s the thing. If we take that road, we’ll be the first since the snow started. Where there’s a village, there’s an inn.”
She saw his point. Her dreams of a comfortable room and good, hot food faded. They’d be lucky to find a single bedroom.
“There’s a big house near,” he said, helpfully. “We can’t reach it tonight, it must be a good ten miles away, but we could find shelter there tomorrow.”
Yes, she vaguely recalled the house. She had never visited, but she’d seen signs for it. She gave in. “very well. Let’s find the village first. Perhaps we can find where the poor girl in the road belongs.”
*
Everyone except Daisy got out of the coach to allow the driver to manoevre it in its new direction, no mean feat in this weather. But his iron wrists did the job and while Marguerite stood at the side of the road with her maid, her footmen and a snivelling Miss Fortescue, she watched him turn the vehicle and pull up again. They clambered abroad. Marguerite would not admit her weariness, but the other ladies drooped as they climbed aboard. They could not hold their heads up.
Even a single room would be better than this.
Great Radley turned out to be a small village strung out along a single road, which offered one inn, at the far edge of the road. A sign swung above them, whipped by the surging wind as they arrived. Night was falling fast now.
Marguerite got down, and strode inside to meet the landlord. Half a dozen male faces turned to stare, and one came closer, wiping his hands on his apron. Marguerite braced herself.
By dint of offering twice the price, she obtained two rooms, and a meal. She was in no mood to argue. Besides, with the bridge down, more prospective guests might arrive. She wanted to secure what was available before that happened.
“I found a girl in the road, about five miles away,” she told him. “Half frozen. Do you know if anyone is missing?”
The landlord shook his head. “It’s been right quiet today,” he said. “Not many people on the road, like.”
“Like what?” Miss Fortescue demanded.
Marguerite rolled her eyes, and the landlord grinned at her. She could do without tactless girls. He could well choose to rent his rooms elsewhere, then where would they be? Until that bridge was mended they were going nowhere. “You’ll be hungry then?” he said.
“Yes, please.”
He did not ask their names, and she did not offer them, but swept up the narrow wooden staircase with the two girls behind her. A footman carried Daisy and deposited her on the only bed. The ceiling was low and the floorboards creaked, but a fire crackled in the hearth and there were curtains over the windows to keep the draughts out. Marguerite had known worse. Much worse.
“Needham, pray attend to the young lady,” she said. She took the maid aside. “If you can get a last name, or any hint as to what she was doing there, lying in the snow, so much the better.”
Needham nodded. “Ma’am. But won’t you want me to attend to you?”
“I spent many years attending to myself, and to my daughters. I will manage well enough.” But she smiled, touched by her maid’s concern for her. Probably engendered by the excellent salary she received, but still, Marguerite appreciated the concern.
She moved away, intending to go to the bed, but a bellowed, “Ho there!” from below stopped her in her tracks.
A male voice, commanding attention, expecting it. Another guest had arrived. She glanced at the footman, standing by the door. “Go into the other room. Claim it. We have paid for it, and we will keep it.”
With a grin, Burnham turned to obey her. “Aye, ma’am. From the sound of it, yon gentleman won’t come to harm from a night in the tap room.”
Marguerite heard the door to the other room close, and a scrape as Burnham secured it, probably with a chair under the latch. That would be how she would do it.
“Ho, I say!”
A muttered order followed, and the sound of heavy feet running up the stairs.
Miss Fortescue uttered a piercing scream and ran to the door, fumbling with the latch. “Oh please! Do not let him in, do not let him know we are here!”
The first Marguerite saw of the intruder was a heavy, polished boot thrust into the space, preventing Miss Fortescue from slamming the door. A large hand followed, clasping the wood and pushing it open.
There he stood, the man who had haunted her dreams, and latterly her nightmares. She stood completely still.
Lord Haydock’s attention fixed on his ward. “What on earth are you about, girl? What insane start has entered your head now?”
Only then did he look around, taking in the other occupants of the room, the bed with the maid bent over it, and then her. His dark eyes glinted, though that must have been a reflection from the fire.
Their gazes met, clashed and hardened. “You!” both said at the same time.
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