Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts

15 June 2016

African Servants in England

While researching my 17th century novel, it struck me how many aristocratic portrait paintings included a black child servant.  It made me wonder where these children came from, how they were viewed and treated in society, and what happened to them once they had outgrown being a pretty trophy for their masters?


John Blanke, The Black Trumpeter 1511
In 250AD, Rome sent a contingent of black legionnaires to stand guard on Hadrian’s Wall. When the Romans finally withdrew from England in the fifth century, the Germanic tribes replaced them, but no one knows what happened to this guard.

The Close Rolls of King John of July 1205, gives a ‘mandate to the constable of Northampton to retain Peter the Saracen, the maker of crossbows for the King’s service, and allow him 9 pence a day’.

Henry VII and his son Henry VIII both employed a black trumpeter named John Blanke, ‘the blacke Trumpet’, at a wage of 8 pence per day. He was depicted in the painted roll of the 1511 Westminster Tournament, [above] held to celebrate the birth of a son to Catherine of Aragon, who had arrived from Spain in 1501 with Africans in her entourage.

In 1540 Henry VIII employed a black diver to look for the wreck of the Mary Rose; but his name, and where he came from is unknown. 

In 1577 Elizabeth I issued an order for a ‘Garcon coate of white Taffeta, cut and lined with tincel, striped down with gold and silver … pointed with pynts and ribands’, for her ‘lytle Blackamore’. 

In Elizabethan times, masks of Black faces were considered fashionable, worn at court  functions and pageants. Members of the aristocracy were also known to paint themselves black, as 'nigrost' or as 'black Mores'. The character of the Black Moor also featured in Shakespeare's plays, and London street names, such as Black Boy Court, off Long Acre, and Blackamoor's Alley in Wapping, was an indication that black people were not an unusual sight in the city.

In 1555 John Lok reached Ghana on the John Evangelist, where he kidnapped the son of the chief and three others, brought them to England to be trained as interpreters. ‘Whereof sum were taule and stronge men and coulde well agree with our meates and drynkes’ but the ‘colde and moyst aire doth somewhat offend them’

The English believed that an Africans’skin colour was caused by the heat of the sun, therefore when one of the Africans married an Englishwoman who gave birth to a black-skinned child, it caused considerable astonishment. In 1578 George Best wrote that ‘I myself have seene an Ethiopian as blacke as cole brought to England who taking a faire English woman to wife, begat a sonne in all respects as blacke as the father’.


Anne of Denmark, James I's Queen
In 1584, the Duke of Leicester’s household records mention of a 'Mr Rawles blackamoore, XXs’. 
Sir Robert Cecil had a ‘blackmoor seruant’
Sir John Hawkins’ black page boy was named Samuel.

The King of Morocco’s ambassador arrived in England with a retinue of fifteen ‘Moors’ in 1600, and was given a warm reception by Elizabeth I. Nevertheless, they had trouble obtaining housing. When they did find accommodation, they lived alone and were ‘strangely attired and behavioured’, and reputedly slaughtered their own animals (presumably to fulfill religious requirements).

Francis Drake also had a black manservant called Diego, an enslaved man who defected from his Spanish masters during the raid by Drake on the town of Nombre de Dios. He advised Drake on the route taken by the Spanish carting gold and precious stones across the isthmus of Panama to Nombre de Dios. As a result, when Drake returned the following year, he was able to capture ‘the mule train laden with treasure’ and ship it to England, a cargo valued at £20,000. 

Drake named a fort he built on an island in the Gulf of San Blas ‘Fort Diego’. Sadly, while stopping for provisions and water on Mocha Isle off the coast of Chile in November 1578, Diego and another crew member were killed by unfriendly islanders.

Walter Raleigh’s page boy, aged about ten, whom he had brought from what is now Guyana, was baptised Charles at St Luke’s church in Kensington in 1597. Raleigh had brought two black men from Guyana with him; one entered domestic service in London and the other waited on him during the early years of his imprisonment.

Unfortunately, this toleration eventually turned to fear of an increasing black population in London, which lead to Queen Elizabeth I issuing a royal proclamation to arrest and expel all "Negroes and blackamores" from her kingdom. I wonder if her own little blackamoor was included in this edict?


Lady Charlotte Fitzroy 1674
This charming painting [Left]  is by Sir Peter Lely, principal painter to Charles II of Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, aged eight, the illegitimate daughter of Charles II and his mistress, Barbara Palmer, with her Indian page.

Dr Samuel Johnson's servant and valet, Francis Barber, attended a grammar school in Bishop's Stortford. He left Francis a £70 annuity in his will, and refused to let him go out to buy food for his cat, as he felt; 'it was not good to employ human beings in the service of animals'. 

