We have a winner for Alex Beecroft's FALSE COLORS guest blog. A free copy goes to:
SCOTTSGAL!
Contact Alex to give her your address. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!
Sundays on Unusual Historicals mean new books! Guest authors! Free books!
This week we're featuring Georgia Evans as she celebrates the release of BLOODY GOOD, the first of three WWII-era paranormals set in the fictional English town of Brytewood.
At the height of the Battle of Britain, a lady doctor has more than enough trouble to keep her busy even in a sleepy hamlet outside London. But the threat is nearer home than Alice knows. German agents have infiltrated her beloved countryside--Nazis who can fly, read minds, and live forever. They're not just fascists. They're vampires.
Alice has no time for fantasy, but when the corpses start appearing sucked dry, she'll have to accept help from a lowly Conscientious Objector, an able-bodied young man who says he's no coward though he refuses to fight. And, of course, from her grandmother, a sane, sensible woman who insists that she's a Devonshire Pixie. Indeed, whatever it takes to defend home and country from an evil both ancient and terrifyingly modern.
***
Peter hadn't meant to accept a lift home, but by the time he'd settled the drowsy child on a nest of blankets on the back seat, Black had swung both bicycles up in the back of the shooting brake.
Seemed downright churlish to yank them out again so Peter hopped into the passenger seat, reminding himself he was quite possibly going to be working with this woman for the duration of the war and lust was out of the question.
Even if it had taken possession of his brain.
Sitting this close in the dark was nothing short of painful. At least it was dark. It was only five minutes back to Sergeant Pendragon's cottage. And there was a child on the back seat. Who was right now snoring. No doubt needed her adenoids out.
"It never ceases to amaze me," Alice--Dr. Doyle he reminded himself--said, "how a child can sleep like that after a night of trauma. But she's been taken care of, rescued, stitched up and tucked up. The grown ups are looking after her." She sighed and Peter was about to comment that things weren't that secure for many children when Alice went on. "She'll not worry until she wakes up, and wonders where she'll end up living now, if she'll be with her friends, and if she'll be late for school tomorrow."
"Or if you're going to get bombed again tomorrow night."
"Or the Germans march up the gap in the Downs. They haven't put up all those pill boxes and dragons' teeth barriers all over the place just to complicate the harvest."
"They've got to get here first." He hadn't expected to be talking about the war and invasion with her, but it was safer than say what really was on his mind. Nothing like a bit of worry to take care of his urges. "Although I suppose nights like tonight are meant to soften us up so we just roll over when they tramp up from the beaches and head for London."
"Judging by the mood in London, they're more likely to be met with carving knives and knitting needles."
"And pitchforks and scythes in these parts."
She glanced at him in the night, then set her gaze back on the road. One blinkered headlight was not enough to see well in the twisting lane. "You'd take up a pitchfork or a scythe, Mr. Watson? How does that reconcile with your CO stance? Sorry!" She glanced his way again and shook her head. "I had no right to ask that."
"You put it a lot more tactfully than most people do. 'You'd sit by and watch your sister get raped by a German, would you?' is one of the favorite lines." Why was he telling her this? Had to be a combination of tiredness and the odd isolation of the dark.
"Do you even have a sister?"
"Actually, no. I've two little half-brothers, and if anyone laid a hand on them I'd plant him a facer and then attack below the waist." He sensed her smile in the dark. "It's a long story, but I can not, will not pick up a gun. The board accepted that." And he hoped to hell she did.
She'd stopped the car.
They were back at his cottage.
Just as well. Another half mile he'd no doubt have spilled his whole hideous past. "Er...thanks."
He hopped out of the car and went around the back to retrieve the bicycles.
She was there too, turned the handle and opened the back for him. "Try to get a few hours sleep, Mr. Watson. And this is a doctor talking. We still need to start at nine in the morning. Gloria will need help with the home visits and we need to find out what to do all the children, to say nothing of the with the Arckle boys."
The Arckle boys? "You mean Dave and Sid."
"Yes. The billeting committee are going to have their hands full. I can't keep them all in my place indefinitely."
"No." Not that he remembered much about her house or how anyone would find places for all those children.
He reached for the Sergeant's bicycle, at precisely the same moment she did and their hands closed on the handlebars together. And just about undid all his brilliant efforts at self control. Her hands were warm, smooth and darn strong as she grasped the handle bars, and his hand, for a split second before drawing back.
"Sorry. You want to get that one?"He did and the other actually, but she swung his down with little effort, and wheeled it beside him up the path.
Ignore the blackout, their exhaustion and the injured child sleeping in the car, and they might have been returning after an afternoon spin across the Surrey Hills, stopping off for a picnic by some river and now he'd be getting ready to ask her in for coffee.
He almost laughed out loud.
Seemed stress and fatigue made his imagination run riot.
"...Er...excuse me..."
She'd been talking to him, or trying to, while he was verging on impure thoughts. "Sorry."
"That's alright. I'm the one needs to apologize." She leaned the bicycle against the side of the house and looked up at him. Her face was a pale shape in the darkness. "I'm not good at apologizing. Never have been. But I own you one. That first afternoon, I made some very rude, unjustified comments. I'm sorry," she paused as if to catch her breath. "You're not a coward. Tonight proved it and I had no business to make such a sweeping judgment without knowing a thing about you."
He shrugged, unsure how to reply. "Tonight, I just did my job." With a lot of help.
"Without you, those two brothers would have been buried alive and no doubt dead buy the time they dug them out. "You saved their lives."
"I didn't do it alone. Sergeant Pendragon..."
"Is an old man. You went down into the cellar, he told me that. You went looking for them not knowing if you'd be able to get out again, That, Mr. Watson, is courage in my book." He ought to tell the truth, that Sergeant Pendragon held up a wall and the stairs on his shoulders but she'd think he was out of his mind. Perhaps he was. "Thank you," she went on, "and I look forward to working with you."
She offered her hand.
He took it.
His earlier impression had been dead on. Her skin was warm, even in the chilly night, her grasp strong and he might sense rather than see her smile, but he just knew it crinkled the corners of her blue eyes. Which must sparkle with life and beauty and...
Oh, dash it all!
Holding hands was nowhere near enough. Why waste the night and the moment?
He put his arm on her shoulders, drawing her closer. To his utter amazement and delight, she stepped into him, looking up at him. This close he could almost see the soft curve of her lips. He felt the warmth of her breath as he lowered his mouth and brushed her lips with his.
That was all he intended, a reckless, stolen kiss that they could both forget in daylight.
If they had any sense. Which they obviously didn't.
Instead of stepping back, she leaned into him, warm and soft against him , and tilting her neck, opened her mouth and wrapped her arms around him.
***
In lieu of our regular Q&A this week, we're doing something a little different. Georgia will answer the first ten questions you post in the comments. You direct the interview! Leave a comment or questions for your chance to win one of two signed copies, which will be chosen at random next Sunday. Good luck!
Congratulations to Michelle Styles, who just sold her 12th book to Harlequin Mills & Boon Historical. An early Victorian set in the North East, it features a an ancient curse, governess with a ruby necklace, and a naked viscount!
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Lindsay Townsend has received a review of FLAVIA'S SECRET from the Historical Novel Society.