This portrait of a black servant [below] shows the young boy was clearly a favoured companion, indicated by the fact that he is cup bearer, trusted and loved by his master’s lapdog.


Wealthy plantation owners sent their children to schools in England and would often send boy slaves to accompany them. The legal status of these people was vague, their arrival being tied to their English owner and their freedom depended upon whether or not they were Christian - although a man brought to a free country could not be anything but free - economics usually won over moral arguments and the trade grew. 

When these young boys reached their mid to late teens, they were sent back to Barbados to labour in the sugar plantations; a cruel end to a life of comparative luxury as a lady’s errand boy.  However, some remained in England as their masters and mistresses grew fond of them, often educating them in music, drawing and literature.

Pierre Mignard (1612-1695) in his portrait of Charles II's Mistress, Louise de Keroualle [below] shows the lady has the attributes of wealth and power: The pearls are symbols of purity, gold symbolises wealth and the black servant (with her slave collar) is a symbol of power.


Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth
The artists positioned black people on the edges or at the rear of their canvasses, from where they gaze wonderingly at their masters and mistresses, trophies to illustrate their owners' economic fortunes. They were often given Roman names, which accounts for the large number of Scipios, Plinys and Caesars buried in churchyards across the country. Anglicised names are rare and African names rarer still. 

Lady Grace Cartaret,  Countess Dysart 1753


Servants who ran away from their masters' houses were the subjects of lost-and-found ads in the press, and rewards sometimes offered for their return.  An advertisement for this house servant [below] was printed in a London newspaper in 1678.
'Africa' A Runaway

Africa had been living  with his master Arnold Pigeon, in Covent Garden. Described as wearing a livery coat with a reward for his capture being 20 shillings - then equivalent to two months wages for a servant. It is likely that he was recaptured, as a young black boy alone in a city would not have evaded capture for long. There were instances of Black slaves escaping to "safe houses" throughout the time of slavery such as one known as " Jerusalem " in East London.

Not all Black people in England were slaves, many worked as sailors, trades people of all kinds and in some cases as businessmen or musicians. Black writers played a role in the anti-slavery movement in England and famous 18th Century activists like Olaudah Equiano and Ottobah Cugoano were pivotal to the movement in speaking and writing from their personal experience of the horrors of the trade.

After 1772, the continuation of slavery in Britain was a rarity and often likely to attract legal and social hostility. This change in attitude was illustrated by the Somerset case of 1772 in which Somerset, a fugitive enslaved African, brought a case against his owner who was attempting to force him to return to the West Indies. Lord Justice Mansfield * ruled that it would be illegal to remove Somerset from the country against his wishes. This ruling formed the beginning of a much wider campaign against slavery.

My favourite portrait is this one Dido Elizabeth Belle, in which Dido's beauty and personality comes through so well in this delightful painting, as well as the close relationship she enjoyed with her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Murray. 

Dido was the natural daughter of Sir John Lindsay, a British Navy captain on HMS Trent, a warship based in the West Indies where she was born. Little is known about Dido’s mother, apart from that her name was Maria Belle, but Lindsay was the nephew of William Murray, Lord Mansfield* the Lord Chief Justice
Lady Elizabeth Murray and Dido Elizabeth Belle
Lord Mansfield and his wife were childless, so raised Dido at Kenwood House, Hampstead, along with her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Murray, whose mother had also died.

Dido’s status in the household was commented on by several visitors; one said that her great-uncle Lord Mansfield "called upon (her)…every minute for this and that, and showed the greatest attention to everything she said."

Dido would not dine with the rest of the family, especially if they had guests, but joined the ladies for coffee afterwards in the drawing-room. As she grew older, she took responsibility for the dairy and poultry yards at Kenwood, and helped Mansfield with his correspondence - showing she was well educated as well as loved.

She received an allowance of £30 10s and was provided with pretty furniture, birthday and Christmas gifts and ass’s milk when she was ill. When Lord Mansfield died, he left Dido £500 in his will, and a £100 annuity, and officially confirmed her freedom.

Dido married a John Davinier in 1793 at St. George's, Hanover Square and had three sons: twins Charles and John, also baptized at St George's on 8 May 1795, and William Thomas, baptized there on the 26 January 1802. Dido Belle Davinier died in 1804 and was buried in St George's Fields, survived by her husband, who later remarried and had two more children.

Sources 
National Archives
International Museum of Slavery
Blacks In Tudor England
English Heritage-The Slave Trade
Westminster Gov
Video about Dido Elizabeth Belle

09 August 2015

Author Interview & Book Giveaway: Christy K. Robinson on MARY DYER: FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS

This week, we're pleased to welcome author CHRISTY K. ROBINSON with her latest novel, MARY DYER: FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS, the second in two volumes about the Dyers. The author will offer one autographed paperback edition to a US postal address, or one Kindle version to US and other countries.  Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.

In the second of two volumes, Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This, Mary and William Dyer return to war-torn England and lay a foundation for liberty that resonates in the 21st century. Why did beautiful, wealthy Mary Dyer deliberately give up her six children, husband, and privileged lifestyle to suffer prison and death on the gallows?

**Q&A with Christy K. Robinson**

What inspired your story?

I’ve always been interested in history, church history, and spiritual matters, having been educated in church schools and worked at nonprofits and as a church music director for many years. I had heard disparaging comments about Anne Hutchinson and Mary Dyer, that they were Antinomians, and I started reading about what “against the [Old Testament] Law” meant. Mary Dyer was a very distant ancestor, and I read that she had been hanged by the Puritans because she was a Quaker (incorrect). All I could find on Anne and Mary were the same clichés, over and over, from 19th-century historians, and I was skeptical of them because they were illogical. Many genealogical sites and books have fanciful myths about Mary’s background, and some outright whoppers, like Mary’s supposed royal lineage. There was little about Mary, until I began investigating her husband, friends, and enemies, and reading archived court records from her time. Mary “materialized” from there.

How have you worked real history into the story?

Actually, it was the other way around—I worked fiction into the facts. Out of all the characters I used in the two books, fewer than five were invented. I researched every real good and bad guy and created dossiers on them, and instead of 2D cartoon heroes or villains, they became 3D people I respected. I pored over 17th-century midwifery regulations, cookery, and astronomy, geology, meteorology, and epidemiology events and charted them by year because the people of the 17th century believed that unusual events were direct messages from God. Speaking of religion, there were Separatists, Puritans, Anglicans, closet Catholics, Jews, Quakers, Seekers, Antinomians, and more—in an era where Church of England was the state religion—and I had to learn the differences. I read broadsheets and chapbooks, and skimmed some of the books of their time. I did extensive image searches for fine art, looking for little details and background symbols that spoke of their surroundings. I learned the politics of both England and New England—and found many parallels to today. Working with their Julian calendar (not our Gregorian one), I found motivations and events that no one else has ever noticed until I wrote it. That is an incredible feeling!

OK, you’ve got the historical part down. But where was the fiction in historical fiction?!

Histfic has to have a story that moves through beginning, middle, and end. I had to invent scenes and conversations, of course, to “show, not tell” the story, and I had to leave out 80 percent of my research—ouch.  As a magazine and philanthropic feature writer for years, creating fiction was a real killer for me. But the rave reviews say I succeeded. What I couldn’t put in the novels sees daylight in a nonfiction companion book to the novels, my historical blogs, and the Facebook pages and groups I’ve created. I started the Dyer blog in 2010 as a platform for my future books, and as I track keywords, phrases, and concepts, I’ve seen that novelists are using my research to create their own stories about Mary Dyer. Stories that are more imagination than fact, but still use my research and plot devices. (Darn right, I’m jealous.)

What’s so unusual about the setting?

Not many authors have covered both sides of the Atlantic in the same story. What spurred the Great Migration and settlement of American wilderness, the Puritan-versus-Anglican-versus-Quaker thread, the personal tragedies and triumphs, all combine to tell an epic story. I’m not the writer that James Michener was or Edward Rutherford is, but this story is similarly huge, and needs to be remembered and understood. Why? Because history repeats itself. In the 21st century, our civil rights are under constant attack in local and national courts and a singular vision of morality is promoted in legislatures. Mary and William Dyer were the ancestors of all of us in Western civilization when it comes to freedom of conscience and strict separation of church and state. Whether you believe in a religious system or not, you have rights to believe and act according to your conscience because of the Dyers.

Mary Dyer Illuminated, biographical fiction, Vol. 1
Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This, biographical fiction, Vol. 2
The Dyers of London, Boston, and Newport, nonfiction, illustrated companion book


About the Author

Christy K Robinson is the author of two biographical novels and three nonfiction books. 
“The Dyers” book series (two biographical novels and a nonfiction companion) are linked to Amazon from her website, http://www.christykrobinson.com/book-author.html

For more (much more!) information on William and Mary Barrett Dyer, visit Christy’s Dyer blog, starting with its most popular article, Top Ten Things You May Not Know About Mary Dyer.

06 August 2015

Excerpt Thursday: MARY DYER: FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS by Christy K. Robinson

This week, we're pleased to welcome author CHRISTY K. ROBINSON with her latest novel, Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This, the second in two volumes about the Dyers. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the story. The author will offer one autographed paperback edition to a US postal address, or one Kindle version to US and other countries.  Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post or Sunday's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.