Townsend has a great ear for snappy dialog, and even her most minor characters spring instantly to life with a carefully-chosen sentence or description. Most details of Roman Britain at the time are faithfully rendered, although at its heart, this is a timeless story of two people finding love where they least expect it. FLAVIA'S SECRET is cheerfully recommended. -- Steve Donoghue
In addition, all of Lindsay's historical romances are now available on Kindle, and her short medieval fable-romance, "The Bridal House," was featured on May 28th at Long and Short Reviews.
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Join us Sunday when author Georgia Evans will be here to talk about BLOODY GOOD, the first of three paranormal romances set in WWII England!
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We'll also draw the winner of Alex Beecroft's FALSE COLORS. There's still time to leave a comment for your shot at winning!
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Have a good weekend! If you have an announcement to make for next week, email Carrie. See you next week...
By Erastes
Maurice, in my mind, was one of the first "Unusual Historicals."
Forster, well-known and successful author of many other books such as and Howard's End and A Room with a View started Maurice in 1913, but the book wasn't published until 1971, after he had died the previous year.
The themes in his books up to this point had explored class differences and the incompatibility of such: upper class Helen Schlegel supports and eventually sleeps with the lower class Leonard Bast to tragic results, while upper class Henry Wilcox's mistress was the present and lower class Mrs Bast. In Maurice he plays with the same themes, but in an entirely unprecedented move, he not only makes the unhappy and inconclusive love-affair the upper-class one Maurice has with Clive, but he crosses the class divide, making Maurice ultimately happy with Alex, an ignorant brash gamekeeper.
He says, in his "terminal note" in the book:
A happy ending was imperative. I shouldn't have bothered to write otherwise. I was determined that in fiction anyway, two men should fall in love and remain it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood. I dedicated it "To a Happier Year" and not altogether vainly. Happiness is keynote--which by the way has had an unexpected result: it has made the book more difficult to publish. Unless the Wolfenden Report becomes law, it will probably have to remain in manuscript. It if ended unhappily, with a lad dangling from a noose or with a suicide pact, all would be well, for there is no pornogrpahy or seduction of minors. But the lovers get away unpunished and consequently recommend crime.
On a further, more depressing note, written in September 1960, he bemoans the fact that:
If [homosexuality] could be slipped into our midst unnoticed, or legalized overnight by a decree in small print, there would be few protest. Unfortunately it can only be legalized by Parliament, and Members of Parliament are obliged to think, or appear to think. Consequently the Wolfenden recommendations will be indefinitely rejected, police prosecutions will continue and Clive on the bench will continue to sentence Alec in the dock. Maurice may get off.
It is tragic that he didn't see his book published, nor lauded and celebrated for the masterpiece it is. It was so very much ahead of its time, and only now, in the last ten years has "gay romance" finally claimed the "happy ever after" for which he paved the way.
It is interesting that, in this era (FIFTY YEARS after these words were written), homosexuals are, right now, still struggling for acceptance, and even legality in the most powerful nation in the world. Perhaps if he were to rewrite the end of Maurice now, he would not send them off to America for their happy ending.
By Anna C. Bowling
When I think of education and historicals, a lot of things come to mind. There's the one room schoolhouse in Bedford, NY, that fascinated me as a child and I still insist on at least walking by when we're in town. And I won't leave Old Sturbridge Village without a conversation with whoever is interpreting the role of schoolmaster/mistress there. Also fascinating is the life of the colonial schoolteacher, but colonial education has already been well covered here. There could be the case of private tutors in some of the periods I write in, and the world of British public (private, to us Americans) schools could be a universe of its own. I considered using friends' experience as homeschooling parents to explore how many pioneers taught their own children with whatever was at hand.
What comes most vividly to mind is one session of my own elementary education (which was not, I hasten to add, in a one room schoolhouse; we're only going back as far as the 1970s here). We were in a reading circle, and the topic of this unit was cowboys. Our teacher would read through the selection with us and then ask each student a question from her teacher's edition, which had the expected answers given in red. When it was my turn, the question was, "Did cowboys read a lot (for entertainment)?"
I said, "No."
This was not the answer in the teacher's edition. The teacher's edition quoted a passage that books were passed around until they fell apart. I did not contest that. What happened next is part of what sealed my fate as a lover of unusual historicals.
While the passage we'd read did say that about the books, it also said that a good number of men employed in that particular profession were black, Native American, Mexican or Chinese. Since at that time it was illegal to teach slaves to read, that eliminated a number of black cowboys from the ranks of readers. Next, assume that non-English speakers, or those for whom English is a second language, would be more likely to read in their own language, then that takes even more from the pool of readers, or at least divides it into smaller pools. Also factor that the work a cowboy was required to perform did not require a high level of education, so it can be assumed that a portion of the remaining pool of potential English-readers was not literate.
Working from the reduced pool of potential readers, I then took a look at the typical workday as outlined in our passage. If the cowboys rose as early as they did, were engaged in manual labor for much of the day and ended work after sundown, that wouldn't leave much time for reading. Plus it would be dark. Taking all that into account, I told the teacher, it could be true that some cowboys did read for pleasure, but probably not most. There was a moment of silence, a few "umm"s from the teacher, and she did call my parents later on, but the image of those hypothetical cowboys and their reading material stuck with me. Maybe one of them will make it into a story someday.
Yes, I know there are holes in the logic; I was nine. (Western fans, please feel free to chime in.) There were, of course, cowboys of many national origins and ethnicities who might be devoted to Dickens, or who gobbled any newspaper they could get their hands on, and we have letters and diaries written by cowboys to give us valuable insight into how these hardworking men really lived. The passage in that long-ago fifth grade reading group dealt with trail rides, so if I can read while walking, I'm sure there were cowboys who had a book in their saddlebags and could read a novel, text or Bible on the trail as well.
Until someone perfects time travel, we'll have to keep supposing, but who knows? Maybe a few of them had a romance novel stashed in their saddlebags as well.
By Lindsay Townsend
Sarmatia in my BRONZE LIGHTNING, which begins in the Mediterranean of 1652 BC, would surely have known of the the Muse. Homer called her 'Daughter of Zeus' in The Odyssey, but the poetry we have left from ancient Greece comes much later and mostly from men: Alcman, Pindar, Theocritus, and the great playwrights of the fifth century BC, Callimachus of Alexandria.
The sources for women's writing in ancient Greece at first appear to be much more scarce. Women do appear in Greek plays: Klytemnestra, Antigone, Lysistrata. In these works they have lively voices but their words have been written by men. Where is the literature written by women? Where do Greek women speak directly to us?
Sadly, little has survived. Manuscripts were copied by men and they selected what to copy. It could be there are more papyri in the Egyptian desert--thousands of them still remain in the ancient rubbish dump still being excavated at Oxyrhynchus after a hundred years--or in some yet undiscovered cache that will give us more authentic women's voices. So far the pickings are thin, but there's real quality there.
Foremost amongst the poets is Sappho, whose life on Lesbos in the early sixth century BC, at the centre of a group of girls worshipping Aprodite and the Muses, gave her material for nine books of poems full of affection, admiration and longing. Only a few poems have survived, but their directness is appealing. 'As pale as summer grass,' she (or her narrator) describes herself, a flame playing under her skin, as she gazes hopelessly at one of her girls chatting with a man. Another fragment:
The moon has set, and the Pleiades.
The night is half gone.
Time passes, and here I lie alone.
Later in the century came Korinna, who lived in Boiotia and wrote in the local dialect. One poem talks of her own voice, 'as clear as a swallow's', which gave delight to the 'white-robed ladies of Tanagra', her home town. The ancient world thought she was a rival of the great Pindar himself.
Some, like the fifth-century poets Praxilla of Sicyon and Telesilla of Argos, have left so little writing intact that we can hardly judge their work. Another, Erinna, lived on Telos, an island near Rhodes, and died before she was twenty, leaving us a reputation based on The Distaff, a tribute to her dead friend Baukis, whose father lit her funeral pyre with the torches intended to light her wedding. Only a few tantalising lines remain out of three hundred.
We have more complete poems by Anyte, who lived in Tegea on the Greek mainland in the third century BC, than by any other Greek woman, even Sappho. Even so, there are just eighteen certainly by her, a poor legacy for a poet very highly regarded in her day and for long afterward. One tells of children playing with a billy-goat, one of the sadness of a small girl, Myro, at having to make graves for her pet cricket and cicada. Here’s another, describing a statue of the goddess Aphrodite:
This is the place of the Cyprian, where she fulfils her pleasure
Looking out for ever from the land over the shining sea,
To make voyaging kindly to sailors. All around the ocean
Trembles, staring at her image of oil-glistening wood.
There's a useful anthology here which only underlines the scarcity of ancient Greek women's writing which survives. Maybe one day the papyrus mounds of Oxyrhynchus will give us more.
Last week, we drew a winner for TJ Bennett's THE PROMISE guest blog, but that person never claimed their copy. The new winner of TJ's debut, THE LEGACY is:
PATRICIA BARRACLOUGH!
Contact Carrie Lofty to give her your address. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!
This week we welcome Alex Beecroft as she celebrates the release of her debut, FALSE COLORS, a m/m romance set on the high seas of the 18th century. Here's the blurb:
For his first command, John Cavendish is given the elderly bomb vessel HMS Meteor, and a crew as ugly as the ship. He's determined to make a success of their first mission, and hopes the well-liked lieutenant Alfie Donwell can pull the crew together before he has to lead them into battle: stopping the slave trade off the coast of Algiers.
Alfie knows that with a single ship, however well manned, their mission is futile, and their superiors back in England are hoping to use their demise as an excuse for war with the Ottoman Empire. But the darker secret he keeps is his growing attraction for his commanding officer--a secret punishable by death.
With the arrival of his former captain--and lover--on the scene, Alfie is torn between the security of his past and the uncertain promise of a future with the straight-laced John. Against a backdrop of war, intrigue, piracy and personal betrayal, the high seas will carry these men through dangerous waters from England to Africa, from the Arctic to the West Indies, in search of a safe harbor.
***
Welcome to Unusual Historicals, Alex. Let's start by asking "what makes your historical so unusual?"
Imagine a cross between Master and Commander and Brokeback Mountain--all the seafaring adventure and excitement of the former, together with the bittersweet, forbidden love story at the core of the latter. That was what I aimed to achieve in FALSE COLORS, a novel set in the Georgian Age of Sail that follows the romance between Lt. Alfie Donwell and his Captain, John Cavendish.
Together with TRANSGRESSIONS by Erastes, FALSE COLORS is one of two groundbreaking novels released by Running Press which aim to bring the underground phenomenon of m/m romance out into the mainstream. Running Press's aim was to see these two books, and the next two in the series, take their place in the romance section of bookshops next to traditional romances.
But surely gay romance belongs in the gay section rather than the romance section?
I would argue it belongs in both. One surprise m/m romance has for the romance industry is its great popularity with gay men. Men have previously not been much of a target audience for romance, but that isn't the case with these books.
Perhaps the larger surprise is that m/m romance appeals hugely to women as well. The success of Brokeback Mountain as a film can be set down largely to its appeal to women, rather than to gay men. There are numerous reasons why women who try m/m romance find that they adore it--two sexy heroes for the price of one, for example, or the element of real equality and mutual respect such a relationship allows. That's a subject too long for me to go into here. If you're interested, there is a debate on the subject here:
Why do women write m/m fiction?
Brokeback Mountain was an amazing love story, but I wouldn't exactly call it a romance. How do you get around the fact that in the 18th Century your characters could have been hanged for having a relationship?
Well, partly I don't try to get around that fact. What could be more romantic than a love strong enough to bloom even under the threat of the gallows? The difficulty comes in allowing the characters to have a happy ending. But I look at it this way--most of the relationships which we know of, that ended badly, we know of because they ended badly. They were recorded because they were discovered and ended up in court. But I'm writing about the other couples; the ones who were careful and clever enough not to be discovered, and who managed--not without risk, of course--to live happily every after under the radar of society.
One final question: why did you choose this setting?
Oh, that's easy! I adore the Age of Sail. There's something so beautiful and romantic in the tall ships themselves. They symbolise the sense of freedom and excitement--the feeling of new horizons opening, fascinating discoveries being made, and the optimism of the age of Enlightenment. There's a wonderful confidence and energy, and a mixture of refinement and ferocity in the men of the time that I find magnificent. I've gone into more detail here:
What the Georgians did for us: Five reasons to love the 18th century.
Please visit me on my website if you'd like to know more. It has an attached blog that I try to update every day with news about my books, works in progress, writing tips and cover art secrets, as well as the occasional aside about my adventures in re-enactment and morris dancing.
Reviews For FALSE COLORS
From Dear Author:
Rarely, oh so rarely, I'll read a book that is so sublime, so transcendent, I actually come away from it a little melancholy, because it's over and I can never read it for the first time ever again, because I know I'll never be able to do justice to it in my review or analysis, and because I know I won't meet its equal for many a year. But the process of devouring the book, of eking out its layered, textured meaning, of savoring its descriptions, and the emotions–oh, the emotions!–leaves me flying for days and the melancholy only makes it all the sweeter.
This is one of those books. It ravished me. It scoured my insides. I feel like I'm stuck in it and I don't ever want to get out.
Read the whole review here.
More reviews here.
I'd like to offer a copy of FALSE COLORS to one of your readers, chosen at random from anyone who comments on this post. And thank you again for having me! It's been an honour to be here.
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Thanks for stopping by, Alex! We were very happy to have you. If you would like to enter for a chance to win a copy of FALSE COLORS, made a question or comment for Alex. I will draw a winner at random in one week. Good luck!
Carrie Lofty's debut, WHAT A SCOUNDREL WANTS, received its first newspaper review from none other than fellow romance writer Jennifer Estep. the review is featured in the Bristol Herald Courier On May 10, 2009.
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Join us Sunday when author Alex Beecroft will be joining us to talk about FALSE COLORS, a m/m romance set on the high seas of the 18th century!
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Have a good weekend! If you have an announcement to make for next week, email Carrie. See you next week...
Thursdays on Unusual Historicals mean excerpts! This week we're featuring an excerpt from Alex Beecroft's debut, FALSE COLORS, a m/m romance set in the 18th century. Join us on Sunday when Alex will be stopping to talk about FALSE COLORS and give away a copy!