In the second of two volumes, Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This, Mary and William Dyer return to war-torn England and lay a foundation for liberty that resonates in the 21st century. Why did beautiful, wealthy Mary Dyer deliberately give up her six children, husband, and privileged lifestyle to suffer prison and death on the gallows?

**An Excerpt from Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This**

October 27, 1652
London, England

Will thought he hadn’t done badly at planning the day’s outing: a stroll from Henry Vane’s townhouse up to St. Martin-in-the-Fields to recall the day exactly nineteen years ago when he and Mary had been wed at the church doorway, and the same day the following year, when he’d buried their first child. He’d bought the midday meal at Covent Garden, including a bowl of exotic and expensive pineapple chunks, the fruit having been imported from South America via Portugal. He’d hired a boatman at Whitehall Stairs to take them on a sightseeing cruise on the Thames.
The barges and ferries, ships and small boats, were thick on the water’s edges, and boys with baskets of stinking lampreys picked through the muck for shellfish to supplement their catches that they’d peddle to cook shops.
His wife was nestled under his arm for pleasure, not because of the cold. There had been several terrific storms the last several weeks, and the Thames still ran muddy from flood runoff. This day was overcast and cool, and there was an occasional mist, but Mary was a native Londoner and took no notice. They pointed at landmarks like the Tower, St. Paul’s, and as they were paddled westward, the ducal palaces of Somerset, Durham, and York.  
His wife seemed pensive and melancholy, and a song came to mind that he thought would lighten her mood. As he sang to her, she nestled closer into his coat and closed her eyes.
The water is wide, I cannot get o’er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I.

A ship there is and she sails the sea
She’s loaded deep, as deep can be
But not so deep as the love I’m in
I know not if I sink or swim.

When cockle shells turn silver bells
Then will my love come back to me
When roses bloom in winter’s gloom
Then will my love return to me.

“You left some verses unsung,” Mary reminded him.
“They were too morbid. This is the anniversary of our wedding. We should be rejoicing.”
William changed the subject. “I’ve got my commission. In a few weeks I’ll be invested by the navy, and then I hope for the grant of ships to outfit and sail back to defend our waters.”
Mary squirmed, sat up straight, and spoke sharply. “This war on the Dutch, which began with greed for foreign ports, is only about money, and the power that money buys. You have money, honestly gained by your hard work. You have the money that I brought to our marriage from Uncle John and from my father and brother. Why isn’t that enough? Will, please, I’m begging you: don’t make war on innocent Dutch traders and farmers. Don’t make up charges so you can steal what they’ve gained by honest work. Go home, make just laws in the Assembly, and run the farm.”
He replied, “This situation is much larger than me and the farm, or even about our trade routes and ports. Privateering is an indispensable weapon of war, and as you know, the realm needs the prizes to finance the navy, thereby saving our own people from crippling taxes. It defends our liberties to trade and import what we need to feed our families.”
“Oh, it’s patriotism now?” she retorted. “War is noble and glorious when it’s not our English fathers and sons and breadwinners dying before cannon and musket shot, and it’s only the filthy, greedy foreigners who lose their lives and their women and children die of want.”
“Mary! Is this something you’ve learned from street preachers? Disloyalty to your country? Rebellion to proper authority? And yes, it is patriotism. The Dutch on Long Island have been caught supplying Indians with arms to kill English men and women. We’re not starting a war. The war has been forced upon us.”
Mary lowered her voice so the boatman wouldn’t hear. “Do you go so far as to call Oliver Cromwell ‘proper authority?’ I’ve never met George Fox, though I’ve listened to his followers and respect what they have to say about the peace of God, and making time and place to listen for his direction. If the Spirit speaks, I must obey, though men might call it rebellion.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of this uneducated rabble-rouser Fox, and the Seekers, and naked Familists, and so have you. I’ve spoken to a ship’s master about your passage back to Newport. There’s a ship that leaves the first week of December, and goes by way of Barbados, so you can have a holiday there while cargo is exchanged. Just think of palm trees and warm sand in January!” He smiled. 
She crossed her arms. “I’m not ready to return.”
“How can you say that? You have six children who need their mother. Not to mention, your husband loves you and wants you home where you belong.”
“I’m staying in England for a while longer.”
“How much longer do you propose?”
“I don’t know, honestly.”
“If I allow you to stay—” at this, Mary glared at him, “what would I say to the children? Or anyone in Rhode Island? How do I explain a mother’s reluctance to return to her own home and children?”
“You can say that you weren’t willing to risk my safety while there’s a naval war raging, and privateers lurk in bays or under cover of fog banks to snatch away safety, security, and personal property. You can say that Rhode Island and Providence Plantations are in an uproar and can’t even govern their own affairs.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Mary. What is your real reason?”
“I’ve told you before, and my story won’t change because it’s the truth. God has called me to England for a time. He’s only shown me one step at a time on the path, and I don’t know the destination. But he’s put it in my heart that I should be here now, and he will reveal the time and circumstances of my journey here, and when it’s time to go back home.”
Will was silent for a few moments. “Sweetheart, you’ve plunged a sword in my heart. How can I fight for you when my adversary is God?”