For his first command, John Cavendish is given the elderly bomb vessel HMS Meteor, and a crew as ugly as the ship. He's determined to make a success of their first mission, and hopes the well-liked lieutenant Alfie Donwell can pull the crew together before he has to lead them into battle: stopping the slave trade off the coast of Algiers.
Alfie knows that with a single ship, however well manned, their mission is futile, and their superiors back in England are hoping to use their demise as an excuse for war with the Ottoman Empire. But the darker secret he keeps is his growing attraction for his commanding officer--a secret punishable by death.
With the arrival of his former captain-and lover-on the scene, Alfie is torn between the security of his past and the uncertain promise of a future with the straight-laced John.
***
On the cluttered front of an empty warehouse, its great doors gaping wide, white flashes of lightning lighting up dangling chains, the last group of men parted before them and ran. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the rain, suddenly alone.
John turned, saw Alfie watching him; pale hair eerie in the night, wide eyes gold. Rain trickled down Alfie's face, streaking through the blood and dirt. He licked his lips, panting, his mouth open slightly, gleaming with water. "John, I...."
The look of shock, vulnerability, was just the same as he had worn that day John walked in on him when he was playing the flute. Off balance, taken unawares, and he was so…oh so beautiful. Why not? After all, why the hell shouldn't I?
Seizing Alfie by the wrist, John hauled him into the warehouse's private darkness, shoved him up against the wall and kissed him--desperate, demanding, furious. The storm crested and broke in him as he forced his way into Alfie's mouth. Warmth, and rain trickling off their hair onto his lips, and Alfie's solid body trembling against him, and for a lightning flash he had no thought at all; abandoned to sensation like an animal. Only slowly did he recognize the shaking of Alfie's pinned arms, the shudder of his chest, and the low, irregular gasp of his breath for what it was. Head back against the wall, eyes closed, he was sobbing very quietly, stripped of his authority and broken at John's touch.
The spirit stove in John's rooms sighed and guttered, damnably slow. All the time it struggled to heat the water Alfie sat at the table with his head in his hands, rain, blood, and mud dripping off him onto the clean floor. He took the teacup with numb fingers and did not drink, instead cradling it, bent over the steam.
There was so much John wanted to say. Principally "I've been an ass. I'm so sorry. I don't dare ask for your forgiveness but tell me what I can do now, to mend you. Please. Please don't carry on like this. I can't bear it." But he couldn't force it out. "You'll catch your death," he said instead. "Come, let me lend you some dry clothes."
Alfie looked up, his gaze as bleak and bedraggled as his clothing. He made to speak, but as he did so, there came a sudden, shocking hammering noise. They both flinched. Then John put down the linen towel he had been using to dry his hair and opened the door. Light shone out across a self-important, down at heel, middle-class man and the two bruisers with cudgels who lurked behind him.
"Certain accusations have been made concerning the late Captain Lord Lisburn," the man said, unconsciously patting his own belly. Indeed, he looked almost pregnant with satisfaction.
"What is that to me?" said John coldly, trying inconspicuously to stand in the man's line of sight. It did no good, he merely stepped to one side and looked past John, straight at Alfie.
"Some very serious matters have come to light about the captain's...ahem...relations with one Lieutenant Alfstan Donwell. I have been directed to take the gentleman in, for questioning. Enquiries about the harbor indicated he was last seen with you. So I came here. I presume this is him?"
John froze. So it had come to this after all; the death they had both been courting had found them here in his own rooms. He considered lying, considered drawing his sword and taking all three men down, hiding them somewhere. But as his soul revolted at the thought, Alfie slowly dragged himself to his feet. "Yes. Lieutenant Donwell at your service. What can I do for you?"
"Hand your sword to me and come with us."
"Alfie," John whispered, aghast. Alfie reached out and squeezed his wrist--he thought reassuringly, though it was hard to tell through the explosion of pain. His thin, new skin parted beneath the touch.
Alfie frowned at the blood on his fingertips as if he couldn't work out what it was. "Goodbye then, John. Pray for me."
By Jacquie Rogers
One-room schoolhouses were the norm in 19th Century America, especially in the rural areas. In the West, they lingered on for many decades more, into the mid-20th Century. A one-room school in the area where I grew up closed in the late 1950s, and I remember that even years later, many residents mourned its closing.
Why were one-room schoolhouses so successful?
In a word: efficiency. All the children attended one school, so the townspeople could put their expendable resources into a single source of education. The building was generally used for other purposes as well, such as town council meetings, court room proceedings, and sometimes church services. This concentration of resources enabled a small town to offer much more in the way of civic services than would otherwise be possible.
How did these schools operate?
In some districts, a trustee was appointed. His job was to hire the schoolteacher, acquire supplies, keep the building in good repair, and oversee any contentious situations. Other district elected a school board to do these jobs.
Students numbered from five to 50. One schoolteacher could handle many children because older children mentored the younger children. While the schoolteacher was working with one grade, the other students were studying, usually together. And of course the older students learned well since they also taught the lessons.
Children also did chores--cleaning the blackboard, sweeping, hauling in wood, and all the general duties required to keep a building in operation. Many times, a chore was an award for a job well done.
Most schoolteachers were female, young, single, and well-spoken, which meant they attracted young men. The trustee never knew if one of the young farmers would steal their schoolmarm out from under their noses. It happened. A lot. A this is probably why rules for schoolteachers came about.
Not all schools used these rules, but I did find them associated with schools on the East and West Coasts, and all the way through the Midwest. From New Hampshire Historical Society:
Rules for Teachers
--You will not marry during the term of your contract.
--You are not to keep company with men.
--You must be home between the hours of 8 p.m. and 6 a.m. unless attending a school function.
--You may not loiter downtown in ice cream stores.
--You may not travel beyond city limits unless you have the permission of the chairman of the board.
--You may not ride in a carriage or automobile with any man unless he is your father or brother.
--You may not smoke cigarettes.
--You may not dress in bright colors.
--You may under no circumstances dye your hair.
--You must wear at least two petticoats.
--Your dresses must not be any shorter than two inches above the ankle.
--To keep the school room neat and clean, you must:sweep the floor at least once daily; scrub the floor at least once a week with hot, soapy water; clean the blackboards at least once a day; start the fire at 7 a.m. so the room will be warm by 8 a.m
I wonder who was in charge if checking her petticoats.
Have a great day!
Jacquie
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By Sandra Schwab
Religion and Church were extremely important for medieval man. But as Church services were held in Latin, it became necessary to teach laymen the important bits from the Bible in a different way. This need resulted in embellishments of the Easter liturgy: a short dialogue between the women visiting the grave and finding it empty, and the angel telling them that Christ had risen, was acted out - and this was the beginning of British drama. These so-called tropes were continually lengthened and eventually developed into full-length Easter dramas. They were so popular that they had to be performed outside the churches. Yet because of the entertainment these plays provided, the church authorities became suspicious and forbade the clergy to act.
And this was the point when drama took really off: laymen snatched the chance, took up acting and ditched the Latin altogether. At least since the 14th century annual plays were staged by the town guilds in the context of the newly introduced Corpus Christi festival. These Corpus Christi plays or mystery plays were performed as cycles, which covered important passages from the Bible, starting with the Fall of the Angels (which is not directly covered by the Bible, but was thought to be the reason why God created humankind: humans should eventually replace those fallen angels in the heavenly choirs) and ending with the Day of Judgment. Each guild was responsible for one play within a cycle, and profession of the lay-actors was in some way connected to the contents of the play: e.g., in York the shipwrights staged the building of the ark, and the bakers did the Last Supper.
In York the annual production of the Corpus Christi plays took a special form: there were 12 stations throughout town, and each acting troupe moved from one station to the next with a wagon upon which the stage had been erected. The York cycle contains 48 individual plays, so if all of them were performed, it was a massive undertaking indeed, with 576 performances in total. The plays were not only a giant communal project and a chance for the guilds to display their wealth, but they can also be regarded as the worldly equivalent of the procession in which the host was carried around town in honor of the Corpus Christi festival: in both instances the divine permeates the city.
Through the mystery plays the biblical story became something people could relate to; it became part of their lives. This becomes abundantly clear in the so-called "Second Shepherds Play" from the Wakefield Cycle, which deals with the shepherds on the fields who are called to bear witness to the birth of Christ. They not only address Baby Jesus with endearments that might be used for any other baby ("Hail, little tiny mop!" --mop meant child--and "Hail, darling dear"), but the biblical episode is also preceded by a humorous episode involving the sheep-thief Mak, who hides a stolen sheep in a cradle and pretends it is his newborn child. In a somewhat daring move, the anonymous author thus included a comic version of the nativity in his play.
Both this episode and the introductory passages in which the shepherds bemoan their lot make the characters in the play "normal" people, not removed in time and space from the audience. When at the beginning of the play the world is described as an inhospitable place, full of injustices, it is concerns of the 15th century which are addressed. It is the audience's own world which is in need of God's grace. And together with the shepherds they are reassured that with the birth of Christ God has sent hope into their world.
By Jean Adams
Ancient Egyptian literature grew out of religious beliefs, but quickly evolved to deal with man's day-to-day life. Literary works occupied a distinguished position in ancient Egyptian civilization. The Egyptians viewed literature as a source of spiritual nourishment and a unique way to elevate style of expression. Refined literary style was a source of pride for the writer and appreciation and enjoyment for the reader.
Egyptians wrote plays, dramatic poetry, songs, religious hymns and love poetry, in addition to description of nature, poems to glorify their kings and their battles, and songs for workers and farmers and others to be sung in parties.
Ancient Egyptian literature can be dated back to the Middle Kingdom (2022 BC-1850 BC). This era witnessed a great number of writers and thinkers who left behind works of art reflecting the elevated status of thinking and culture.
One story is titled "The Sailor and the Wonder Island" (The Shipwrecked Sailor). It narrates the story of an Egyptian sailor whose ship is wrecked with all others on board, drowned. As the only survivor, he lives on an isolated island, finds a treasure, and returns home. The original“Treasure Island perhaps?
Scholars and critics of comparative literature are at loggerheads on the extent of the influence of the "Message of Forgiveness," written by the Arabic poet abul-Ala'al- Ma'arri (973-1057 AD), on Dante Aligieri's Divine Comedy. The central theme of both works is the description of heaven and hell in the hereafter.
Some scholars believe this theme has clear roots in ancient Egyptian literature, which tackled this theme in many works. It was evident in The Book of the Dead, The Book of the Gates, and in the story Isis, Osiris and the World of Dead.
Ancient Egyptian writers expressed their imaginative vision of the journey of the soul after leaving the body to the sky until it reaches the court where the deceased's heart is weighed against "Ma'at's feather" that symbolizes justice, truthfulness, rightness and bounty. Then, the deceased is sentenced to eternal paradise or hell.
The ancient Egyptians also excelled at novel writing. This is reflected in the great number of stories left behind. In some of these stories, a well-traveled hero tells us about his adventures such as the story of the sailor and the dangers he witnessed on the mythical island of snakes.
Another example is "Snohi" (Sinuhe), a story that was famous for many centuries. It describes Snohi's escape from Egypt after a perceived wrongdoing and his stay in Syria for many years where he won the favor of the king. He became so close to the leader,who allowed him to marry his elder daughter, and gave him a plot of land. When Snohi grows old, he also grows homesick. He appeals to the king for permission to return to Egypt to see, as he says, "the place that his heart is longing to see because the greatest thing in the world for a man is to be buried in the place of his birth." His hope is fulfilled and he returns to Egypt.
The ancient Egyptians excelled in writing romantic love poetry. In addition to eulogies to Nile River and its merits, there were many love poems that expressed not only passion surging the heart of a lover, but also delicate emotions. Sentiments of love were couched in beautiful similes derived from aspects of the Egyptian environment. For example, a lover says to his beloved, "My beloved is like a garden, full of beautiful papyrus blossoms and I am like a wild goose attracted by the taste of love."
Another lover says, "My beloved is there on the other bank. We are separated by the floodwater. On the bankside, there is a crocodile lying in wait. But I am not afraid of it. I will swim through the water until I reach her and be delighted."
In another love song, two lovers exchange refined expressions of love. The loving woman says, "I will never leave you my darling. My only wish is to stay in your house and at your service. We will always be hand in hand, come and go to gather everywhere. You are my health; my life."
In many of the love poems of Egypt, the man calls his beloved "sister" and the woman calls her lover "brother" in order to show how each one of them highly appreciates the other.
Finally, can you guess this story?
Rhodophis, a young slave girl, who could dance beautifully, so delighted her old master that he bought her a pair of golden sandals. The other servants were jealous, so when Pharaoh decided he wanted to take a wife, and summoned all the women of the kingdom to a great feast, they didn't tell Rhodophis and left her behind. But the gods intervened and sent Horus, in the shape of a falcon, to steal one of her sandals. He dropped it at the feet of Pharaoh, who declared the sandal was so dainty that we would marry the wearer. Many tried it on but it fit none of them so he sent out his chariots to find her. They found Rhodophis cowering behind a bush and sent for Pharaoh. He took her by the hand and declared his undying love for her.
Cinderella's story with the same central themes appears in abundance in the folkloric and literary works of many nations all over world, the most famous being the Brothers Grimm.
The first reference of this story dates back to the era of the fourth Dynasty in the 26th Century BC.
We have a winner for TJ Bennett's THE PROMISE guest blog. A free copy of TJ's debut, THE LEGACY goes to:
MARIE BURTON!
Contact TJ to give her your address. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!
Thursdays on Unusual Historicals means excerpts! This week we're featuring a selection from one of our contributors, Anna C. Bowling. Here's the blurb for QUEEN OF THE OCEAN.
Frances Carter, daughter and sister of wreckers, stands a gruesome vigil on the Cornish coast, her only solace memories of her childhood love, Mateo Sandoval. Though Frances' father has promised her in marriage to Ewan, a greedy government agent, Frances knows she can never give up on the future she and Mateo had planned.
As a child, Mateo Sandoval was powerless when his father insisted the family return to Spain. As a man, he will let nothing stop him from claiming the life and the woman he has always wanted.
When the sea washes Mateo ashore at Frances' feet the week before her wedding, they know their second chance could be their last. Only love can do the impossible.
***
Mateo Sandoval blinked the grit from his eyes and struggled to sit. The darkness swirled around him, and his sodden clothing, stiff with salt, felt like he had been frozen in garments made of ice. A sharp pain in his midsection prevented further movement, so he put his head between his knees and sent a prayer of thanks to the God that had not forgotten him after all. There was no doubt. Despite the storm and the sea and more troubles than he cared to count, he'd made it back to Cornwall. If there was any justice in the world, to Lizard Point and to Frances as well.