About the Author

Christy K Robinson is the author of two biographical novels and three nonfiction books. 
“The Dyers” book series (two biographical novels and a nonfiction companion) are linked to Amazon from her website, http://www.christykrobinson.com/book-author.html

For more (much more!) information on William and Mary Barrett Dyer, visit Christy’s Dyer blog, starting with its most popular article, Top Ten Things You May Not Know About Mary Dyer.



21 June 2015

Author Interview & Book Giveaway: DM Denton on TO A STRANGE SOMEWHERE FLED

This week, we're pleased to again welcome author DM Denton with her latest release, TO A STRANGE SOMEWHERE FLED, the sequel to A House Near Luccoli. One lucky visitor will get a free copy of To A Strange Somewhere Fled. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb. 

After the sudden end to her collaboration with composer Alessandro Stradella, Donatella moves from Genoa to join her parents in a small village in Oxfordshire, England. The gift of a sonnet, 'stolen' music, inexpressible secrets, and an irrepressible spirit have stowed away on her journey. Haunted by whispers and visions, angels and demons, will she rise out of grief and aimlessness? Her father's friendship with the residents of Wroxton Abbey, who are important figures in the court of Charles II, offers new possibilities, especially as music and its masters ~ including the 'divine' Henry Purcell ~ have not finished with her yet.

Praise for To A Strange Somewhere Fled

While Donatella and her story, full as it is of such a legion of colorful characters, are vastly entertaining in their own right, often Denton’s descriptions of musical performances manage to swoop in and lift the reader up to even greater heights. Her passionate research and personal love of the art both shine through in the remarkable imagery her prose evokes, enrapturing her audience and taking them just a bit deeper into the intricacies of the 17th century setting. Irrevocable in its magic and intrepid in its storytelling, To a Strange Somewhere Fled is a fascinating and delectably original work that readers won’t soon forget.
~
Casee Marie Clow, Literary Inklings
DM Denton writes with a lyrical style, which swells, fades, and swells again. Her words pull her readers to the 17th century like music from that era.
~
Steve Lindahl, author of White Horse Regressions Motherless Soul.
That we can meet (the composer) Henry Purcell within these pages and find him totally believable as a living, breathing human being is a mark of the author’s imaginative powers and literary skill.
~
Deborah Bennison, Bennison Books
Denton’s style allows for flourishes, nuances, changes in pace, and variations on themes, as music does. With delicacy and sureness, the author works with her themes of memory, love, and loss.
~
 Mary Clark, author of Tally: An Intuitive Life



**Q&A with DM Denton**

How would you describe your writing style?

Reviewers have characterized my writing style as lyrical, descriptive, rule-breaking, meticulous, complex, yet also understated. My first two novels are driven by 17th century music and its makers, so the lyricism in them is especially pronounced. Certainly there is poetry in my prose. I’m an instinctual writer who works without an outline, sometimes has an idea of an ending and sometimes does not, is anti-formula, and tends to be creative with structure and genre. There is an observational and analytical side to me and my writing, so I’m not just about making pretty with words. I enjoy extensive research and the challenge of combining historical characters and events with fictional ones in—hopefully—a seamless weaving together. I liken my scene-orientated approach to a filmmaker using a zoom lens to get up close and personal. A reviewer recently wrote that I “executed freedom of narrative: some scenes that would traditionally be laid out in show-stopping dramatics may happen quietly, maybe even outside of the narrative completely.” Another said my writing was for readers who enjoy detours and the views along the way, who know reading like life it is as much about the journey as the destination.

Who designed the covers of your books?

I did the artwork and design for both of my novels, fortunate to have a publisher who allows me to be so involved in their presentation. I’ve also done illustrations for two Kindle Shorts I’ve had published and the cover of a friend’s poetry anthology. I’m always open to taking artwork commissions from other authors.

Is there an underrepresented group or idea that is featured in your books?