Was she still here? The question nagged at him, and the only answer he could cling to gave him no comfort at all. Timothy Carter would never let his daughter go anywhere else. Never let her have anything other than what they could scrounge from the misfortune of others. He could not let that happen, even if it were the death of him.
She was the Queen of the Ocean and deserved her due. Hadn't she been every inch a queen draped in her watery splendor, with seed pods and shells for diamonds and pearls? There was no woman to compare with Frances Carter all the world over, and he had seen enough to know. It was worth the risk.
"Frances." He let her name fill his mouth, wash out the brackish taste of the water and the lack of food. "Frances." She belonged there, not in her father's hovel, not on the beaches, but in his arms as she'd lived in his heart these many years.
A woman's stifled cry brought him to full consciousness. She stood in the mouth of the cave, shawl about her shoulders and a fist in front of her mouth. The hood of her cloak obscured her features, but Mateo found his eyes drawn to the white of her hand. She could be Frances' age. It had been too long.
Mateo held both hands out wide. "I mean no harm."
Her hand did not move. "You are a ghost. A spirit. I am dreaming you."
"No. Only a man, hopefully more flesh than blood." Though he had his doubts, there was at least enough still in his body to allow him to stand. "Can you get food, water? I can pay you." He felt for the pouch that hung around his neck, sodden, but still heavy with coin. Still she did not move, and in the stillness, her voice echoed in his ear. The same voice that beat in his heart for the past ten years. "Frances?"
The hand dropped, and she stood like a statue in a wash of moonlight. "Mateo." His name came like a kiss on the wind. "You cannot be here."
By Eliza Tucker
School isn't just for good little boys and girls.
In the 1870s, there thrived in the Lower East Side of New York City, a school open to children of all colors and creeds. Located near the intersection of Grand and Clinton Streets in a dry good shop owned by Prussian immigrant Wolfe Mandelbaum, The Grand Street School became the most highly esteemed school for young criminals in the United States.
By the time the school was established, Wolfe's wife, Fredericka, had become New York City's most well-respected receiver of stolen goods. She employed expert pickpockets and thieves who not only helped fill two large Manhattan warehouses with items that once belonged to the city's finest families, but took in children aged ten and younger to learn how to scam, cutpurse, and rob. Even the advanced classes in safe cracking, burglary, blackmail and conartistry were free of initial charge for astute students.
The best and brightest graduates of the Grand Street School were offered salaried positions, but they had to surrender anything they stole. This offering didn't last long: "Marm" Mandelbaum found several of these employees were double dealing by turning in their better finds to her rivals.
The Grand Street School only operated for six years, when, in an act of rebellion, a well-known police officer's son applied for training. Marm Mandelbaum realized the educational venture was too common and bad for her other businesses. In 1884, Marm Mandelbaum--New York's own Fagin--was captured in a sting operation led by the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
By Anita Davison
During a childhood spent in North London, local folklore decreed that I grew up familiar with the rhyme:
Miss Buss and Miss Beale,
Cupid's darts do not feel.
How different from us,
Miss Beale and Miss Buss
Intended as uncomplimentary, Miss Frances Buss and Miss Dorothea Beale were both famous headmistresses of controversial girls' schools and proponents of the Womens' Suffrage movement.
Miss Beale became head of Cheltenham Ladies' College and founded St Hilda's College, Oxford, while Frances Mary Buss opened the North London Collegiate School for Ladies.
Born in London in 1827, Frances Buss was sent to a unremarkable private school in Aldersgate "...to get me out of the way". Sent to another private school in Hampstead, at the age of fourteen, she was teaching there, and by sixteen she was occasionally left in charge of the school.
In April 1850, when Francess was twenty three, she founded the North London Collegiate School in Camden Street, London. Thirty-five daughters of gentlemen and respectable tradesmen assembled on the opening day to receive an education which included Latin, French, and Natural science. German, Italian, and music were extras, taught with thought and observation rather than learning by rote. The school's success was immediate and by December, the school had 115 paying fees of between 9 and 12 guineas a year.
At this time there were no public examinations for girls, but in 1863 Miss Emily Davies, a contemporary of Dorothea Beale, prevailed upon the Cambridge authorities to allow girls to take the Local examinations unofficially. With only six weeks notice, 84 candidates sat the examination; of these 25 were from the North London Collegiate School, 15 of whom passed. In an age where girls were considered too weak to cope with study, none of the girls who took the examinations displayed the signs of physical strain their critics insisted would occur.
As a result of this experiment, girls were soon admitted to the examinations on the same terms as boys except that, "to avoid the supposed evils of emulation", their names, unlike the boys, were not published.
In order to gain public recognition for her school and girls' schools in general, Miss Buss gave evidence to the Schools Enquiry Commission that her pupils were mostly upper middle-class, but any girls of good character were admitted.
By 1865 the school had 200 day girls, with a few boarders, but was still run as a private, family concern, with her father Robert William Buss teaching Art and her brother Septimus Buss teaching Scripture. Discipline was strict, with talking apparently the main evil and breaches of the many rules taken seriously. The staff and pupils felt themselves to be pioneers in a great campaign against sex discrimination in education. Many former pupils testified not only to her discipline but also to her kindliness and generosity.
In 1870 Miss Buss turned her flourishing private venture into a public grammar school for girls. Miss Buss encouraged gymnastics, swimming, skating, hockey, and athletics. Her new building incorporated the first gymnasium designed for a girls' school and obtained the use of the St. Pancras baths. She instigated a school sports day, and in the interests of dress reform organized a tug-of-war between girls who wore stays and those who did not; the latter won. Miss Buss had little time for fainting girls, for whom she recommended the cold water treatment. She also encouraged the more usual accomplishments such as art, music, needlework, cookery, and handicrafts.
In 1929, the school acquired 'Canons', an estate that once boasted one of the finest Georgian houses in England belonging to the first Duke of Chandos and where George Frederick Handel was the composer-in-residence. The original house was dismantled and demolished 1760, but the colonnade now adorns the front of The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square.
By June 1940, the school was established and had 650 pupils by the end of the war. The 1760 villa which replaced the Duke of Chandos' mansion was decorated for the first time, and tennis courts and games fields were laid out. By 1964 there were 860 girls in the school, and many famous women are amongst its alumni.
Miss Buss was also a suffragette, participating in the Kensington Society, a woman's discussion society, and the London Suffrage Committee. She continued as Headmistress of the School for the rest of her life and died on Christmas Eve 1894.
By Isabel Roman
Education in the thirteen colonies varied as much as the colonies themselves. However, over all it did include reading, writing, simple math, poems, and prayers. Paper and textbooks were scarce so they recited their lessons until they memorized them. The three most commonly used books were the Bible, a primer, and a hornbook--which I had to look up.