Perhaps, because of my own experience, I find myself writing about women who are unmarried and childless and need to chart a more unconventional course through life. Once referred to as spinsters—although the meaning of spinster gradually evolved from its reference to a respectable occupation for unmarried women to the perception of them as lonely, left behind, pointless, and even a threat to society—they live in the shadow of others and often in servitude to them. Of course, that is not the case in the 21st century – or is it? Well, perhaps, today there is the flip side: the assumption that if not to be pitied, a woman who is unattached and, especially, without children, is seen as selfish or ambitious or just afraid to risk for love (not so modern after all, considering the first Queen Elizabeth faced such opinions in the 16th century). My female protagonists aren’t necessarily averse to letting others into their thoughts, dreams, hearts, and even physical experience. It’s just that their situation, if they let it, will structure their lives in terms of what they are not rather than all they are and can be. I prefer to view them as singularly resilient and explore how they need not be limited by their unmarried, even unmarriageable, status, but can still be nourishing and nourished through their desires, talents, and purpose.

How do you approach developing the world of a historical novel fully in your mind?

It’s not unlike meeting a new lover, feeling the chance of the introduction, instinctively knowing this is someone you want to know better, even intimately; perhaps wondering if it’s a wise or mutual attraction, but in the end deciding—believing—the affair is meant to be. It’s as fortuitous, daunting and magical to encounter the possible subject of a next novel (or even a shorter story)—its characters, time period and setting—realizing how much you don’t know and need to, can’t visualize and will have to, how far you have to go and how long it will take; and then fearlessly embark on the adventure: discovering books, letters, websites, images, music, every significant and seemingly insignificant thing, and so much in the unknown, too. Well, the unknown is where the imagination comes in; and as the imagination comes in, so does the magic of suddenly being present in the past, of understanding a character implicitly, of finding myself able to describe a place because I’m lost in it, and knowing how the clothes feel because I’m wearing them and the food tastes because I’m eating it, how to read by the glow of a candle because I’m writing by the light of one—at least, I’ve pulled down the shades or put the lamp on low because I write better that way. Slowly and suddenly it’s happened: I’ve gone from being a stranger in an alluring place to belonging to its possibilities as if I was born there.

Did your research for both or either of your novels yield any surprises in terms of historical events or illuminate a character in a particular way?

The biggest surprise I’ve experienced so far was in discovering the multi-dimensions of the 17th – 18th century lawyer and biographer Roger North—a historical character I decided to include in my second novel, To A Strange Somewhere Fled. Unlike Alessandro Stradella in A House Near Luccoli, who was a celebrity in his time and naturally offered the drama of his legendary life and death, Roger North seemed, to quote a character in the novel, “clever but dull”, and probably not someone who would move plot or transform anyone’s life. Certainly, I couldn’t have imagined a male protagonist for A House Near Luccoli’s sequel more in contrast to the temperament and lifestyle of Stradella. But in contrast there often is similarity, subtle as it may be. I like to look for what isn’t obvious and might even seem contradictory: the ordinary in the extraordinary, the vulnerability behind swagger, the influence of even the most unobtrusive of people like Roger North with his reserved individualism and wide range of “practical diversions”—including writing, philosophy, architecture, mathematics, horticulture, sailing, and music. He was a quieter, plainer, more cautious, modest, and moralistic figure than Stradella, but no less remarkable, creative, or complex, which made him as satisfying to write about.

Why did you decide to write a sequel to A House Near Luccoli, why did you set it in England, and does To A Strange Somewhere Fled end the ‘series’?

Although a major character is lost, A House Near Luccoli’s ending is also about the continuing journey of its female protagonist Donatella, her relationship with the 17th composer Alessandro Stradella bound to affect her for a long time. When I began to consider a destination for her beyond Genoa, it seemed natural that her flight from grief would take her to the quaint but stately village of Wroxton in Oxfordshire, where her parents were living and I had myself for sixteen years. What came out of my memory and I feared might be limited by my experience and prejudice, slowly emerged from a more historically informed and imaginative perspective. I don’t plan on any more novels following Donatella’s story, but that isn’t saying she may never turn up again in someone else’s.

What writing projects are you presently working on?



I’ve begun the first novelette of three that will comprise a book featuring obscure women writers, including the often overlooked Brontë sister Anne, the poetess and sister of Pre-Raphaelite Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Christina Rossetti, and the late Victorian novelist Mary Webb. While working on a larger project, I try to write shorter pieces - essays, poetry, stories – for my blog or publication, and am about to embark on an illustrated book with stories about the cats I’ve known.


To A Strange Somewhere Fled Buying Links:

Learn more about author DM Denton

Writer and artist, DM Denton, a native of Western New York, is inspired by music, art, nature, and the contradictions of the human and creative spirit. Her educational journey took her to a dream-fulfilling semester at Wroxton College, Oxfordshire, England, and she remained in the UK for sixteen years surrounded by the quaint villages, beautiful hills, woods and fields of the Oxfordshire countryside. She returned to the US in 1990, to a rural area of Western New York State where she still resides in a cozy log cabin with her mother and a multitude of cats. Her day jobs have been in retail, manufacturing, media and career consulting, and as a volunteer coordinator for Western New York Public Broadcasting. She is currently secretary for the Zoning and Codes administration in the town where she lives. Her historical fiction A House Near Luccoli, which imagines an intimacy with the 17th charismatic composer Alessandro Stradella, and its sequel To A Strange Somewhere Fled, were published by All Things That Matter Press, as were her Kindle short stories, The Snow White Gift and The Library Next Door. She also shares her writing and illustrations on her blog.

To A Strange Somewhere Fled on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/toastrangesomewherefled?fref=ts
A House Near Luccoli on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ahousenearluccoli?fref=ts
Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/DM-Denton/e/B0093NWE4U/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1

18 June 2015

Excerpt Thursday: TO A STRANGE SOMEWHERE FLED by D.M. Denton

This week, we're pleased to again welcome author DM Denton with her latest release, TO A STRANGE SOMEWHERE FLED, the sequel to A House Near Luccoli. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the story. One lucky visitor will get a free copy of To A Strange Somewhere Fled. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post or Sunday's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb. 

After the sudden end to her collaboration with composer Alessandro Stradella, Donatella moves from Genoa to join her parents in a small village in Oxfordshire, England. The gift of a sonnet, 'stolen' music, inexpressible secrets, and an irrepressible spirit have stowed away on her journey. Haunted by whispers and visions, angels and demons, will she rise out of grief and aimlessness? Her father's friendship with the residents of Wroxton Abbey, who are important figures in the court of Charles II, offers new possibilities, especially as music and its masters ~ including the 'divine' Henry Purcell ~ have not finished with her yet.

Praise for To A Strange Somewhere Fled

While Donatella and her story, full as it is of such a legion of colorful characters, are vastly entertaining in their own right, often Denton’s descriptions of musical performances manage to swoop in and lift the reader up to even greater heights. Her passionate research and personal love of the art both shine through in the remarkable imagery her prose evokes, enrapturing her audience and taking them just a bit deeper into the intricacies of the 17th century setting. Irrevocable in its magic and intrepid in its storytelling, To a Strange Somewhere Fled is a fascinating and delectably original work that readers won’t soon forget.
~
Casee Marie Clow, Literary Inklings
DM Denton writes with a lyrical style, which swells, fades, and swells again. Her words pull her readers to the 17th century like music from that era.
~
Steve Lindahl, author of White Horse Regressions & Motherless Soul.
That we can meet (the composer) Henry Purcell within these pages and find him totally believable as a living, breathing human being is a mark of the author’s imaginative powers and literary skill.
~
Deborah Bennison, Bennison Books
Denton’s style allows for flourishes, nuances, changes in pace, and variations on themes, as music does. With delicacy and sureness, the author works with her themes of memory, love, and loss.
~
Mary Clark, author of Tally: An Intuitive Life