The hornbook, a form of ABC book, was common by Shakespeare's day (Love's Labour's Lost, Act V. i.). It consisted of a piece parchment or paper pasted onto (most commonly) a wooden board and protected by a leaf of horn. The text usually started with a cross in the top left-hand corner, followed by an alphabet, vowels, a syllabary, and the invocation to the Trinity, after which the Lord's prayer was printed. The horn-book was often known as the "Crisscross-row" or "Crisscross," which is probably a reference to the Christ's cross at the top of it, or perhaps the way in which the text itself is set up to be read. At any rate the text of the hornbook shows clearly how much religion dominated instruction and literacy in these early times. The compact text did not allow room for illustration. However, on the other side might be engraved some splendid figure, such as St. George, or the reigning monarch, or even a mermaid. According to Mahoney, in the invention of the hornbook, "provision was made, for the first time, for children to handle their own books" (p.8).
In New England, they valued education, for both religious study and economic success. A 1647 Massachusetts law mandated every town of 50+ families have an elementary school and every town of 100+ families have a grammar school, where boys could learn Latin in preparation for college. In practice, it was difficult to keep schools open and staffed (I'm thinking Ichabod Crane here!) but all towns made an effort. Both boys and girls attended the elementary schools, and learned to read, write, and cipher.
In the more diverse population of the mid-Atlantic colonies were heavily influenced by the Age of Enlightenment, and Philadelphia became the center of the Enlightenment in America partly because of the presence of Benjamin Franklin, who championed many Enlightenment ideas. Franklin popularized the Enlightenment in annual editions of Poor Richard's Almanack. In 1743 Franklin was among the founders of the American Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, which sought to promote useful knowledge in the sciences and humanities through scholarly research and community service. Enlightenment culture, in combination with merchant wealth, gave a major boost to the production of high art as opposed to popular or folk art. Serious artistic work had previously found little support in the colonies.
The rural South had few schools of any sort until the Revolutionary War. Wealthy children studied with private tutors; middle-class children might learn to read from literate parents or older siblings. However, most poor and middle-class white children, as well as virtually all black children, went unschooled. Literacy rates were significantly lower in the South than the north.
Secondary schools were rare outside major towns, and emphasized Latin grammar and advanced arithmetic, with the goal of preparing boys to enter college. Some secondary schools also taught practical subjects, such as accounting, navigation, surveying, and modern languages. In poorer families, many households sent their children to apprentice and learn a trade.
Encarta
State.edu
Chesapeake.edu
Wikipedia
This week we welcome back TJ Bennett as she celebrates the release of her second book, THE PROMISE.
In a dangerous world, sometimes the greatest risk is love...
In 1525, Günter Behaim is a professional soldier in the service of Emperor Charles V. Günter has been betrayed by love and promises not kept. As a result, he has sworn to make few promises of his own and keep those unto death. However, when his friend is mortally wounded while saving Günter's life, he gives a pledge to marry his betrothed. To keep his promise, Günter must use every weapon in his romantic arsenal to convince the reluctant woman to marry him. As his passion for her grows, he realizes he is falling in love. Is he prepared to risk his worst fear: having his heart rejected once more?
The Spanish beauty Alonsa García de Aranjuéz is determined to withstand Günter's relentless pursuit. Haunted by a gypsy's curse on any man who loves her, Alonsa yearns for Günter, but fear for his safety forces her to rebuff him. As she struggles to deny the growing attraction between them, she begins to realize that fate may have other plans. With danger surrounding them, will Alonsa bite from the forbidden fruit? Or will Günter be bitten instead by the mysterious misfortune that seems to plague any with the courage to become Alonsa's love?
***
Welcome back! So what's so unusual about THE PROMISE?
Well, the hero of THE PROMISE, Günter Behaim, was introduced in my first book, THE LEGACY. That was set in Martin Luther's Reformation Germany, and during my research on the history of the period, I came across information about the Landsknechts, or the German mercenary companies hired first by Emperor Maximilian and then by Charles V to fight their wars throughout Europe.
Standing armies were rare during this time; many rulers, kings, and princes hired mercenary companies. I was fascinated by the lives these men--and the women who loved them--led. It was harsh and difficult, but at the same time compelling and exciting. I felt the mercenaries who lived, fought, and died during those times must have been extraordinary and well worthy of a story of their own. The story begins just days before the pivotal Battle of Pavia, a turning point in history between medieval and modern warfare. I don't believe I've ever seen a historical romance set in this particular time with this subject matter, so that makes it pretty unusual right there.
How does the setting influence the story?
Of necessity, it is a darker book than THE LEGACY, which was about an arranged marriage between a runaway nun and a middle-class printer. In THE PROMISE, we are dealing with a mercenary soldier, Günter, whose livelihood is fighting, killing, and avoiding being killed. The heroine, Alonsa, is the daughter of a blade merchant who has seen her share of violence as well. I had to deal with these elements in the story yet keep the focus on an impossible yet extremely romantic relationship, and that made it edgier and more adventurous than the first novel. But it is still a wonderful story of the triumph of love over impossible odds, as is THE LEGACY.
Since we are focusing our month long spotlight on literature and education, can you tell us what role those played in this book?
My hero is a Renaissance man (despite some of the advertising copy that suggests this is a Medieval, sorry to say). He joined the army after being jilted by his beloved sometime before the beginning of the first book. Before that, however, his backstory was that he was studying art and music in Florence, one of the great centers of learning and culture. Günter absorbed much while he was a student, and throughout the book, we see his various artistic talents manifest themselves in his ability to speak multiple languages, his skill at composing music, and his knowledge of poetry and art. He even composes a love song to Alonsa, one that leads to an emotional scene before they must part for what they believe is the last time. I loved taking this rough and tumble soldier and layering him with these romantic, sensitive qualities. It makes him a complex hero, not easy to pin down--my favorite kind.
Thanks for stopping by Unusual Historicals and telling us about your book!
Thank you, and let me invite your visitors to come learn more about THE PROMISE and its connected novel, THE LEGACY, at my website. They can also participate in my May contest, read excerpts, and view photos on my gallery pages. I'll be happy to answer any comments posted on this Unusual Historicals blog.
Reviews:
Romantic Times Magazine BOOK Reviews: Four Stars!
Passion, intrigue and romance distinguish this wonderful tale. The well-defined characters and fast pace will keep your attention from the first page to the last. Passion and humor are seamlessly inserted into this tale of love and adventure, and the emotional conclusion is very satisfying.
Night Owl Romance: 4.5 star Top Pick
THE PROMISE is "passionate, enchanting, and moving."
Eye on Romance's Historical Romance Writers: "I enjoyed Ms. Bennett's first book THE LEGACY and this book is just as good....The journey these two people take is one of true love."
***
Thanks so much for joining us once again, TJ, and best of luck with THE PROMISE! Readers, would you like a copy of TJ's debut, THE LEGACY? If so, leave a comment or a question. I'll draw a winner next Sunday. Good luck!
Michelle Styles took part in the Hexham Book Festival on 2 May, discussing the "Changing Face of Romance in 21st Century." Also, three of her novels are available as a special promotion pack in Spain this month. Históricos relatos que te transportaran a épocas pasadas donde vivirás amores sorprendentes, encuentros apasionados… seductores protagonistas ¡3 historias de Michelle Styles a las que no podrás resistirte!
***
Jennifer Linforth is hosting a Gaston Leroux Birthday Tribute Drabble Contest. The prize is a Phantom of the Opera gift basket including a signed copy of Madrigal plus books from contest judges. In a nutshell: A drabble is a story or scene told in 100 words. No more, no less. Many times in the fan-fiction world drabbles are a bit longer. Knowing how restricting writing tight can be, the contest will have an upper limit of 300 words. Details on Jennifer's website.
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Join us Sunday when author TJ Bennett will be here to talk about THE PROMISE, set in 16th century Germany!
***
We'll also draw the winner of Diane Whiteside's THE SOUTHERN DEVIL. There's still time to leave a comment for your shot at winning!
***
Have a good weekend! If you have an announcement to make for next week, email Carrie. See you next week...
Thursdays on Unusual Historicals mean excerpts! Yay! This week we're welcoming back TJ Bennett, who's celebrating the release of her second book, THE PROMISE, set in the Holy Roman Empire of the 16th century. This is the follow-on to THE LEGACY, which we featured back in June of 2008, and tells the story of Wolf Behaim's brother, Günter.
Make sure to join us on Sunday when TJ will be here to talk about THE PROMISE and give away a copy!
In 1525, Günter Behaim is a professional soldier in the service of Emperor Charles V. Günter has been betrayed by love and promises not kept. As a result, he has sworn to make few promises of his own and keep those unto death. However, when his friend is mortally wounded while saving Günter's life, he gives a pledge to marry his betrothed. To keep his promise, Günter must use every weapon in his romantic arsenal to convince the reluctant woman to marry him. As his passion for her grows, he realizes he is falling in love. Is he prepared to risk his worst fear: having his heart rejected once more?
The Spanish beauty Alonsa García de Aranjuéz is determined to withstand Günter's relentless pursuit. Haunted by a gypsy's curse on any man who loves her, Alonsa yearns for Günter, but fear for his safety forces her to rebuff him. As she struggles to deny the growing attraction between them, she begins to realize that fate may have other plans. With danger surrounding them, will Alonsa bite from the forbidden fruit? Or will Günter be bitten instead by the mysterious misfortune that seems to plague any with the courage to become ... Alonsa's love?
***
Alonsa sank down onto her knees, slapping the ground with an open hand repeatedly. "Again! Siempre! Always!" She broke off into a stream of rapid Spanish, but even Günter understood that she railed against the Fates.
"Señora!" he called, rising and grasping her from behind. He lifted her, afraid she would injure herself. "Alonsa, stop!"
She thrashed in his arms, and he turned her swiftly around. He shook her again, but she ignored him, and he feared she would lose hold of her senses in her grief. He realized he had two choices. He could either slap her in order to shock her back to sanity, or kiss her. As he had never raised a hand to a woman in his life, he chose the easier of the two.
Günter gripped her head and pressed his hard mouth to hers.
Dios mío.
Alonsa could see, through a blur of tears, Günter's open eyes. He was not even trying and still he made her heart pound in reaction, her knees go weak with desire. His mouth barely moved, yet she felt the lightning heat of his kiss streak through her. She went limp against him from the effect, and his arms encircled her. The moment she stopped moving, he drew back.
She gazed up at him stupidly.
"Forgive me," he murmured, and the warm spice of his breath fanned across her lips. "You were upset. I was losing you. I didn't know what else to do."
He stared down at her, and she felt a subtle tightening in the tension of his arms. His eyes drifted to her mouth, and he frowned. He slowly reached up and traced a callused finger across her bottom lip.
"Was I too rough?" he whispered.
Her breath caught in her throat. The feel of his finger sent little shivers across her skin. It sent mysterious messages throughout her body to hidden places long restrained. It unlocked doors chained shut for far too many years. And it was just a finger, just a stroke upon her lips. What could he do with that hand elsewhere?
"Was I?" he repeated, and absently trailed the finger across her chin, down her jaw, and up the sensitive skin of her cheek.
He tilted his head as he stroked the shell of her ear. She could see his eyes following its progress. He barely touched her, and yet she trembled. He must have felt the tremors, for his gaze returned to hers.
He moved to release her. "Are you cold? I'll get you a blanket--"
Instinct made her clutch at him, though reason screamed a warning in her head.
"No." Please kiss me again.
She gazed up at him in unbearable anticipation.
His eyes narrowed. He looked at her mouth, stared at it for so long she could count the time with the beat of the blood flowing through her body. Then slowly he lowered his head to hers once more. A scant hairsbreadth from her lips, he stopped.
She made a sound like a whimper. She could not help it. She should be ashamed, but she was not. She tilted her face, closed the last little distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.
She glanced at him in the night, then set her gaze back on the road. One blinkered headlight was not enough to see well in the twisting lane. "You'd take up a pitchfork or a scythe, Mr. Watson? How does that reconcile with your CO stance? Sorry!" She glanced his way again and shook her head. "I had no right to ask that."
Ignore the blackout, their exhaustion and the injured child sleeping in the car, and they might have been returning after an afternoon spin across the Surrey Hills, stopping off for a picnic by some river and now he'd be getting ready to ask her in for coffee.
Congratulations to Michelle Styles, who just sold her 12th book to Harlequin Mills & Boon Historical. An early Victorian set in the North East, it features a an ancient curse, governess with a ruby necklace, and a naked viscount!
Lindsay Townsend has received a review of FLAVIA'S SECRET from the Historical Novel Society. 
Join us Sunday when author Georgia Evans will be here to talk about BLOODY GOOD, the first of three paranormal romances set in WWII England!
He says, in his "terminal note" in the book:
Oh, that's easy! I adore the Age of Sail. There's something so beautiful and romantic in the tall ships themselves. They symbolise the sense of freedom and excitement--the feeling of new horizons opening, fascinating discoveries being made, and the optimism of the age of Enlightenment. There's a wonderful confidence and energy, and a mixture of refinement and ferocity in the men of the time that I find magnificent. I've gone into more detail here:
Most schoolteachers were female, young, single, and well-spoken, which meant they attracted young men. The trustee never knew if one of the young farmers would steal their schoolmarm out from under their noses. It happened. A lot. A this is probably why rules for schoolteachers came about.
Intended as uncomplimentary, Miss Frances Buss and Miss Dorothea Beale were both famous headmistresses of controversial girls' schools and proponents of the Womens' Suffrage movement.
By June 1940, the school was established and had 650 pupils by the end of the war. The 1760 villa which replaced the Duke of Chandos' mansion was decorated for the first time, and tennis courts and games fields were laid out. By 1964 there were 860 girls in the school, and many famous women are amongst its alumni.
In New England, they valued education, for both religious study and economic success. A 1647 Massachusetts law mandated every town of 50+ families have an elementary school and every town of 100+ families have a grammar school, where boys could learn Latin in preparation for college. In practice, it was difficult to keep schools open and staffed (I'm thinking Ichabod Crane here!) but all towns made an effort. Both boys and girls attended the elementary schools, and learned to read, write, and cipher.
Of necessity, it is a darker book than THE LEGACY, which was about an arranged marriage between a runaway nun and a middle-class printer. In THE PROMISE, we are dealing with a mercenary soldier, Günter, whose livelihood is fighting, killing, and avoiding being killed. The heroine, Alonsa, is the daughter of a blade merchant who has seen her share of violence as well. I had to deal with these elements in the story yet keep the focus on an impossible yet extremely romantic relationship, and that made it edgier and more adventurous than the first novel. But it is still a wonderful story of the triumph of love over impossible odds, as is THE LEGACY.