**An Excerpt from A Strange Somewhere Fled**

Donatella couldn’t make out the performers in the candlelit gallery, but recognized their muse as if it was her own. A number of Purcell sonatas—announced as so new they were yet unpublished—came to life on harpsichord, violins, and bass viols. They connected her to pleasure and pain in the same measure, speaking without words, remembering without thoughts and realizing emotions that didn’t need explanation. The best music came out of silence like love out of the impossible, made more beautiful because of loss and loneliness that never wanted company again. Only Sir Francis seemed to be listening as she was, standing at some distance but turning and nodding as though he sensed her empathy.    
            “Oh, Donata. Not here, not now.”   
            Mama dabbed Donatella’s eyes with one of the perfumed gloves she preferred to carry than wear, glancing around for witnesses.    
            “And look like you’re going to stay.” She slid the cape off her daughter’s shoulders, handing it to a page, who didn’t seem to know what to do with it.    
            The music changed pace and, as didn’t surprise Donatella, achieved more attention than the sonatas had, its composition for the soul never as popular as for the feet.    
            “I’ll sit here.” A bench of studded red leather between mirroring armor and a smoking fireplace offered to keep Donatella out of the way of the assembling dance formation.    
            “As if at a funeral,” her mother noticed.    
            The Captain slumped beside his daughter. Somehow he knew his wife was about to ask Sir Francis to be her partner, and gestured his relief and consent to him.     
            There was tapping, counting out loud and, yet an abrupt start to a galliard that had a few of the dancers and even musicians trying to catch up. What would be the consequence, beyond that evening, for those couples discovering how well or ill matched they were kicking right-left-right-left into an uncertain cadence of jumping and posturing? The repetition was broken with a few lifts and spins by some of the more athletic and audacious pairs, and the Captain pointing out more than one stumble and foot or dress stepped on, another twirl that didn’t quite happen as arms found a graceless way out of a tangle, and all those red faces caused by embarrassment and exertion.    
            Mama couldn’t be faulted. She was voluptuous and engaging, giving herself to the dance as she did to every meal and expression, smiling at Sir Francis and anyone else as though irrelevant to her enjoyment. Perhaps the Captain observed his wife’s self-sufficiency with relief, but to Donatella it seemed he was missing the woman who couldn’t imagine belonging anywhere but in his sight and approval.    
            Frivolity soon gave way to poignancy, especially to those who listened for it. A galliard was often paired with a pavane, but usually as an overture, not conclusion. The dancers were sent into a column of slow curtseys and bows, their hesitant steps retreating and advancing as they lifted on the balls of their feet and swayed side to side. A few, like her mother and Sir Francis, justified it as the peacock dance, holding an arrogant posture and using the certainty of steps, fullness of skirts, and floating of sleeves to court dignity, hands barely touching arms or backs while nods agreed on discretion. Still, a wink over her shoulder as she and Sir Francis passed near Donatella proved Mama wouldn’t allow choreography to suspend spontaneity altogether.     
            Donatella wondered about the Captain’s reaction. A little boy sat in his place.    
            “I’m glad my father pretends to enjoy himself.” He knew how to speak to her, saw Donatella’s mother approaching and ran off.    
            Mama’s cheeks were burning. She sat expansively, sweating, and exhaled noisily. Her head swayed, eyes tried not to close and upper torso fell sideways into Donatella’s lap.   
            “Mama, Mama—”   
            “Mistress Hanley—”   
            “Julianna—”   
            Despite the perspiration on her mother’s face, she seemed frozen in Donatella’s arms before she was passed to the Captain’s, his strength as miraculous as her mother’s recovery while he carried her where Sir Francis led. Their stuttering host cautioned the step up onto the dais where a copper-banded table displayed more pottery and silver than food, which might have caused Mama to faint again if she had noticed. Instead, she was caught up in the attention of men, hanging onto the neck of one and following the urgency of another who pushed open an enormous door into a passageway also carved out of dark and heavy times.    
            “This way.” Sir Francis turned left but Donatella glanced right and up at his young son sitting on the step of a staircase, its banister only partially constructed.    
            Quickly passing through what might have been a dining room, they entered a small parlor, Sir Francis pulling the fringed curtains closed and putting down the candle he carried before showing the Captain where he could do the same with his now wide-eyed wife. Donatella caught her mother’s feet to slip off her shoes in time to help lower her onto a caned and cushioned daybed.    
            Sir Francis turned away, using the servant who had come into the room to disguise the reason he did.    
            The housemaid listened to her master’s request, curtseyed, and was gone. He faced them to explain, “I thought something to drink and eat might help.”    
            “It usually does.” The Captain’s sarcasm didn’t lighten Sir Francis’ thoughts.    
            “What’s that, Mama?” Donatella was almost hugging her mother to hear her. “No. Papa jokes.”    
            “Julianna,” the Captain said as he went down to one knee, stroking his wife’s arm, “you act without sense.”    
            Sir Francis was obviously struggling with the scene, “My dearest lady would lie there before the severity of her illness confined her to bed.”    
            The Captain also realized the strain his friend was under. “Please, sir. See to your party.”    
            “Yes, yes. But stay, all of you, as long as you need. We could send for a doctor.”    
            “No,” Mama tried to sit up. “I just need to eat.”

To A Strange Somewhere Fled Buying Links:


Learn more about author DM Denton

Writer and artist, DM Denton, a native of Western New York, is inspired by music, art, nature, and the contradictions of the human and creative spirit. Her educational journey took her to a dream-fulfilling semester at Wroxton College, Oxfordshire, England, and she remained in the UK for sixteen years surrounded by the quaint villages, beautiful hills, woods and fields of the Oxfordshire countryside. She returned to the US in 1990, to a rural area of Western New York State where she still resides in a cozy log cabin with her mother and a multitude of cats. Her day jobs have been in retail, manufacturing, media and career consulting, and as a volunteer coordinator for Western New York Public Broadcasting. She is currently secretary for the Zoning and Codes administration in the town where she lives. Her historical fiction A House Near Luccoli, which imagines an intimacy with the 17th charismatic composer Alessandro Stradella, and its sequel To A Strange Somewhere Fled, were published by All Things That Matter Press, as were her Kindle short stories, The Snow White Gift and The Library Next Door. She also shares her writing and illustrations on her blog.

To A Strange Somewhere Fled on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/toastrangesomewherefled?fref=ts
A House Near Luccoli on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ahousenearluccoli?fref=ts
Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/DM-Denton/e/B0093NWE4U/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1